The Pendulum 2021 by St. Luke's School

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377 North Wilton Road New Canaan, CT 06840 203.966.5612 slspendulum@gmail.com Cover Artwork: Front: Moli Ma, “Bright Future,” Oil on Canvas Back: Jack Laibe, “Break,” Digital Photograph Artwork on this page: Moli Ma, “Untitled,” Digital Drawing

“A 2020 State of Mind (Inspired by Van Gogh),” Samantha Schwartz, Charcoal on Paper

t o r ‘ E d i s

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The constant search for stability in the face of daily upheaval is never far from our minds. We walk a tightrope through our lives, and more often than we’d like to admit, it feels like the safety net is on fire. Regardless, we walk along, carrying on with our daily routines, only to find that the opaque blue Scooby Snack has disappeared from ShopRite’s aisles forever. We process, we move on, we learn, we adapt; but we nonetheless hang onto what remains and stays the same. We actively cultivate these rare sources of security, finding refuge under the shelter of our morning coffee or nightly shower. Turbulence is rarely what we elect for ourselves, but our responses reveal our souls. As we experience disruptions and calamities, we must react in order to continue, and not simply bury our heads in the sand to counterfeit security. This year’s dual theme of stability and instability attempts to crystallize our community through this lens. Adolescence and turmoil are often interchangeable, as insecurity and uncertainty are endemic to this period in our lives. Perhaps the only thing we can do is push through, and take each opportunity to create art, poetry, and prose with the shaking ground as our muse.

“Friends,” Jo Demarco, Digital Drawing

C on s t e n t L

r i t e at

Editors’ Statement Pendulum Staff Acknowledgements Technical Notes

e 3 73

74-75 75

r o s e

Tigerlily Jensen Memorial Day

18-19

Blake Haden Cast Away (Inspired by David Foster Wallace) Karey Balkind The No-Breakfast Phenomenon Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer

Fungi

24 38-39 44-49

Zach Amendola Lunch at SLS (Inspired by David Foster Wallace)

52-53

Julia Lombardo Behind the Doorway

56-57

Jackson Hart The Night Shift (Inspired by David Foster Wallace) Molly Kim Boots

“Bean,” Sienna Pilla, Digital Photograph

62-63 65

y o e t r

Moli Ma

White Silk

Eloise LeClerc

Sun Room

Devon Schiff

It Is Not Myself Who Made Me

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson) 14

Jo DeMarco

Eventide Sorrows

Desmond Pratt

Dawn of the New Era

Pierce LeClerc

blessed are the meek

Doron Loewenberg

Incredulous: A Poem

Anonymous

Lessons

Doron Loewenberg

Blanket

Moli Ma

Pouring

Pierce LeClerc

feeder

Jack Laibe

Lost Holiday

Rex Jensen

Grandma’s Big Day

The Pendulum Staff

Flotsam and Jetsam

40-41

Keira Williams

Foreign Lands

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson) 43

Ryan Higgins

Rampage

Pierce LeClerc

pirouette

Pierce LeClerc

the silence, the sun

Various Authors

An Assortment of Haikus 60-61

Anonymous

penumbra

Karey Balkind

The Hand is Larger Than a Life

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson) 68

Anonymous

midnight oil

“The Personification of Numbers 3 and 4,” Liz Fleischer, Marker on Paper

70-71

“Friendship,” Liz Fleischer, Marker on Paper

A r t wo

The Pendulum 2021 Cover: Front: Moli Ma, “Bright Future,” Oil on Canvas Back: Jack Laibe, “Break,” Digital Photograph

D raw i ng

Samantha Schwartz

M i x ed

M ed ia

A 2020 State of Mind

(Inspired by Van Gogh) Jo DeMarco Friends

Liz Fleischer The Personification of Numbers 3 and 4 Friendship Samantha Schwartz

Circa 1995

5 7

Jo DeMarco Still Life with Styrofoam Figure 9 Moli Ma American Dream

Jenna Volpitta Jenga

Moli Ma Summer, 2019

Annabelle Santucci

Color Girl

Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer

Mushroom Turtle

Liz Fleischer Assorted Drawings 40-41 Jonathan Hobson

Me When No Burger

Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer

A Perfect Likeness

Liz Fleischer Assorted Drawings 60-61

Moli Ma I See

Moli Ma Crybaby

g ai n t i n Lemon and Eggs

Jenna Volpitta Untitled

Jenna Volpitta Logan

Samantha Schwartz

Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer

The King of the Slaughter 50

“Circa 1995,” Samantha Schwartz, Charcoal on Paper

g r a

p h

Sienna Pilla

Bean

Nailah Profit

Untitled

Sankalp Ojha

IMG_4731

Charlie Lukens

Compo Beach

Jacqueline Cecil

Sunset Sailing

Claire Watson

Whatcha Lookin’ At?

Sara Minuesa

Untitled

Nailah Profit

Ferns

Matthew Seale

Indent

Sarah Case

Patterns

Eliza Patty

Lighthouse at Point Gammon 30

Kathryn McCarthy

Rain

Lucy Collins

Glowing

Caitlin Neafsey

Sebago

Sienna Pilla

Lighthouse

Claire Watson

Foggy Afternoon

Macy Owsley

Forsaken Fence

Karey Balkind

Untitled

Emma Seel

Assorted Photographs

Katie Stute

Untitled

44-49

(from the Reflections Series) 55

Catherine Clark

Rainbow Falls

Catherine Clark

Early Mornings

Matthew Seale

Above the Clouds

Sankalp Ojha

Disoriented

Maya Coniglio

Mountains That Reach the Sky 64

Jack Laibe

Blue

Megan Case

Red

Keilan Rosow

Industrial Alley

Sarah Case

Velvet

Sylvia Samardzija

Hazel’s Haven

Claire Watson

School Spirit

“Still Life with Styrofoam Figure,” Jo DeMarco, Mixed Media on Paper

“American Dream,” Moli Ma, Mixed Media

White Silk Moli Ma

Child of a mother Who never cries. Bred as outsiders, Born from determined eyes. Your American Mother Cries out demands. We ready our brothers, And hold water in our hands. Lipgloss covers The empire we built. But I love her, So I take bleach to silk. Child of a struggle, Not nearly over. My words come stuttered, They blow our cover.

Sun Room Eloise LeClerc

Human greenhouse enclosed by glass You begin to feel transparent as the towering windows dividing you from the outside But they look upon you just the same The world Staring at a girl in a box. Invisible yet seen Sunlight bleeds staining my skin Bright yellow I’m alone but feel the whole universe can see through me I am made of the same glass Easily broken.

“Lemon and Egg,” Samantha Schwartz, Acrylic on Canvas

It Is Not Myself Who Made Me (Inspired by Emily Dickinson) Devon Schiff

It is not Myself who Made me Who swallowed my Mind whole It is only the Shadow — him who bade me To whom — I am — Auroral It is only the speckled Eyes — That spatter my whining Thumb To Death — in prose My heart — she is — the finicky leading drum It is not the forlorn Light That wake me from my Slumber I doze until I catch — sight Of Someone to Take me Under

“Untitled,” Nailah Profit, Gelatin Silver Print

“IMG_4731,” Sankalp Ojha, Digital Photograph

“Compo Beach,” Charlie Lukens, Gelatin Silver Print

“Jenga,” Jenna Volpitta, Colored Pencil on Paper

“Summer, 2019,” Moli Ma, Graphite on Paper

Memorial Day Tigerlily Jensen Every year on the last Monday in May, all across the United States, people gather to remember and celebrate the lives of those who have fallen protecting our country, but for most people this merely marks the start of the summer season and is just another excuse to party. On this day, you find your ten year-old self in Ridgefield, Connecticut (a wealthy, family-friendly New England town) wearing a softball uniform, getting ready to march alongside dozens of other organizations: the town’s girl scouts, football teams, the Lion’s Club, the Danbury Marching Band, the Chamber of Commerce, the Police Department. Your mom does up your hair in two tight little braids, tied with elastics adorned with tiny little American flags and three red and blue streamers. You know it’s “Memorial Day,” but really only understand that to mean there’s a day off from school and there will be a pool party and barbecue later with all your closest friends to celebrate the coming end of the school year and the start of the summer season. Your friends usually go to Cape Cod or the Hamptons or to sleepaway camp for the summer so this will be the last time you get to hangout with them for months. It’s a sweltering 81 degrees outside, nearly ten degrees hotter than the average May day in Ridgefield, and sweat drips down your face as you march from the 18

town’s most prized possession, the Cass Gilbert Fountain—named after the famous architect who built it in 1915 when he wasn’t busy building the Woolworth Building in NYC or the Supreme Court Building in Washington D.C.—through the town’s center, all the way to Ballard Park, a five acre recreational area donated to the town by Elizabeth Biglow Ballard in 1964, after living there since 1887 in a mansion that was previously owned by one Dr. Adams, who some believe was the founder of modern-day baseball. After the march, you set up a lemonade stand and plan to donate the proceeds to charity. You are so proud of yourself for going to the store yourself to buy 100 cups, three big tubs of yellow lemonade, two pitchers of sparkling pink lemonade (a fan favorite!), and a few gallons to give to people for free (it is 81 degrees after all). The sign reads “HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY! LEMONADE 50 CENTS.” You make what seems like a lot of money to you: $26.50 and walk the money to the town’s food bank before going home. When you get home, there’s already five kids in the pool, two of whom need floaties and the other of whom are showing off the new jumps and dives that they learned on their vacation in Bermuda this past spring. Mr. M, who owns the local hot dog stand “Chez Leonard,” is getting set to cook hot dogs with any

toppings you want including different types of melted cheese, ketchup, horseradish, chili, mayonnaise, sauerkraut, spicy mustard, yellow mustard, onions, lettuce, or salsa. The older teenage boys are already lined up to try his specialty: a

hot dog with cheddar jack cheese, bacon, jalepeños, and potato chips, and try to break Chez Leonard’s record of twenty one hot dogs eaten in one day. Nobody is thinking about dead soldiers.

“Sunset Sailing,” Jacqueline Cecil, Digital Photograph

“Whatcha Lookin’ At?” Claire Watson, Gelatin Silver Print

“Untitled ,” Sara Minuesa, Digital Photograph

Eventide Sorrows Jo DeMarco

Waves rage and crash against the rocky shore A swirling storm paints skies a somber blue Outside and in my heart it starts to pour So many lonely nights since I’ve seen you You promised me that you’d stay by my side As we drove nights on end through moonlit streets But your love ebbed and flowed just like the tide And fickle is the rhythm your heart beats At times I still sketch doodles of your face Then tear apart the piece that I just drew It’s been two months since you left with no trace But still my nights are plagued with dreams of you I hope you are consumed by pained regret For sorrows that your leaving did beget

“Ferns,” Nailah Profit, Gelatin Silver Print

Desmond Pratt

blessed are the meek Pierce LeClerc

the scent of blood rises in the air like an unanswered question, its tendrils clutching the claws of the wolf as he follows its beckoning. the lamb takes another stride, stops for a moment, then glances behind herself. she resets her gaze and continues moving forward. the lamb follows the darkness, and the darkness follows her.

Incredulous: A Poem Doron Loewenberg

Think of the windows; shattered shards of lattice and glass strewn across the great halls of democracy Think of the bullets; hot pieces of lead thrown across the room by mouths chanting rhetoric and hate Think of the tears; scattered across the floor by the cowards and sycophants who suffer the results of their own hubris, encouraging but not believing the destruction they wrought Think of the stones; carved by the hands of those kept in chains, but no blood spattered from the ones waving the flag who put them there. Think of the voices; echoing from the great marble halls which speak great, empty words unity, peace, and moving forward while the echoes of screams still resonate in the background Do gunfire and tear gas a democracy make? Does moving on and passing by a victory construe? The floor is untouched, the upholstery in place, the marble unscratched The flag unripped, the pole in tatters

Cast Away

(Inspired by David Foster Wallace) Blake Haden Red behind your eyelids. Something hot beneath your back. A bed? Not quite. Reaching up to rub your eyelids you feel something gritty. Is that sand you wonder? The soft lapping of waves in the background confuses you. You didn’t think you were dreaming. With the harsh caw of a bird far too loud to be outside a window, you suddenly know exactly where you are. Completely alone. On a strip of beach. Attempting to sleep under a makeshift tarp canopy supported by a plank of driftwood you scavenged the day before. You never really knew how long a night was until you’d spent it wide awake. You grab your drum of water and take a swig. What’s next? You’re in paradise; you have no agenda. You’ve always dreamed of lying out on a hot, smooth, strip of sand without any responsibilities or obligations. No room to clean. No homework to finish. Just you and the beach. Everybody has this happy place, or some form of it, the place they go when life just isn’t going their way. For some people it might be a lake house, others a mid-mountain chalet, yours has always been the beach. Your world has sped you up, leaving you with no time to think. It’s just a series of distractions, hiding you from one real real truth, There’s nothing more terrifying to you than absolute 24

solitude, forced to bathe in your own thoughts. All of these emotions and ideas manifest themselves into just one stupidly simple thought. You’re bored. There’s nobody telling you to take a bath, nobody to impress, but for some reason you feel like it’s the right thing to do. The ocean stings your dry, sunburned skin as you plunge head first into the Atlantic. Or maybe it’s the Pacific, you don’t really know. All you know is you’re alone on a beach with the sole instruction to “discover yourself.” Whatever the hell that means. As far as you know, the only thing that you’ve discovered is that crabs are single-handedly the most useless, annoying and downright malicious creatures you’ve ever encountered. Your family’s trip to Cantler’s Crab Shack will mean a little more this year. Not only did they steal your block of cheese, they had the nerve to keep you up all night long with their beady eyes slowly creeping towards your defenseless toes. After exiting the saltwater bath, you place the carcass of a crab you “accidentally” mutilated the day before on the tip of the spear and stick it in the ground: an act of symbolism to all the other crabs that the war has just begun.

“Indent,” Matthew Seale, Digital Photograph

“Untitled,” Jenna Volpitta, Oil on Canvas

Lessons Anonymous

A drunk man taught me how to drive, He told me to be steady. Said “it’s a curse, being alive,” He knows I have to be ready. A wise man told me to love life, He calls me when he gets weary. Said “careful child, it’s not always a fight,” He knows I have to be ready. The wise man taught me how to stand, He wipes the blue tears from my eyes. He holds me close with shaking hands, The ones that hold up the sky. The drunk man’s eyes go cold and dead, He tells me the same old stories. He holds me close with shaking hands, The ones that evaded glory.

“Color Girl,” Annabelle Santucci, Marker on Paper

“Patterns,” Sarah Case, Digital Photograph

Blanket

Doron Loewenberg If I were a miniscule man but seven inches tall I would have to find a place to shelter. A place to keep warm while the cold winds of an uncaring universe buffet me from side to side. Where would I fall, but between the pages of a novel, Flying Colours. The bland but invigorating words of C.S Forester providing shelter. The tale of a naval captain’s journey home bringing me there as well. The steady drum beat of a naval ship would smother me As I lay under the front cover But above the back. The dry ink and smooth parchment providing an ample bed for me to rest upon. I would remain stuffed there In the middle of the binding From the story’s tragic beginning to its triumphant end. Until there are no more pages left And I am left out in the cold again, waiting for another book to hold me in its warm embrace.

“Lighthouse at Point Gammon,” Eliza Patty, Digital Photograph

“Rain,” Kathryn McCarthy, Digital Photograph

Pouring Moli Ma

I used to love when it rained, Now when it does it pours. Don’t let me go stale in this blue, Don’t let raindrops freeze roses. Remember how the windows got blurry The last time I saw you? You open the door, Hang me out to dry. It’s way below zero, I stay on the line. I’ll dig a moat around our house, Then I’ll bring you a boat. Let down all the muddied gates, Let sky fall on the world. Remember how my eyes got blurry The last time I saw you? You give me a call, I light a fire. “We could’ve burned together.” You get off the line. 31

feeder

Pierce LeClerc feed to the bench alone shackled to the street open the mouth and pay dues to the leech exhale in grayscale the bench is the canvas of feeders who perch on the shoulders of atlas the eye is the lens and the pupil the focus that dilates as he bears the weight of the hopeless a cigarette to the ground whose soul left for the sky i could’ve been someone, i said my heart knows i lied

“Mushroom Turtle,” Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer, Colored Pencil on Paper

“Glowing,” Lucy Collins, Digital Photograph

“Sebago,” Caitlin Neafsey, Ink Transfer Print

Lost Holiday Jack Laibe

Retreating again to the oft-discovered island From which many return And while visitations may come often Memories are fleeting, disappearing Like fog on a hot day Of self-built worlds, impossible constructions Creations unfathomable in the daytime And, at completion, irretrievable So I’ll go again To the tidal archipelago, which Rises and falls against the sun My nightly forgotten escape.

Grandma’s Big Day Rex Jensen

It’s grandma’s big day, grandma’s big day Have to speak, don’t know what to say It is June, this was supposed to happen in May It is kinda weird, no I am not ok I wish I wasn’t here, wish I didn’t have to stay Have to hide, I go down and sit by the bay Uh oh, there is a priest he’s gonna make us pray They ask me to walk her down the aisle, I obey Then they say Rex are you ready to play? My improv skills were put on display I just made it up, didn’t need an essay Now they’re saying “I do”, with no delay At least I didn’t have to go to the ballet 35

“Lighthouse,” Sienna Pilla, Digital Photograph

“Foggy Afternoon,” Claire Watson, Digital Photograph

“Forsaken Fence,” Macy Owsley, Digital Photograph

The No-Breakfast Phenomenon Karey Balkind

“Untitled,” Karey Bakind, Digital Photograph

When I go to bed at night, I excitedly plan out what I’m going to make for breakfast the next morning. There are so many options: a warm, hearty bowl of oatmeal, fluffy scrambled eggs with lightly buttered toast, a yogurt parfait… You could choose literally anything.

don’t care how much of a coffee connoisseur you think you are-- a caffeinated, bitter-tasting, scalding liquid has no nutritional value and is not food. Breakfast is defined as a “meal eaten in the morning, the first of the day.” A meal does not consist of a single cup of brown fluid!

Not only is breakfast the most important, and most delicious, meal of the day, but it can actually be a fun and creative outlet. Exhibit A, the oatmeal I made before school last Tuesday:

This is the problem with today’s coffee aficionados: they think that they can add fancy features to their coffee or buy the most expensive cup of java from Starbucks and suddenly have a sufficient meal prepared.

There are three kinds of offenders when it comes to those who skip breakfast: the “coffee is enough for me” people, the “I don’t have time” people, and the “I don’t like breakfast foods” people. Each has a specific mindset that utterly bewilders me. First off, coffee is not breakfast! I

No, a triple shot, nonfat, vanilla latte with soy milk and foam will not make up for your lack of breakfast foods. Also, these snobbish people are generally not well-liked. No one on their way to a nine-to-five job wants to be stuck behind a caffeine fanatic in the

Dunkin’ drive-through, who recites their minute long monologue of an order. Next, we have the people who claim they absolutely do not have the time to make or eat breakfast. It is not that hard to set your alarm a few minutes earlier, or to stop lounging in bed viewing the same posts repeatedly on your social media. Breakfast is an essential part of everyone’s day, and it must be valued! Those who believe they don’t have time to fry up a couple of eggs just use this belief as an excuse to be lazy. The “I don’t have time for breakfast” culprits are almost as much of a nuisance to those around them as the coffee-drinkers. They make it incredibly clear to everyone that they were in SUCH a rush that they didn’t have time to eat breakfast, and now they are just STARVING. These people are looking for pity, yet they make no effort to solve a quite simple problem. I think these lazy, self-absorbed people honestly need their own twelve-step program. Last but not least, those who “don’t like breakfast foods.” First of all, breakfast is the best meal of the day because there are so many options. Sweet, savory, sweet and savory… you can have it all, yet these people choose to have none.

In my experience, I mostly find that these picky eaters fall into two categories: those who choose to abolish breakfast completely because they don’t like the stereotypical foods that come with it, and those who choose to eat the most outlandish foods that they find rotting in their fridge. Those who fully eliminate breakfast from their diets are purely uncreative. There are almost no limitations when it comes to what you could make in a four hour breakfast window. If you don’t like the generic eggs, bacon, or cereal, do some research and try new things for God’s sake. On the other hand, the people who eat leftover, cold Chinese food or half-eaten tortellini for breakfast just baffle me. I can almost understand someone being a really picky eater, but are you serious? The least you could do is choose something that won’t give you food poisoning! All in all, what really intrigues me about this no-breakfast phenomenon is that the offenders are the strangest, most provoking people. Whether it’s holding up the Starbucks drive-through with an unnecessarily lengthy order, staring at technological devices for 30 minutes before getting out of bed, or stinking up the house at 7 A.M., no one who skips breakfast is normal. 39

Flotsam and Jetsam The Pendulum Staff

Marker on Paper Drawings by Liz Fleischer

“Home is where the heart is” –– is a stupid saying. My home is my house and nowhere else. -Aisha Memon Slytherin

Griffyndor

Leaving the train at 6:45 PM Can only mean one thing. The traces of the day led to Frustration, yet your body is not Defeated from the new routine. No, your feet aren’t tired from trudging Through the reflection In the puddles on the street. Your fingers aren’t stiff from Hours of typing the word “Maybe.”

The only thing that is restless aside from the train chugging past the platform, Is your heartbeat. It longed for a familiar Feeling. The noise of the day was All too terroring. But within the shadows Beyond the station you Hear the ring of the Locomotive’s whistle. The elementary reminder of home. -Jackie Cecil

Deep in the forest, through the mossy underbush, past the stream filled with silverfish, is a cottage, with a little bell, and a ribbon tied onto the doorknob. Its a small home, always warm and smelling of fresh green wood. In the corner, a mouse and his family make their dinner of crumbs and drops of cheese. -Liz Fleischer 40

Home is the afternoon sun streaming through thin flowy curtains in an empty classroom with a red flag above the blackboard. Home is squeezing through the rusty fence to get into the apartment complex courtyard, where a songbird sits in a cage. Home is driving through the city, glittered with blurry streetlights, while mom’s CD plays. Home is running through the schoolyard, worries hot on our tails, laughing all the way. Home is 7,000 miles and 7 years away. Home feels foggy sometimes. -Moli Ma Toad’s House A hole in the ground –– I can nestle & hide Making not a sound Away from hurting eyes They say mud is gross But its comfort to me And if you would come close Then maybe you’d see -Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer

The Cool Kid

Atop the hill Away from the flood Under covers I lie, vulnerable The storm still rages Branches still stab my roof -Jack Laibe Hufflepuff

Ravenclaw

“Logan,” Jenna Volpitta, Oil on Canvas

Foreign Lands

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson) Keira Williams The day it rains I know it’s dry In distant desert sands. And once it’s night I know it’s light In Fruitful Foreign Lands. So with my clothes and cross in hand, I set off towards the Glow, Of distant lands - with skin of tan And Skies -as bright as snow. The city where the people cry, On every sunset eve, Where children laugh and dance with pain Like it was all a dream. But as I reach the mountain’s height, And start to peek below, I realize that it looks just like A place - I used to know. So on that day when Future calls There’s - nothing - to be seen. Try not to cry as Raindrops fallTo meet me on my knees.

Fungi

Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer Digital Photographs by Emma Seel

Before I start, I would like to clarify that I was not drunk throughout the entirety of my account. I do drink, and sometimes a bit more than the average person, but definitely not enough to addle my brain in such a way that causes me to lose sense of reality. Well, I suppose with that out of the way I’ll just get into it. I’ve always had a predilection for mushrooms. Not eating them- well, not just eating them- I mean I did like a good mushroom dish every once in a while, although now... I’m getting off track. What I mean is, I found them fascinating. Ever since I was a kid I’d enjoy studying them- either in my backyard or combing through books I’d find in my local library.

Untitled

Pholiota

Oh, sorry- I’ve forgotten to give you my name. It’s Martin. Martin Carrowway. I am- well, was, a mycologist. Lots of wasted knowledge in me… A shame, I guess. Sorry, I keep getting off track. I am here to state my account of… well, to be honest I’m not sure what to call it. An account of my experience with mushrooms, I suppose. It started early last Spring, when an old man moved into my apartment complex- but my story doesn’t actually start until the following June. I hadn’t met the man- I had seen him around, of course, either passing each other on the stairs or getting home around the same time. So of course it was a bit surprising when I answered a knock at my door at around 5:30 and found him standing before it, holding a ceramic dish covered in a layer of aluminum foil. I asked if he needed anything, and he asked if my evening was free. I told him, tentatively, yes, and he grinned, and,

rather forwardly, asked if he could have dinner with me. He held up his ceramic bowl and told me he had brought a meal. He claimed he had been visiting all of his new neighbors throughout the months he started living in this apartment complex, as he didn’t know anybody in the area, let alone the area itself. When I asked where he was from, he just gave me a wet laugh and said someplace warm and damp. I extrapolated he didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t question him further. I figured, with his age, he had probably left where he last lived with some tragedy of some sort. He blinked only one eye at a time- right eye closed and opened, left eye closed and opened. They made a soft, wet sound. Looking at him made my throat constrict, and my insides start to feel… itchy- like organs I couldn’t scratch. Of course I invited him inside. What else would I do? Slam the door in some old man’s face because he was a bit idiosyncratic?

Untitled

After the typical pleasantries and whatnot, we sat down at my small dining room table. He put his dish down on the table and took the aluminum foil off. Inside were… mushrooms. They were still whole. The base of their stem was a reddish-brown that faded into a pale tan color. The cap was the same pale brown as the top of the stem and looked almost leathery, and kind of… wrinkled. This particular fungus was.. outside of my ken- which surprised me, as I was certain, after years of study, there wasn’t one mushroom I couldn’t identify by sight. Back then I thought perhaps it was because they were cooked, and covered in sauce. He asked if I liked mushrooms, and I told him I found them “titillating,” and that I was, in fact, a mycologist. I remember I said “titillating” because he repeated the word, twice, with a strange look in his eyes, almost disbelief. We started eating his mushrooms, but as

Resinous Polypore

Untitled

soon as I put the first piece in my mouth, I felt my throat constrict. I won’t mince my words. They tasted disgusting. Like putrid meat, and strangely coppery. I was diametrically opposed to putting even one more bite of the horrid fungi in my mouth, but out of politeness’ sake, I kept eating the rotten mush- unfortunately, I’ve always been a stickler for social mores. I can still taste it in my mouth, even today.

whenever certain people, by just existing, trigger the feeling of anxiously needing to scratch my organs out, I’m overtaken by a sort of guilt. It’s not their fault their existence is physically repulsive to me either, so my guilt results in me overcompensating- I go out of my way to seem friendly and that, well, I enjoy their presence. It was because of this that I ignored the trepidation crawling through my skin and the urge to spit out the repulsive mushrooms. Any negative feeling toward this strange old man I had merely chalked up to a mental irrationality. Something I no longer do. So, with my guilt-ridden anxiety, I offered him tea, which he accepted, and we spoke for about half an hour longer. I couldn’t tell you about what. The entire time I felt vomit creeping up my throat, threatening to spill the old man’s mushrooms back at him. Finally, he left, and I was free to rush to the bathroom and retch. It was only then that I realized he

I hate to interject, but I feel this fact is vital for you to understand why I let him stay, and perhaps it will make you think I’m not quite as foolish as my actions may lead you to believe. I have a minor case of OCD. Nothing quite debilitating, not anymore at least, but just rather… uncomfortable. Makes me feel disturbed and anxious more than I would like, but, as I said, it’s just a minor case. Now, I know it’s not my fault per se, but 46

Turkey Tail

hadn’t given me his name, which is why I’ve only been referring to him as “the old man.” I hope you don’t mind. The next morning I woke, still with the itching feeling, but this time I figured it was some residual sickness from the night before. Making my way to the bathroom, I absentmindedly scratched my hand. There was a strange lump. I looked at it, sure it hadn’t been there the night before- it swelled and the skin above it itched. I put some Cortaid on it, in the assumption it was an insect bite, and went on about my day. The “insect bite” had continued to itch all day, and seemed to be getting bigger. I got back from work and decided to take a short nap before making dinner. I set my alarm for 27 minutes, and when I woke, my hand was covered in blood. In my sleep, I had itched the lump so much, I broke skin. I quickly went to the sink to wash the wound I had made, and get the skin out from under my fingernails. The feeling of my organs itching was back. It

Little Brown Mushrooms

almost made me feel nauseous. Once the blood was off my hands, I looked down at the open wound and saw something that set off a primal fear- making bile rise in my throat. In the opening of my flesh grew mushrooms. The base of their stem was stained red from my blood and the fungi itself was a pale beige color- the color of my skin. The cap looked leathery and smooth. Like skin- my skin. I’m not sure what possessed me- perhaps an instinctual reaction? But I grabbed those infernal mushrooms and ripped them out of my flesh. It hurt, it hurt quite a lot, but I didn’t care. As long as I could get them out of me. I continued to dig my fingernails into my flesh to remove the base. When I was finally done, the remains of the mushroom lay bloody and mangled on the floor. My hand was in a similar state, and I cleaned and dressed the wound. At this point I should have

Gilled Polypore

contacted someone, but I wouldn’t even know what to tell them. Instead, like an absolute idiot, I merely went on with my evening. As I’m sure you predicted, the same thing happened the next day. I stayed home that day. It was worse- there were now four masses of bloodied mushroom-flesh. This time, I grabbed a scalpel I had lying around that I use for mushroom dissections and sliced the disgusting growing things out of my flesh. It hurt more this time- perhaps because it was premeditated. Or maybe it was because they were more firmly rooted inside of me. One of the lumps on my arm had not yet burst, so taking a scalpel I cut a thin line at the base of the swelling. I peeled the flap of skin up and, lo and behold, a cluster of small mushrooms were, feeding on my living flesh. Gritting my teeth I cut the specimens off to examine them. As you might imagine, it’s rather hard to study a parasite that was once inside of

Untitled

Velvet Shank

you, but they looked strangely familiar. Through my pain and anxiety, I had a passing thought that perhaps I’d be able to introduce something unknown into my field. And then I remembered. Running up several flights of stairs, I slammed my fists on the old man’s door, with the intent to interrogate him on my… affliction. But as my knocking yielded no response, and I began to get the mind to plow the entire door over, a woman from the apartment next to the old man’s flung her door open and asked me what I was doing in an irritated tone. I responded I was looking for the old man who lived in the apartment before me, and she flatly stated “He’s dead. Died a couple days ago. Real gross. Heard he already had mushrooms or something growing on his dead body. Didn’t know they grew so fast,” and with that, she slammed the door. A couple of days ago?

But a couple days ago I had just eaten dinner with him. I stood there, staring at her closed door for a long time. By the time I made it back to my own apartment, it was quite dark out. At the familiar itch beneath my skin, my fear finally spilled out in the form of desperate, screaming sobs. I tried phoning one of my friends, but all I could force out of my mouth was gibberish and she hung up, in the assumption that I had drunkenly called her. I hadn’t seen the corpse, of course, but I couldn’t get the image out of my head of that old man, being eaten

alive by the fungi growing beneath his skin. And how they kept on eating, even after his body turned cold. That is going to be me. I know they are growing inside of me. Inside my organs. They’re always itching. And now you see, why I came to you. I heard you were an expert of sorts in strange afflictions. I want to be rid of them. I never want to see another horrid mushroom in my life. I’ve told my family to cremate me when I die, which, unless you can help, may be soon. I cannot stand the thought of the fungi within my skin finishing their job beneath the dirt.

Stump Blossoms - Berkeley’s Polypore

“The King of the Slaughter,” Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer, Acrylic on Canvas

(Ryan Higgins)

Lunch at SLS

(Inspired by David Foster Wallace) Zach Amendola You are already exhausted. You aren’t even halfway through the Monday, and you feel as if it should already be the weekend. But alas, that is not yet the case. You traverse the crowded hallways uncomfortably, every now and then bumping into someone in passing, dropping a pencil, or giving a slight head nod to a “friend” who you only know from the one class you shared two years ago where you exchanged no more than a couple of forced words the whole year. As you finally converge upon the lunchroom, a raucous din of conversations flowing together floods your ears, the smell of waffles fills your nose, and your view consists of the sight of ravenous high schoolers stuffing food down their gullets. You lazily drop your supplies down on a table where your friends are already eating. You give them a quick “hello” that fails to permeate their conversation before you saunter towards the dreaded lunch line. Just like yesterday, the day before, and seemingly every other day before that, you marvel at how inefficient the line seems to be, how slow everything moves, how long it takes for you to simply grab your lunch before you actually begin to eat. You finally reach the beginning of the line, the smell of waffles now overpowering, filling your nostrils with its distinct scent. You quickly fill your plate and head back to 52

your table. As soon as you sit down, you realize you’ve forgotten to get a drink, so you get up quickly, and fill up the nearest drink, your stomach grumbling incessantly, on the precipice of being filled with delicious waffles. But just as you place your drink down, you realize that you’ve forgotten utensils. Fatigued, you carelessly trudge back towards the center of the cafeteria, nearly knocking over five students’ lunches on your way over to get your silverware. But when you look in the container where there are usually forks, there are none to be found, nor are there any in any of the five other containers around the cafeteria. So you are forced to just grab a spoon and knife, before finally heading back to your table to eat. As you approach the table for the fourth time, ready to finally begin eating, you see your friends beginning to clean up, long done with their lunches, ready to move on to the next part of their days. So you sit down at a table empty except for the crumbs of food and utensils left behind by your friends. A couple of minutes into your quiet meal, another student in your grade notices that you are sitting alone, and offers you some company. It’s the same guy you nodded at in the hall earlier, the same guy you have spoken no more than a few words to, the same guy whose name you can barely remember. Is it Will?

So you and maybe-Will sit in near-silence and eat, almost no different than before he sat with you. The few futile attempts at conversation fizzle out with just a couple of brief words, before settling back into silence again. When you eventually do finish your food, you feel an obligation to wait for him to finish after he offered to sit with you while you ate. So you awkwardly sit and glance around while maybe-Will continues to eat, still not sure

what exactly you would talk about with him if you wanted to start a conversation (which you’re perfectly fine not doing). Maybe-Will finishes his waffles, and you go throw out the remnants of your food together, before parting ways, sure you will not see each other any time in the near future. You continue on to your next class, wondering what lunch will bring for you tomorrow.

“Me When No Burger,” Jonathan Hobson, Graphite on Paper

“A Perfect Likeness,” Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer, Graphite on Paper

pirouette Pierce LeClerc

under a single point light an arm extends to meet its saviour; it’s something ethereal, the way it soon falls and slices through the fog on an arc to the waist. next arrives the leg, which lances like the mount of a steed into the flesh of darkness; confronting the solemnity of observant silence. fighting the cadence of its hostess’s heartbeat, the lance returns to its sheath undisturbed. then by clockwork her body twirls on its axle, never pausing to acknowledge the fear which sharpened her blade.

“Untitled (from the Reflections Series),” Katie Stute, Triptych of Digital Photographs

Behind the Doorway Julia Lombardo

As Jamie turned on the engine to her car, she was alerted with the worst possible notification: “fuel level low.” She was completely drained from her long day which consisted of staring at a computer screen during zoom school followed by her soccer practice full of suicide sprints. Her brain couldn’t even begin to process the monstrous amount of homework that awaited her at home. Yet, she had no choice but to stop at the nearest gas station or she wouldn’t make it back. As she watched the gallons fill up, she became overtaken by hunger. Oh, how she craved some Cheetos and a cold blue Gatorade. As she opened the door of the gas station, with her eyes set on the bright orange bag of Cheetos straight ahead, everything around her turned black. Jamie was no longer in Bethany, CT, the town where the gas station was located. She now turned to face a perfectly mowed lawn with a sophisticated orchestra playing, a limitless buffet, and an extravagant pool that showcased different water features. There must have been over a hundred people there, the women in lavish dresses and high heels and the men wearing suits. She then felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to face a man who a famous author, Scott Fitzgerald, would describe as Tom Buchanan. Mr. 56

Buchanan told Jamie to follow him inside the mansion. While she was hesitant to follow a semi-stranger, even if she read about him in 11th-grade English class, she was eager to explore her unfamiliar yet opulent surroundings. Tom opened the massive door, putting his hand out to politely motion Jamie to walk in first. Fixed on the striking glass chandelier and glossy marble floor, Jamie entered. Jamie immediately felt violent rocking. She seemed to be in a tiny cabin accompanied by nothing but complete darkness. She peered out the tiny window only to see massive waves pummelling over one another for miles. The only source of light was the moon yet it was engulfed by a murky fog. She climbed up an old wooden ladder to the main floor. Crates of dead fish surrounded her. Bloodstains covered every surface she laid her eyes on. It was her worst nightmare -- stuck on an old fishing boat in the middle of the Bering Sea. This reminded her of her brother’s favorite T.V. show, the Deadliest Catch, yet she wasn’t watching from the comfort of her couch. In absolute terror, Jamie decided to take shelter back in the cabin below. Removing the latch, she propped open the small wooden door and slid back into the darkness.

Slowly opening her eyes, Jamie prayed she was back on land. As she scoped out her surroundings, the sun began to penetrate her skin, and the sound of foreign insects echoed around her. She was in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest. Kapok trees towered over her. Slimmy moss and thick mud coated the ground beneath her. Frightened by the massive spiders and roaches crawling by

her feet and a sudden ruffle in the bushes, Jamie searched for any form of shelter. In the distance, she spotted an old hut made from woven palms and wood. Although she was tempted to enter the hut that lay ahead, she then realized she was sick of entering arbitrary doors leading her to unpredictable locations. Instead, she settled on a decrepit stump and embraced the wildlife around her.

“Rainbow Falls,” Catherine Clark, Digital Photograph

the silence, the sun Pierce LeClerc

opened your eyes in the morning; the sun, just a whisper; the beating, the heart as it spun; sundered your lips of no purpose; the silence, the sun; the euphony; blessings to one; the shatter; the core of a vision untethered; avert till your dreams, lest you glance once begun

“Early Mornings,” Catherine Clark, Digital Photograph

“Above the Clouds,” Matthew Seale, Digital Photograph

An Assortment of Haikus Marker on Paper Drawings by Liz Fleischer

Yourself in 3rd person: Rex is the best ever So amazing and awesome ya At least so he thinks Rex Jensen Clown

I do not like love Love is just temporary Money’s forever Anonymous

Nosebleed

Nature soft and sweet A cheetah chewing a deer So nice and peaceful Vincent DiTeodoro

Satan, Jr.

Bruises on My Heart Your grip squeezed tighter A poison I kept drinking Numb to its sour taste Eloise LeClerc

Roller Girl

Pretty face all day Like ice my heart melts for you To one knee I go Anonymous

She Rocks

Sorry Broken picture frame One word you keep swallowing The glue to fix it Anonymous

She Doesn’t Rock

The Night Shift

(Inspired by David Foster Wallace) Jackson Hart The blood streamed from his nasal cavity in thick and violent purple rivulets, cascading over the side of the stretcher and shattering violently onto the pristine and jarringly-white sterilized floor tiles. His ribs must’ve broken under the immense force of the LUCAS machine that thrust automated compressions deep into his swollen chest. He wore no required surgical mask because his starved lungs no longer expelled air by their own volition; instead, they lay dormant beneath a fatty layer of cold, clammy skin, their lobes and intricate tubing system beginning to succumb to the necrotic effects of generalized hypoxia and widespread cell death. Electrodes and colorful wiring sprouted from his chest like a bouquet of hardy weeds from beneath a damp, wooden porch deck. A limp and blue-fingertipped arm studded with splotches of cyanosis dangled lifelessly off the stretcher and danced a recital choreographed by his steady progression into the heart of the emergency department. Under the intense glare of the LED strip lighting, a single bead of

glittering sweat slips free of the Paramedic’s forehead and falls to the floor. The man’s wife slinks frantically into the view like a dog following its master. Her eyes are silent and darkened as if quieted by the shadowy figure of Death that seeps from the dark corners of the hallway and begins to shroud the man in a blackened veil. She pleads to her husband, she pleads to God, but she does not understand that sudden cardiac arrest is an evil that knows no God. And as the last set of doors shuts, she stands petrified perhaps by her own mortality, and watches the light of her soul flicker out. My time arrives, because everyone gets a turn I suppose, and I drag two fingers across the man’s chest until they gingerly palpate his sternum. I clasp a hand over my fist and plunge forcefully into the chest so that for two minutes and thirty seconds I become his heart, tasked with pumping oxygenless blood up through his collapsed arteries. I let my hands dutifully complete their assignment and I gaze into the man’s face. He’s too young.

“Disoriented,” Sankalp Ojha, Digital Photograph

“No more,” says the physician tonelessly. “1:14 AM,” announces a nurse. The physician nods and makes note of the time on his chart. I turn and leave, and I don’t look back as the staff drapes a clean, bloodless white sheet over his decomposing body because part of me believes that if I do,

a part of my own soul will die alongside him. “I am too young,” I think. My partner turns to face me. “I need a cigarette,” he says. I only nod, because my mind is blank and there are no more letters left on my tongue to twist into tired words.

“Mountains That Reach the Sky,” Maya Coniglio, Digital Photograph

Boots

Molly Kim My winter boots. Not only are they adorable, but they serve as a reminder that my favorite season is approaching, that I’ll see my brothers again soon, and that I’ll be able to return to my favorite place on Earth. My winter boots have survived the freezing winter snow of Jackson Hole, Wyoming and the archaic adventures of Army Navy games. When it’s time to bring my winter boots back out, I am filled with excitement by the many events in store for me this season. Pure happiness and bliss.

penumbra Anonymous

words drift away like the wind’s blessed kiss a hand to the heart - the scent of bliss so feel his eyes as they eclipse love the sinner - not the sin lose control of your body losing sight, losing grip wax like the shadow wane like the echo wane like the echo wax like the shadow losing sight, losing grip lose control of your body love the sin - not the sinner so feel his eyes as they eclipse a blade to the heart - the scent of bliss as life drifts away like the wind gone amiss

“Blue,” Jack Laibe, Digital Photograph

“Red,” Megan Case, Digital Photograph

“Industrial Alley,” Keilan Rosow, Digital Photograph

The Hand is Larger Than a Life (Inspired by Emily Dickinson) Karey Balkind The hand is larger than a life-For-- life that is imperiled-Relies on it to carry forth An action-- to be settled. The hand is stronger than a soul-For-- souls so weak and weathered-Just need the force of one to mend Its walls-- that are so severed. The hand is tighter than a stitch-For-- sutures can come loose-It does repair the broken thread-As surgeons fondly choose. The hand beats faster than a heart-For-- it performs the deed-Yet changes such a hand can make Are never guaranteed.

“I See,” Moli Ma, Charcoal on Paper

midnight oil Anonymous i. two birds perched on the roof of a cabin gazing at the voids between each constellation they watched the fish of venus and cupid and heard centaurus’ echoes for lupus fourteen nights in the summertime to spend with little thoughts in mind they lit a match and set a line of midnight oil to light their sky ii. two birds perched on the roof of a cabin gazing at the voids between each constellation below them laid the paper cards that glazed the floor and mapped the stars of little songs and little time their little nights swept by and by they lit a match and set a line of midnight oil each time they tried iii. two birds perched on the roof of a cabin gazing at the voids between each constellation they spoke of wills and vacant dreams while typhon missed a two fish stream 70

two weeks escaped the summertime as two birds briefly learned to fly they lit a match and set a line of midnight oil to say goodbye iv. one bird perched on the roof of a cabin gazing at the voids between each constellation she lost the fish of venus and cupid and caught centaurus catching lupus of little thoughts and little time one little night became his mind she lit a match and set a line of midnight ink to sketch their sky

“Velvet,” Sarah Case, Digital Photograph

“Hazel’s Haven,” Sylvia Samardzija, Gelatin Silver Print

T h e

P e

Editors Jack Laibe Moli Ma

Faculty Advisors Stephen Flachsbart Jeorge Yankura

u l

S a t f f

Staff Jacqueline Cecil Jo DeMarco Liz Fleischer Pierce LeClerc Aisha Memon Devon Schiff Emma Seel Alex Staikos Emilia von Lilien-Brockmeyer

“School Spirit,” Claire Watson, Digital Photograph

c kn o

ed g e m e n t s w l

Editors: Jack Laibe and Moli Ma The editors are the heads of the Pendulum staff, and oversee all activity within the magazine. The editors lead weekly staff meetings and facilitate discussions about artistic and written submissions. Editors work closely with both the English and Art departments to seek out and archive work for publication. They have final authority on the acceptance of all submissions, and coordinate voting on each piece. They also encourage the broader Upper School community to participate by submitting their work, on an individual level and by publicizing and facilitating periodic themed contests. Faculty Advisor for Literature: Stephen Flachsbart The faculty advisor for literature serves various roles. He sets a tone for what is “good” literature, advises the staff about all written works, and promotes an environment conducive to constructive criticism. As a veteran English teacher,

he also provides the staff with a variety of student works from his and other teachers’ classes, which ultimately make up a significant portion of the magazine’s literature. Without his direction, farm animals would be grazing on the Upper Field. Faculty Advisor for Art: Jeorge Yankura The faculty advisor for art guides the staff on all visual matters. She facilitates discussion on theme, lending an essential knowledge of how to create and translate our theme visually into our finished product. As a teacher of photography and digital design, she encourages her students to submit work, helping fill holes in the magazine that might otherwise be left empty. She also is extremely involved in the ultimate layout of the magazine, supervising and enabling its final development. She sees the magazine to its completion, and without her stewardship, we would all be lost souls wandering endlessly in the desert.

n c al e ch i No t e

The fonts used in this volume of The Pendulum include Playfair Display Italic Bold for headers and titles, Adobe Hebrew Regular for text bodies and page numbers, and Adobe Hebrew Italic for individual artwork attributions. Playfair Display is a serif-style typeface from the Playfair Project, led by Claus Eggers Sørensen, and is inspired by both the Scotch Roman typefaces and similar designs of John Baskerville, both from the Eighteenth Century. First released in 2011, this typeface features relatively consistent vertical height in both capital and lower case letters, making it ideal for printed material. The bold bodily shape and delicate hairlines make this typeface easy on the eyes and attractive for the reader’s experience. Adobe Hebrew was created in 2004-2005 by John Hudson of Tiro Typeworks. This serif-style typeface was specifically cre-

ated for contemporary Hebrew business communications. The Pendulum staff was attracted to the shape and crisp nature of the letters in this type family, which allows for ease of readability by the viewer. The Pendulum was created using Adobe InDesign from the 2020 version of the Adobe Creative Cloud. The 2021 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 field and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. The paper used is Accent Opaque 80# for cover and text.

“Crybaby,” Moli Ma, Graphite on Paper