2016
The Pendulum Volume XXVI
St. Luke’s School 377 North Wilton Road New Canaan, CT 06840 203.966.5612 slspendulum@gmail.com 1
Editors’ Statement We defi e ourselves through any number of metrics: our grades, our jobs, and who we surround ourselves with. We set boundaries for ourselves, inside which we become accustomed to what we are, but remain unaware of who we are. We cultivate our literal student body, wearing dress code, and designer sneakers, but ignore our own internal dialogue. Perhaps the best way to understand ourselves is by looking inward. Examination of the student body and the student itself provides us with a method through which we can properly defi e who we are. Rather than seeking characterization through what we see on the outside, we probed the secrets that come out through literature and art. By articulating our experiences, we hope we’ve provided a glimpse of who we are, and who the student body is collectively. Th s year’s theme of the body is an exploration of who - and why - we are, the things we tell ourselves and no one else, and this time of self-exploration that is young adulthood. It’s an acknowledgement of what it means to be.
Literature Poetry
Matthew Murphy, Untitled, Gelatin Silver Print
Casual Evil Music Dear Dr. Warner The ay We Were I Always Have To Skip Th t Step Let’s Hide Beneath The eech Today I’m Sorry, Mom The oor Giants Why Me? Another Line Clear Poor Impulse Control The roblem Sometimes The onfessions of A Tan-A-Holic For Brevity’s Sake Kant Shakeit
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Joshua Mitchell Adriel Alvarado Kat Adams Brian Beaumonte Tom Howells Luke Martocchio Allie Works Tom Howells Kirsten Pastore Alex Wagle Kat Adams Tom Howells Christina McLaughlin Christina McLaughlin Tom Howells Paige Ballard Tom Howells Anonymous
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Emma Castiglione, Orchids, Oil on Canvas
Prose Waning Crescent A Voice of The ixties Return To Mars Nihilistic Fortune Cookies Football Fallacy Six Word Stories Hell Dear Aliens High Heels StephCenter You Probably Don’t Want To Hear Th s
Puppymonkeybaby Grendel’s Gripe Wild Horses A Day On The ater #HistoryProblems Messin’ With Sasquatch Mini Sagas Random Thought
Jack Hobbs Caleb Fuller Colette Juran Colette Juran, Zoë Smith, Tom Howells, Dennis Polyakov, Billy Pilgrim Colette Juran Colette Juran, Kat Adams, Tom Howells, Sarabeth Davis, Zoë Smith, Billy Pilgrim Emma Powless Adiah Price-Tucker Sophia Lemmer Hugh Lavelle Tom Howells Charles Simmonds Alexandra Schwartz Bilal Memon, Colette Juran, Alex Levy Brian Beaumonte Eli Posner, Christina McLaughlin, Bilal Memon, Sarabeth Davis, Jeff ane, Nick Jodka, Tom Howells Jeff Lane Brian Beaumonte, Joshua Mitchell, Kat Adams, Christina McLaughlin, Charles Simmonds, Tom Howells Bilal Memon
10 12-13 19 22 23 27 32 34 36 38 44 48 54 60 72
76-77 82
80-81 85 5
Haikus Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled Untitled
Harry Wyckoff Olivia Mosolino Courtney Newman Harry Wyckoff Shaka Moales
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Sonnets
Kendall Boege, Alpaca, Ceramic
Sight Of The ity The ge Of Inventors Slicing Th ough The ound Tubular Vegetables
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Ajit Akole Isabelle Stone Lucia Wiggers Dennis Polyakov
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Artwork Cover created by Emma Duryea, Gabby Mitchell and Jesse Segalla, Digital Photograph Frontispiece assembled and scanned by Meg Adams Silhouettes of students created by Meg Adams
Drawings Jason Schwartz Chloe Kekedjian Jason Schwartz Frasier Krill Jake Dobbin Carolina Warneryd Caitlin Conetta Alexandra Schwartz Maria Minuesa Alexandra Schwartz Alex Awad Paige Ballard Eliza Posner Eliza Posner Jada Boggs LeoVan Munching Leo Van Munching
Buddha Bird Study Pen Music Masque Waiting Held Among The tars Ink Doodle Still Life with Bicycle Wheel Grendel Intricate Illusions I Bedroom Study Landscape Study Landscape Study Pensive The night’s Tomb Bark
Mixed Media Graphite Graphite Mixed Media Ink Graphite Charcoal Ink Charcoal Ink Ink Charcoal Pastel Pastel Graphite Graphite Marker
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Ceramic Ceramic and Acrylic Ceramic
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Sculpture Kendall Boege Alexandra Schwartz Leo Van Munching
Alpaca Clay Head Study Wave Knight
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Hannah Dekker, Montana, Manipulated Digital Photograph
Photographs Matthew Murphy Eliza Posner Kathleen Neustaetter Clare Armstrong Emma Duryea Eliza Posner Isabelle Stone Bridget Dalton Sarabeth Davis Bree Wilkes Cate Van Elslander Clare Armstrong Jesse Segalla Emma Duryea Rick Zhao Meg Adams Clare Armstrong Jesse Segalla Failenn Aselta Gabby Mitchell Isabelle Stone Andrew Correa Eliza Posner Clare Armstrong Eliza Posner Meg Adams
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Untitled Scottish Mountains Asheville Neon Granite Hill Windows Untitled Friday Telluride Je Ne Comprends Pas Untitled People Watching Untitled Venice Granite Hill Door Untitled Kiawah Woods Yabi Zac Inside Lincoln Rest Peppers Pavement Window Note To Self
Gelatin Silver Print Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Gelatin Silver Print Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Gelatin Silver Print Gelatin SIlver Print Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Gelatin Silver Print Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photograph Digital Photographs
4 14 15 17 26 30 33 35 39 40 41 42 43 45 49 50 52 58 61 62 70 73 75 79 81 84
Digital Imaging Hannah Dekker Meg Adams Christian Pizzarelli Caleb Fuller
Montana Falling Gone In 60 Seconds Nightcrawler
Manipulated Digital Photograph Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator
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Paintings Emma Castiglione Orchids Eliza Posner Evening Sky Ana Luque Woman and Moon Mary Zech Space Mary Zech Shelby Paige Ballard Vermont Barn Windows Paige Ballard Teddy At The indow Paige Ballard Sunroom Jack Maguire Summer’s Wonders Andrew Patty Fiery Night Matthew Crispi The ath Less Travelled Lighthouse Jada Boggs Lex Vogel Antler Study Cameron Stonehouse Still Life
Oil on Canvas Oil on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Oil on Canvas Oil on Canvas Oil on Canvas Oil on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas Acrylic on Canvas
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Eliza Posner, Evening Sky, Oil on Canvas
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Ana Luque, Woman and Moon, Acrylic on Canvas Writing by Jack Hobbs
Waning Crescent
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“It’s a stone gone mad,” she said. She looked up past the stars at a sliver of the moon. Her toes were curled around the dewy grass and he was looking at her but she was looking at everything except him,the moon in particular. It was at its smallest that night, or that’s what she had said in the car, a waning crescent she said, and a waning crescent was good because it wasn’t a waxing crescent because that would mean it would be in its fi st quarter tomorrow and would be new. That’s what she had said anyway. And he was trying to understand her and why she loved the moon so much and was realizing that he was only there because she couldn’t drive since she hit the ground. The crickets didn’t notice; they kept chirping as though she were still standing and it took him a while to process because, well, nothing seemed to have changed. He lay down next to her because she liked to lay like that sometimes and although it made more sense to look at the stars on your back, she was on her stomach and there was blood coming from her ear.
I. I walk aimlessly down the halls I see a piece of candy on a locker; It looks delicious So I eat it II I’m driving to school. There’s a squirrel in the road. No, Two squirrels! Oops, one. III He has gum. I’ve taken tons of his gum So I offer one double bubble. He just looks at me. IV My sister hits my pressure points. I fake being paralyzed. Dad says to get up. I stand up.
Writing by Joshua Mitchell
Casual Evil
Jason Schwartz, Buddha, Mixed Media
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Writing by Caleb Fuller
A Voice of the Sixties “That’s just the way it was.” My father, Jeffrey Lee Fuller, was born on June 15, 1955 in Norwalk, Connecticut. He lived in various neighborhoods of the town as grew up. In them and from the tumultuous events of the era, my father learned fi sthand what it meant to be black in America during the fi ies and sixties.
Chloe Kekdjian, Bird Study, Graphite
The civil rights strife of the time touched my father’s family, as I suspect it did every black family. My father’s cousin lived in the South and had the misfortune of dating a white girl whose family did not approve. When the family found out about the relationship, they accused my father’s cousin of raping the girl. My father remembers trying to get the cousin out of Georgia but their efforts were fruitless. He was caught by a lynch mob and hanged. My father and his family were shocked and heartbroken by the murders. It is one of the events that defi ed his childhood.
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Other formative events were less deadly, but closer to home. Since my father was a boy, he worked with my grandfather at menial labor. He cleaned houses, dumped trash in landfills, and removed rodents. My father recalls, “ [Around the time] I fi st started working with my dad on his late night jobs, I was sitting on the customer’s front porch with the man that owned the house. He said to me, ‘The trouble with negroes is that they always need help. They don’t know how to work hard.’ My dad was cleaning his garbage when he said that.... I was so mad that I told my dad and he said something to the man. [My father] lost that customer for good. Later that night my mother told me I shouldn’t have said anything to my dad because we needed the money. I made a promise to myself that nobody would ever talk to me like that and that I would also tell my kids that story.”
After my father’s ninth birthday, his family moved out of the black Colonial Village to a predominantly white neighborhood. Within a month of moving in, their neighbors created a petition to remove his family from the neighborhood. One time, he was playing basketball with some of his friends who lived nearby when a large truck pulled up to the house. Inside was the fi e chief of the nearby station, who was also one of the boys’ dads. He told my father that he couldn’t play with his friends anymore and told his son not to invite my dad over again. These events sent a very clear message to my dad and his family, reinforcing that it wasn’t just the South that was hostile.
Jason Schwartz, Pen, Graphite
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Eliza Posner, Scottish Mountains,
Kathleen Neustaetter, Asheville, Digital Photograph
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Frasier Krill, Music, Mixed Media Writing by Adriel Alvarado
Music
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Music is the soul of man. Where it comes from no one knows. It fills our ears and hearts Our love for it grows and grows. Where it comes from no one knows It’s beyond our understanding. Our love for it grows and grows Its boundaries are forever expanding It’s beyond our understanding, Our minds can barely breach the surface. Its boundaries are forever expanding, Even if it doesn’t have a purpose. It fills our ears and hearts Even if it doesn’t have a purpose. Music is the soul of man Our minds can barely breach the surface.
I run outside into the cold black night, to hear the hum of lights, the rush of cars. Alone, I know the streets can not be right. The wind, unkind, just hints to head out far. The road becomes a path; one rough and torn. Afraid; the chirps of critters only mock. Perhaps there lurks the monster with his horn. I fear, and to the gracious hill I walk. I hope for peace, serenity, but hear The cold; a lack of sound, no souls to sing. The grass is moist as ocean waves appear. I head to them, with little hope I cling. Again, the city lights, but sight ornate. The blue of sea and light illuminate.
Writing by Ajit Akole
Sight of the City
Clare Armstrong, Neon, Digital Photograph
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Mary Zech, Space, Acrylic on Canvas
It is a sad refl ction of the current space program, when the most interesting development depicted in “The Martian” is its optimism. Past space blockbusters, such as “Gravity” and “Interstellar,” chronicle catastrophe after catastrophe, which leave an array of technological failures and plans that NASA would never approve in their wake. The harrowing truth of it all is that a crazed Matt Damon is not the biggest threat to space exploration; budget is. The Martian, however, illustrates a future when neither money, nor disaster, is unable to prevent the power of human curiosity. In the movie’s canon, NASA is sending regular missions to Mars, not even for colonization, but just to collect samples. Th s is a future prediction that could validate the emotional toil of a thousand budget meetings between NASA offi als and uninformed members of Congress. The hope does not stop there. The movie’s protagonist, Mark Watney, played by Matt Damon, who appears to be fulfilling some childhood astronaut fantasies with his recent space themed releases, consistently exercises great optimism and patience throughout the disastrous scenario of being left behind on Mars. In fact, Watney seems less annoyed by life-threatening machine failures and the discovery that he was abandoned “Home Alone” style
225 million km away from Earth than most middle schoolers who are unable to open their lockers.
Writing by Colette Juran
Return to Mars
Some of the film’s best lines occur during Watney’s inner dialogue, which was juxtaposed to his calamitous situation. They have a combination of light-heartedness and dryness that feels refreshing in the often ambitious and existential dialogue of recent space-centric films. Although Watney’s attitude concerning his life on Mars may seem unrealistic to the more anxious observer, it still humanizes Watney and separates him from the typical brooding space explorer type. To that effect, Watney’s dialogue feels like it was lifted from an actual astronaut, Chris Hadfi ld or Scott Kelley, not just a masculine, Hollywood hero. Although this may not seem groundbreaking, it is enjoyable to watch a film that accurately tries to mirror the culture and actual voices of astronauts without the cloying touch of Hollywood. What “The Martian” accomplishes that is missed by so many movies is that astronauts are above else human beings. Their media depictions do not always have to be akin to quasi action heroes with big egos and dark pasts. Watney proves that they can be funny and they can fail in their endeavors, as space exploration is imperfect and uncharted.
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Writing by Kat Adams
Dear Dr. Warner (In The Style of William Carlos Williams) I did not complete the homework due tomorrow. I really do care About angular momentum. Pendulums swinging from hinges are immensely fascinating. But Gossip Girl was on, and Jenny was having an aff ir with Nate. And he’s too cute for her and her stupid eyeliner.
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Mary Zech, Shelby, Oil on Canvas
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Writing by Colette Juran, Zoë Smith, Tom Howells, Dennis Polyakov and Billy Pilgrim Jake Dobbin, Masque, Ink
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Nihlistic Fortune Cookies
Nothing you ever do ever reach as many people or matter as much as a celebrity’s instagram post. - Colette Juran
The toilet is jealous of your new iPhone. Tomorrow the toilet will steal it and no genius will be able to help you. - Zoë Smith
You will get an email from a college, but they don’t actually want you. - Tom Howells You will win the 1.3 million dollar lotto. In Zimbabwe. - Dennis Polyakov Your lucky number: 666 - Zoë Smith You will meet a tall dark stranger. He will mug you. - Billy Pilgrim
There’s something bizarre about people whose lives revolve around sports. We’re products of millions of years of evolution and nothing like snails or sloths. Yet, people spend inordinate amounts of time cheering on athletic feats from their couches. They’re living vicariously through people they don’t know while marinating in their own laziness. Let’s be real here, of the 73 percent of American men who spend their Sundays in an unresponsive stupor, how many of these men can honestly say they match this time with weekly exercise? If they were asked, the vast majority would just avoid eye contact and say they were really good at sports in high school. I’d bet a good half of those guys would say, “Oh yeah, I could defin tely have gone pro if I wanted to.” The issue here, however, really is not people without ability latching on to the achievements of those who do, because that, honestly, happens to the best of us. I’m sure somewhere the world’s
Writing by Colette Juran
Football Fallacy smartest, most athletically gifted, and successful person, is out there saying, “Wow I really wish I could pair wine better or paint like Bob Ross.” The issue is that for so many Americans the spectator culture of overdramatic, needlessly violent play fi hting has overtaken the use of one’s emotions and common sense. Are we going to think about and discuss major issues facing the world right now? Maybe refugee crises or mass unemployment? Nope! Deflated footballs? Oh god yes! I’m begging the public to maybe just skip the next game and read a book, any book. It can even be The Blind Side. Hey, if you like watching sports, that’s fi e. It has a lot of interesting strategy, statistics, and psychology involved in each game. However, if a team lost the championships and you’d be willing to smash a car window, but you haven’t bothered to run for five minutes in twenty years or read something other than the subtitles on a Budweiser commercial when your wife mutes the TV, maybe you should try a new pastime.
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Writing by Brian Beaumonte
Alexandra Schwartz, Cly Head Study, Ceramic and Acrylic
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Emma Duryea, Granite Hill Windows, Gelatin Silver Print
I Always Have To Skip That Step
Writing by Tom Howells
I always have to skip that step! I have to clean my room! With narcissistic glee, they say: ‘It’s like I’m OCD!’
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‘Must be rough!’ I say, through my gritted teeth I slip away in silence, crying ‘til I’m home I put my hands under the tap And scrub them to the bone
Nothing is making me very happy. - ZoĂŤ Smith Woman mistakes pie for love. - Sarabeth Davis Th s morning, my mirror disappointed me. - Tom Howells Her rosy lens begins to fracture. - Colette Juran Dog arrested for urinating in public. - Billy Pilgrim I really hate six word stories. - Kat Adams
Writing by Colette Juran, Kat Adams, Tom Howells, Sarabeth Davis, Billy Pilgrim and ZoĂŤ Smith
Six Word Stories
Paige Ballard, Vermont Barn Windows, Oil on Canvas
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Carolina Warneryd, Waiting, Graphite
Writing by Luke Martocchio
Let’s Hide Beneath the Beech Today (Inspired by Emily Dickinson)
Let’s hide beneath the Beech today! Come quick! We mustn’t hold Surrounded by her Emerald mane We’ll watch the Past unfold. Within the fearsome Lion’s lair No one would dare intrude Permitting us to revel in A priceless Solitude. We’ll contemplate her weathered core The badges earned through Time In guarding others like ourselves Protecting her own Pride. Alas, I think I hear her Weep Her Limbs can’t hold the weight Her Secrets should not die with her I beg you please - don’t wait!
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Eliza Posner, Untitled, Digital Photograph
Caitlin Conetta, Held Among The tars, Charcoal
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Writing by Allie Works
I’m Sorry, Mom (In the Style of William Carlos Williams) I spent all the cash you gave me on bathing suits. Crisp bills tinted green, intended for groceries. I don’t care, it’s almost spring break. Don’t trust me with money.
Writing by Emma Powless
Hell
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The smell of old carpet and stale air stings my nostrils as three massive fl ors lined with glass railings tower above me. A broad skylight on the roof provides lots of light to determined shoppers as they hustle up and down escalators. Various perfumes waft past my nose accompanied by the occasional soft pretzel smell. Different genres of music combine to form an echoing racket that bounces off of the fake marble walls. Cheesy golden-colored fountains spew water into the coin-filled pools below them, in an attempt to add a fancy and calming vibe to the experience; kids without parents frantically dodge the mass of focused shoppers. Teenagers with sugary Starbucks drinks meander past stores, blocking the fl w of foot traffi as they snapchat their friends pictures of themselves sipping from the signature green straws. Retail workers speed walk out of storefronts with unlit cigarettes in hand, trying to make the most of their 10 minute break in the concrete parking garage. My tired legs follow them as they carry me, defeated, to the nearest exit.
Isabelle Stone, Friday, Digital Photograph
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Writing by Adiah Price-Tucker
Dear Aliens (Inspired by Jonathan Swift)
With respect to your previous correspondence concerning questions regarding the workings of my world, I would like to inform you of a great discovery that has blessed mankind. In the last 100 years, self-propelled machines the size of two oxen with the power of a hundred men have become popular. These marvels are called cars, whose insides are works of art in and of themselves. They are filled with wonderful feats of electrical and mechanical engineering that our best and brightest can develop. They are powered by gasoline that fl ws through pipes and lines that outputs in the form of potent exhaust smoke that simply fl ats away into the sky. The buildup from these fumes gathers in the sky, bringing about long summers and adding more water to the ocean for summertime fun. In the terms of the actual function of these contraptions, the shell of metal is affixed on four wheels that allow it to move at speeds faster than a horse. At this speed, collisions are spectacular shows of smashed glass and twisted metal, representing the immense power man has harnessed. There are hundreds of different car companies from around the world that compete with each other to sell the most cars and make the highest profit. At the core of this furious competition, corporations continuously advertise their products at the highest price possible at the lowest cost to them, releasing different versions of the same product every year with nominal updates. Cars become status symbols, and people stretch their fi ances and take out loans in order to buy newer editions each year, which in turn improves the fi ances of loaners and makes people work harder. In order to accommodate the movements of these machines, strips of tar as long as the country are laid down. Even with such vast space, cars are so numerous that these avenues become multicolored mosaics of magnifice t wonders filled with people shouting their thoughts on the driving skills of others.
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Bridget Dalton, Telluride, Digital Photograph
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Writing by Sophia Lemmer
High Heels “Click Clack” “OWEEEE” “Click Clack” “OWEEEE” my feet were screaming in pain, begging for me to stop walking. Every step was a battle, a torturous battle. It was only 9 PM, the night was young and I could no longer walk. Why had I decided to wear heels? I’ve done this many times before, you would’ve thought by now that I would have learned my lesson, but no. Here I am walking along the uneven brick streets of St. Barth’s in a pair of 5 inch heels. When I was getting ready, the black pumps I chose to wear seemed so appealing. When I slipped them on my feet, I gained height. My legs looked longer, and the heels went so well with my outfit. So, I gave in to my desire to wear them.
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For the fi st 30 minutes or so I looked great and felt great. However, the feeling didn’t last. Shortly after the 30 minute mark, my once beaming smile was replaced with a grimace as my the pins and needles in my feet turn to daggers. Eventually by the end of the night I give in and take them off. My feet feel as though they are breaking, being after having been been sealed into this uncomfortable slant for so long, that being flat once again is a painful adjustment as they flatten to their natural state. However, after that momentary pain there is relief. A magical feeling - one of pure happiness - and in this moment I swear to myself I will never wear heels again.
Meg Adams, Falling, Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator
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Writing by Hugh Lavelle
StephCenter After a long day all I ever want to do is get home, change into something comfortable, sink into the couch, and watch ESPN. Lately that hasn’t been the case though, thanks to Golden State Warriors point guard Stephen Curry. Th s season the reigning NBA Most Valuable Player has taken the league.... And ESPN by storm. It seems like every time I tune into SportsCenter the reporters are covering something related to Steph Curry. I joke to my Dad that they should change the name of the show to StephCenter. In the past week I have seen two absurd story lines related to Steph Curry on ESPN, each being reported for at least 15 minutes on an hour long program. The fi st covered his wife getting a TV show on the Food Network. Th s is his wife we are talking about here - HIS WIFE. Th s next headline will give you a better understanding of how ridiculous their obsession is with him: “Stephen Curry eats eggs and bacon for breakfast every-
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day.” That was an story that ESPN ran on SportsCenter. ESPN would rather report on something as pointless as what a popular athlete eats for breakfast instead of giving game recaps on actual sports, like hockey or soccer. The focus on Curry is somewhat understandable given the fact that the Warriors have a chance to be the winningest team in a single season in NBA history with 73 wins. But even still, having over half of the program dedicated to Steph and his team is ridiculous. ESPN is far and away the best and most respected sports network on television but with their heavy bias and favoritism that will certainly change soon. If I could give ESPN some advice it would be to either cut back on their obsession with Mr. Curry or have a show dedicated to him so that people who actually care about him can watch it, so the rest of us won’t have to sit through the details about his daughter’s school dance.
Sarabeth Davis, Je Ne Comprends Pas, Digital Photograph
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Bree Wilkes, Untitled, Gelatin Silver Print
The Door Send help! I’m trapped in this desolate, barren world. Disdain and rejection thwart my every chance to escape. My hope, my future Abandon me.
Writing by Tom Howells
I resign myself to my fate -
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I’ll never fl e. Oh wait. It says push, not pull.
I support expressing passion Pompous people seldom act impressed. Thi king it’s a way to stay in fashion. In truth, they look pretentious at the very best. Express emotions that reside in youI love to hear where people’s passions lie. Sharing stories and different points of view To not express is certainly a crime, Together we can learn to show support. It’s truly best to love all parts of life, Just learn to love the sound of waves on shore Or all those endless nights you feel alive
Writing by Isabelle Stone
Age of Inventors
Cate Van Elslander, People Watching, Gelatin Silver Print
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Writing by Kirsten Pastore
Giants Titans glorifi d by their own being stand tall. They do not know their own power. People are dwarfed by the Grand gray giants as they bustle around. Some are even unfazed by great towers.
Clare Armstrong, Untitled, Digital Photograph
The building shines and radiates sunlight. “Look at me,� it says. The gray and sleek buildings are not humble giants.
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Jesse Segalla, Venice, Digital Photograph
Slicing Through The Sound
Writing by Lucia Wiggers
Slicing through the Sound, ushering my wake My colored sails take in each gust and breeze; I pray the craft y thoughts to swiftly take And so it does with grace and perfect ease A hand that grasps cannot regain its hold. The other meets the water for a swim. But with the wind I have full heart and soul, To take me back where I have been before Between the islands and lobster traps Around the buoys and guiding bullhorn calls On each exploit we fail to bring our maps We’ve just our wits to help traverse the squalls And out on swells, all day we gaily roam But still we know the wind will take us home
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Writing by Tom Howells
You Probably Don’t Want To Hear This Turn on the news - any channel;
it doesn’t matter. CNN, NBC, FOX, BBC - they’re all the same. What’s on? The
latest terror attack, a terrible accident, a natural disaster, or a new pandemic
world. Now, your apathy trumps your
empathy and so you watch, and listen, and read, unmoved.
When’s the last time you truly
shrinking babies’ heads and making
considered something? Not just read
almost guarantee the story is filled with
thought to yourself: “huh, that’s sad,”
people bleed out of their eyes. I can horror, gloom, and depression.
You want to know the frightening
part? It’s not the wars, or the poverty, or
the starvation. Those things have always
happened - tragedy is part of life. What’s
an article, or talked to someone, and
but really empathized? Sat down and
thought about it; felt legitimately happy or sad for someone, beyond simply telling yourself you do?
Here’s the worst part: you still
disturbing, is that you don’t care. May-
don’t care - you don’t even care about
news, or read the paper, hearing about
heard my ranting about it a bit and may-
be you used to, but now you watch the
horrific tales of husbands, wives, sons,
and daughters stolen and sold into slavery, or brutal murders, or entire species going extinct due to man’s exploitation of his environment, and you no longer
turn away in disbelief. Now, you just sit 44
and watch, jaded to the misery in our
this essay while you’re reading it. You’ve be, just maybe, you think about it for a
couple seconds before moving on. Then you’ll forget about it, because you don’t care. But so what? Who does?
Emma Duryea, Granite Hill Door, Digital Photograph
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Paige Ballard, Teddy At The
indow, Oil on Canvas
Writing by Alex Wagle
Why Me? The mailman walks up to my door, and my dog goes mad His mouth is foaming with his long and sharp canines exposed I pull him back with a stiff ug of the leash His nails scratch the hardwood fl or underneath his paws His mouth is foaming with his long and sharp canines exposed His bellowing growl resonates throughout the house. His nails scratch the hardwood fl or underneath his paws The mailman begins to sweat and slows his approach His bellowing growl resonates throughout the house His piercing eyes meet those of the approaching stranger. The mailman begins to sweat and slows his approach Why me? He thinks. Why me? The mailman walks up to my door, and my dog goes mad I hold him back with a stiff ug of the leash His piercing eyes meet those of the approaching stranger Why me? He thinks. Why me?
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Writing by Charles Simmons
Puppymonkeybaby A pug headed, monkey bodied, diapered, human-legged creature bursts through a fl pping door to three tired and bored guys late at night. The thing brings with it Mountain Dew Kickstart and it can only say “puppymonkeybaby” in an eerie, robotic voice. It hands out the Kickstarts and licks the face of each guy saying a part of “puppymonkeybaby” between each lick. They drink and are taken over by the techno beat, to which they gyrate their hips wildly, walking out of the door following the “puppymonkeybaby” to what I can only assume are the clubs.
Alexandra Schwartz, Ink Doodle, Ink
What the hell did I just watch? I’m sitting there on the couch in the middle of the Super Bowl with my mouth hanging open like the idiots in the ad. Sadly, that wasn’t even the fi st abysmal Moun-
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tain Dew ad I’d seen. That one involved a mounted deer busting out of a wall with its knees rhythmically jiggling to the electronic music, a diver in a fish tank twerking, as well as an anthropomorphized sheepdog, all set to that terrible electronic song. The ad ends with the bums on the couch twerking out the door because of the caffeine high from Kickstart. Those old ads had Dale Earnhardt responding to a “Dale call” from two duck hunters. He charges in in his NASCAR car at top speed and zips around the marsh flushing out ducks for the hunters. The voiceover then declares: “If you’re on a diet of taking it up a notch, drink Diet Dew.” as ducks fly everywhere. Please, Mountain Dew, bring back ducks and Dale!
Paige Balard, Sunroom, Oil on Canvas
Rick Zhao, Untitled, Digital Photograph
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Writing by Kat Adams
Another Line I wandered on the muggy beach where we fi st met. The sand, It only looked like sugar to you, but back then, touching it scalded me so I jumped as high as I could get. It only looked like sugar to you, but Then I took another sniff, so I jumped as high as I could get. I was flying away from you, drowning far from you. Then I took another sniff, and I remembered you as you were back then, when I was flying away from you, drowning far from you. But walking away hurt less than the memory.
Meg Adams, Kiawah, Digital Photograph
And I remembered you as you were back then, when I wandered on the muggy beach where we fi st met. The sand, back then, touching it scalded me. But walking on it hurt less than the memory. Â Â
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Maria Minuesa, Still Life with Bicycle Wheel, Charcoal
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Clare Armstrong, Woods, Digital Photograph
Writing by Tom Howells
Clear A cry of “clear” rebounds around the woods, and the trapper In his muddy gumboots and well-worn coat Emerges from the brush We trudge through mud to the next trap, Shotguns in hand “Pull” I shout -- another clay flies y Blasted to bits, I’m punched again A bruise already welling on my arm. Massaging the the crook of my shoulder, I lean forward in anticipation of the next bird Every time I squeeze the trigger The crack of the shotgun batters my eardrums, My eyes water from the acrid aroma of ammonia, And the metallic flavour of gunpowder coats the roof of my mouth ‘’Pull!” I shout And squeeze the trigger again
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Writing by Alexandra Schwartz
Grendel’s Gripe (Inspired by Beowulf) I went to Heorot last night as usual. There were some new human warriors in the mead hall; apparently there to avenge the Danes. The Geats were unarmed, which should have made it easier for me to devour them. Those fools could have at least brought shields to defend their pathetic human lives. Unfortunately, when I went to eat one of the new humans (they have an interesting flavor, not unlike sea monster), the biggest, strongest looking one jumped onto my back. I have no idea what that idiot was trying to do there, but he was probably the leader. Human leaders tend to either be reckless, like that Geat leader, or helpless, like King Hrothgar. I heard some of the soldiers call their leader ‘Beowulf.’ What was he trying to do, be-a-wolf? Attack me with his mighty wolf pack? Those sniveling, drowsy humans should have stood no chance against me, an awesome, fear-inspiring beast. However, there was one small complication: this Beowulf guy latched onto my right arm and kept stretching it and squeezing it. I wouldn’t normally admit it, but it really hurt. I kept flailing around to try to get the dolt off e, but
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my arm popped out of its socket, and I was howling in agony. Beowulf took this as a sign of weakness, so he kept going. Doesn’t this guy know about mercy? I mean, I do eat humans, but at least I don’t rip their arm – never mind. Call me a hypocrite. Well, after my arm got dislocated, Beowulf kept pulling. I have to hand it to him - my arm was e-limb-inated. I guess he de-feet-ed me. I really don’t know much about that Beowulf guy, but I do know that my arm, or the wretched, cavernous pit where it once was attached, really hurts. I tried splashing water on it while I was slogging back to the fen, but the water monsters smelled the blood and came to fin sh me off. Luckily, they disappeared before I got too deep in the water. I knew I didn’t have long to swim before getting to the cave. I got here though - I’ll get to the point now. I think the water poisoned my wound. I’m dying, Mom. Do me a favor and avenge me. Kill Beowulf. He’ll probably try and track my bloody footprints here, and if he does, be ready. Avenge me.
Alexandra Schwartz, Grendel, Ink
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Writing by Harry Wyckoff
Untitled
Jack Maguire, Summer’s Wonders, Acrylic on Canvas
A peaceful rock bridge Yet nobody has noticed The tension it holds
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Andrew Patty, Fiery Night, Acrylic on Canvas
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Writing by Christina McLaughlin
Poor Impulse Control “CAUTION: Do Not Touch Curtains” The sign stares down, and the desire stirs. “Hey Mom, look!” Hand planted proudly on the curtain Met with a disapproving sigh. “I bet you won’t do it” “Christina, NO!” Sprinting up the down escalator Dodging old men and their arm candy, Poker chips spilling everywhere.
Jesse Segalla, Yabi, Gelatin Silver Print
“ไม่มีการบุกรุก: No Trespassing” One foot over the chain Straying from the Family Grounds. Angry Thai and the back of his hand, my only souvenirs from the Royal Palace.
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Alex Awad, Intricate Illusions I, Ink
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Writing by Bilal Memon, Colette Juran and Alex Levy
Wild Horses Arthur had always reminded me of an anteater. Physically he more closely resembled an armadillo. But emotionally? He was an anteater for sure.
- Bilal Memon
My cousin was a hoarder who lived in Topeka. Her bathroom was filled by a heterogenous pile of junk, comprising of rotting asparagus, unicycle parts, and the remains of some anteater. No one understood her emotional attachment to the waste, but some people just weren’t born to be understood. - Colette Juran He woke up in the bathroom, dazed and confused. He pushed open the door and found himself in a deserted house, asparagus cooking on the stove. He ran back into the bathroom and vomited. The smell of the vile green stalks made him retch. He didn’t remember this house, nor the land surrounding it. He must have been knocked out when he was riding his unicycle in Topeka. He left he bathroom, then the house, and stepped outside to see ginormous anteaters grazing in the endless farmland. He had never seen anteaters this big. They grazed and meandered in some dull mockery of a gallop. He snuck behind one in the tall weeds, and mounted. “Bring me to the horizon” he yelled to the beast. The anteater waddled on.
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- Alex Levy
Failenn Aselta, Zac, Digital Photograph
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Gabby Mitchell, Inside, Digital Photograph
Writing by Christina McLaughlin
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Writing by Tom Howells
Sometimes Sometimes
I want to stay in bed all day staring up at the ceiling
with the same song playing on repeat. It takes too much energy to move. Sometimes I fall apart
because I spilled water all over the table and I can’t stop myself from repeating over and over:
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sometimes
I feel like my hands won’t stop shaking and my words can’t land gracefully, but instead shatter with the glass in a stuttering apology.
I have nothing else to say.
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Paige Ballard, Bedroom Study, Charcoal
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Eliza Posner, Landscape Study, Pastel Writing by Olivia Mosolino () and Courtney Newman (R)
Untitled Haikus
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Anger in his wind Howled from his heart to mine, Shallow and buried
Rain falls from the sky Doesn’t stop until it has Hit the cold ground
Many people live Also many people die Live in the moment
Writing by Harry Wyckoff (L) nd Shaka Moales (R)
I dig a tunnel, With no goal or end in sight. The lanterns grow dim.
Eliza Posner, Landscape Study, Pastel
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Matthew Crispi, The oad Less Travelled, Acrylic on Canvas
Leo Van Munching, Wave King, Ceramic
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Isabelle Stone, Lincoln, Digital Photograph
An addiction that overcomes me, It’s the same struggle each year, Consuming every instant of free time And always leaving me wanting more. Even the thought of sunshine makes my mind go into A frenzy of excitement.
Writing by Paige Ballard
The Confessions Of A Tan-aholic
The fi st hot day of spring you’ll fi d me poolside, Sunglasses on and no sun lotion in sight. Half of the time it’s not even hot I’ll settle for 65 and partly sunny surrounded by barren trees. After a long and bitter New England winter, I can’t help but crave the feeling of sunshine Roasting my ghostly skin, And those seconds after a cloud passes And my cooled skin is overcome with light that Warms my entire body. Or when I’ve been tanning for hours on the beach And a warm breeze grazes my burnt skin, Providing me with seconds of absolute euphoria. I can’t fi d the feeling anywhere else. I know I’ll pay the price. I know what I’m doing to my skin: Aging it by years, Inviting in sun poisoning And luring out melanoma. I know I should wear a hat And hide under an umbrella During all of those free moments That I spend under the sun, But addiction is a powerful thing. I foolishly sacrifice y health For golden skin And those fl eting moments of perfection.
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Jada Boggs, Lighthouse, Acrylic on Canvas
A Day On The Water
Writing by Brian Beaumonte
The sailboat glides over the surface of the cool, sparkling water. A mountain range stretches out on the horizon. Jerry sits in the front of the boat wearing a polo shirt, colored dress shorts, and docksiders. He is quite possibly the most obnoxious human being on the planet. From behind the wheel, I yell, “Hey Jerry! Can you check the rigging on the sail?” His response is, “No. Do it yourself.” That is accompanied by him fl pping me the bird. There are seagulls flying above us. His bird is not like the others.
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I have had enough. “Ok,” I shout, “At least stand up so you can brace for turbulence.” He gives me a confused look, since the water is calm as far as the eye can see, but obliges. Perfect. I allow the beam of the sail to rotate around towards him. He turns too late, and lets out a grunt as it catches him in the chest. The beam sends him up and over the edge of the boat, minus one docksider. I hear his splash and gun the engine. I listen to his spluttering shouts and smile. My only regret is that I didn’t tie a rock to his ankle.
For brevity’s sake, I’m doing okay. You may have noticed there, that pause that I placed, so you might be aware that I’m desperately struggling to surface for air, and failing in the worst kind of way. But to avoid a scene an uncomfortable silence, I’ll bite it back and say, “I’m doing okay.” Yeah, I’m doing just fi e.
Writing by Tom Howells
For Brevity’s Sake
Andrew Correa, Rest, Digital Photograph
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Cameron Stonehouse, Still Life, Acrylic on Canvas
Lex Vogel, Antler Study, Acrylic on Canvas
With eyes that gaze upon the stars and sun, And golden skin so that a ring may cry, A soul so sweet that tears cannot outrun, A taste as vast as borders of the sky, When leaves turn brown, when comes the time of birth, Their skin glows brighter than a raging flame, Not food, but art; these apples of the earth, To hate is mortal sin, deserving shame. Their beauty like no other vegetable, And taste so pure; fills souls with song and light. The deathly sick become the good and well, The food of kings, the food of serf and knight. What keeps me from the beauty of this root? For now, I shall be sticking with my fruit.
Writing by Dennis Polyakov
Tubular Vegetables
Eliza Posner, Peppers, Digital Photograph
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Jada Boggs, Pensive, Graphite Writing by Eliza Posner, Christina McLaughlin, Bilal Memon, Sarabeth Davis, Jeff ane, Nick Jodka and Tom Howells
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#History Problems “on trial for being a witch. thanks @abbywilliams.” -Eli Posner
“when your date gets the plague right before the ball, again.” -Christina McLaughlin
“when your harvest fails and you die of hunger.” “when your landlord exiles you and die of hunger.” “when a neighboring army sacks your farm and you die of hunger.” “when you die of hunger.” -Bilal Memon
“caught Moby Dick. #goals” -Sarabeth Davis
“bit my thumb at those knights #straightOuttaLondon” -Jeff ane
“when you stub your toe and it gets infected and you have to amputate it #fml.” -Nick Jodka
“when you go sailing and accidentally discover a continent.” -Tom Howells
Leo Van Munching, The night’s Tomb, Graphite
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Christian Pizzarelli, Gone In Sixty Seconds, Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator
Writing by Anonymous
Kant Shakeit On the day divided The thoughts intrude From that day on she implied it’s all so true A foreign scent filled the car For a week or so The idea of Comfort did not feel so far The jumbles of the game paralyzed me Oh what a day - the day When her energy tranquilized me
Clare Armstrong, Pavement, Digital Photograph
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Writing by Brian Beaumonte, Joshue Mitchell, Kat Adams, Christina McLaughlin, Charles Simmonds and Tom Howells
Mini Sagas The Volcano
Evelyn looked over the edge of the bubbling volcano. She knew she was in trouble if things didn’t go as planned. She braced, ready for the end, but the bubbling died down. She felt a crushing disappointment. “Maybe next time Ev,” said Mr. Finch. “Here’s your participation ribbon.” Mediocrity stung. - Brian Beaumonte
I Don’t Know Yet She’s trying to teach the kids in Sunday School. She wants to show them a video, but there’s no wifi. “Let’s play a game,” she tells the kids. “The fi st one to talk loses.” She then leaves the room. - Joshua Mitchell
I Don’t Know Yet (Pt. II) She wants to teach the kids in her Sunday School class to be happy during sad times. They play a game in which the kids win several Starbursts, only to lose all of them at the end. “You can still be happy right?” she tells the kids. - Joshua Mitchell
Arrival “I’m home” he announced. For the fi st time in a while, his wife didn’t reply. Stopping to grab a beer (as he always did), he felt uneasy. When he walked into the study, he saw her body. Finding no pulse, he wired two million dollars to the Caymans. - Kat Adams
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Oh Hair slicked back and rented suit donned. Down on one knee, “The biggest moment of my Junior year,” he thinks. The whole school is watching. The wind blows silently and he licks his chapped lips. “Will you go to prom with me?” “No.” - Christina McLaughlin
Th s Is a Bad Idea That buff lo chicken tender was hanging by a tiny strand of meat. It waited for the second he moved it away from the plate to break. It fell in slow motion, heading straight for my pant leg. I quickly lunged for it, but only ended up catching air. Game over. - Charles Simmonds
Discovery There was a smell - a stench - that seeped down into the fl orboards and made its home there, permeating the apartment; “Michael? Are you here? What’s that smell? Were you too lazy to take the bins out again?” He may have been depressed, but that didn’t make the discovery any easier. - Tom Howells
Eliza Posner, Window, Digital Photograph
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Leo Van Munching, Bark, Marker Writing by Jeff ane
Messin’ With Sasquatch
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How can I travel the world and get paid to do it without having to exert any effort at all? Well, what’s something that most of the world has in common? I suppose water, ground, trees, air, and some kind of food. Perfect! We’ll call that “Sasquatch Territory,” make a show, and call it “Finding Bigfoot.” It’s perfect! We get paid to travel the world and it’ll never end since we’ll never fi d him. We’ll yell at each other in the woods in order to make the others think we’re Bigfoot. Instant drama! Hopefully, people will be dumb enough to watch it. Eventually, we’ll make a sequel for fi ding unicorns! We’re geniuses. I assume that’s how they pitched it to networks.
NIGHTCRAWLER
Caleb Fuller, Nightcrawler, Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator
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Meg Adams, Note To Self, Digital Photograph
The Pendulum Staff Kat Adams Meg Adams Ajit Akole Natalie Bachman Sarabeth Davis Jack Hobbs Laura Howells Tom Howells Nick Jodka Colette Juran Chloe Kekedjian Jeff ane Alex Levy Christina McLaughlin Bilal Memon Dennis Polyakov Eliza Posner ZoĂŤ Smith Kate Stamoulis Sarah Wilson
Writing by Bilal Memon
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Acknowledgements Editors: Kat Adams and Tom Howells The editors are the heads of the staff nd oversee all activity within the group. They lead the weekly staff unch meetings and initiate discussion among the group while reviewing written submissions. The editors review artwork as well, working closely with the Art Department to fi d pieces to photograph and archive. They have fi al authority on the acceptance status of all submissions. They also encourage the school community to submit pieces, whether it be on an individual level or at a Town Meeting during the school day. The editors decide the order of pieces as they appear in the print and contact all those necessary to ensure the publication of the magazine.
Layout Designers: Eliza Posner and Meg Adams The layout designers are in charge of the entire aesthetic component of the magazine. They work with the Art Department to determine visual design, and place all written works and artworks. The layout designers also review all the works before placing them in the magazine, ensuring that the artistic vision of The Pendulum comes to life on the page. Special thanks to Clare Armstrong for her constant feedback this year.
Faculty Advisor for Literature: Stephen Flachsbart The job of the faculty advisor for literature is to generate enthusiasm for creative writing and to establish a sense of what is good literature. He also helps set the bar for what constitutes “publication quality,” and fosters a positive environment with room for constructive criticism. As head of the English Department, he provides the staff ith a variety of student works from his and other teachers’ classes, works which ultimately constitute a major portion of the magazine’s literature. Finally, he is the lynchpin that holds this group together, and without him we would be a group of random individuals in a state of existential paralysis brought on by the duality of modern life.
Acknowledgements Faculty Advisor for Art: Jeorge Yankura The job of the faculty advisor for art is to aid the art editor and the contributing artists in preparing for the fi al design of the magazine. Th ough this process, she is responsible for teaching InDesign to the layout staff nd also helps in editing and general artistic direction. Finally, she is responsible for digitizing all artworks, a job that spans the entire school year. Without her, it is safe to say that we would not be able to complete this magazine.
Technical Notes The fonts used in this volume of The Pendulum include Adobe Hebrew Regular for the table of contents, text bodies and page numbers, Adobe Hebrew Italic for the attributions in page margins, and self-created student handwriting fonts by various members of The Pendulum staff or titles and headers. Adobe Hebrew was created in 2004-2005 by John Hudson of Tiro Typeworks. Th s font was specifi ally created for contemporary Hebrew business communications. The Pendulum staff w s attracted to the shape and crisp nature of the letters in this type family. In order to create custom fonts for the publication, members of the staff rote the alphabet in upper and lower case, as well as various punctuation marks, and had them digitally converted to True Type Fonts for use as titles and headers.
The Pendulum was created using Adobe In Design from the 2015 Creative Cloud. The 2016 edition of The Pendulum was printed with a Kodak NexPress 2500 Digital Production Color Press, at Impression Point Printing by Robert La Banca. It uses Enhanced Dry Ink that produces a consistently high image quality, providing vibrant colors, consistent spot color matching, smooth flat fi ld and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. The paper used is Appleton Utopia II Matte Ivory 80# Text.