Fault Lines
Fault Lines 2018-2019 A Literary Arts Magazine of The Bishop’s School Editors: Liz Szymanski Sabrina Webster Staff Members: Julia Chen Lucie Edwards Sean Kim Lucy Liu Alexandra Midler Carly Phoon Kira Tran Harper White Faculty Sponsor: Rickey Fayne
Dedication Visual art, music, drama, dance, poetry, creative writing—all of these art forms influence, inspire, and shape each other. What is dance without music, or theater without its written story? Still, the reach of the arts extends far past their own cluster; they frame and forge history and the sciences. Just as photography relies on physics, physics reveals snapshots of the inner systems of our world. Art influences everything, including the lives and creations of those on this campus. Artistic expression thrives in this community and ignites the various departments, student groups, and exhibitions year round. The performing arts department is a hub of this energy, and the impact it has on our community’s culture resounds. This year’s edition of Fault Lines is dedicated to Dr. Micu and Ms. Cory, co-directors of Les Misérables. Les Misérables has left an indelible mark on The Bishop’s School. This show was a focal point of Dr. Micu’s and Ms. Cory’s effective leadership, creative expertise, and collaborative compassion. The community’s appreciation of their creativity was ardent, showing us how an artistic vision can translate into material of intimate importance. We would like to thank them for showing us the dedication, strength, and hard work needed in order to create and perform at the highest level. To that end, we’ve applied the lessons we’ve learned from their example into this year’s publication of Fault Lines. We would like to deeply thank them for everything they have taught us about making meaningful art. You inspire our community. Thank you.
Contents Cover Artwork: Plum Flower
Ethan Chen
Staff Page Artwork: shell
Sean Kim
Dedication Page Artwork: Small World
Carly Phoon
Of Fern
Alexandria Delatorre
1
Spotlight
Carly Phoon
2
i imagine that i will never have children
Hana Belmonte-Ryu
3
THE BOSS IS A WOMAN
Crystal Wang
4
To Chang’e From Her Servant Girl
Crystal Wang
5
Cascade
Nicole Ellsworth
6
blue black black
Alexandria Delatorre
7
Rupture
Madi Chang
8
Mars Hawaii
Ethan Chen
10
The Death of Abby Beamer
Abby Beamer
11
Cavity
Crystal Wang
12
Sadhu
Nicole Ellsworth
14
Gone with the Words
Lucy Liu
15
A Question of Stars
Sancia Milton
16
Branch
Katherine Savchuk
18
amends
Alyson Brown
19
Lies
Abby Beamer
20
Things to Remember
Alexander Wu
21
Wendy
Alexandria Delatorre
22
Shy Blossom
Lucy Liu
23
confessions
Sean Kim
24
Kaleidoscopic Musings of India & Identity
Flavia Valente
25
The Insatiable Urge to Read It Again
Clare Malhotra
26
Geico
Nathan Huynh
27
The Land of Enchantment
Lucy Liu
28
Of Fern Alexandria Delatorre ‘19 In those honey-days, those milky evenings spent at the fringes of town, with only whispers of her and the things she had done, whispers of her body, and lips, and dreams, mumbles and murmurs and men who were tainted with brandy recounting what they had done with her, to her, when they were drunk enough to remember it and speak it. Those sticky days spent at the verge of town, and at the periphery of Fern. Perhaps it was wistfulness, or jealousy, or insuppressible curiosity that carried him to her porch that day. He imagined her voice was honey, and everything it promised was warm and sweet. He almost felt it flowing around him, and he heard a song with words of her past and his future and he was unable to tell which was which any more. He realized the days had been sweet because she had been close and the hours had been golden because she had been dreaming, no not dreaming, he saw her and realized that she was far too grounded, there was too much dusk in her skin to be a woman that dreamed. She was merely thinking above them, not over them, but just on a horizon the rest would never be able to see, much less reach. But maybe he could. She knew he wasn’t different, but he believed himself to be. And perhaps for a moment she was curious, or perhaps just tired. She inhaled as if to speak. It was a sort of kiss, a union of his imagination with her lips, her carnation lips they hung on her face as if they had been pinned there, full but sinking, like a flower set in a man’s lapel. For a moment he considered that the thing that drew men to her was not what she said, but what she didn’t say. What they imagined she wanted to. What they imagined she couldn’t muster up the courage to, the things they thought she yearned to say to them, the desires they believed flowered in her mind but never materialized in sound, the thoughts they convinced themselves they could see crystallizing into words at the edge of her tongue, and they waited there to hear, all over town, stopped, sensing something that they had to be still to sense, at attention, their weight at the front of their feet, eager and expecting, a Sunday congregation, waiting, ready to rejoice to repeat to drink up whatever she had to say, to taste her sticky, sweet voice in the air. But it fell out as a sigh, a bouquet of breath, spilling, spinning, drifting over her shoulders, down the porch steps, and lost in the dusty road. Men began moving again, unsure of why they had stalled in the first place, out from the moment in which she had held them. She was a silent siren. A hushed prophetess whose incantations spilled out as warm breath, or receded back into her subconscious and danced in her fingers and arms and behind her eyes. As if her body was an extension of her voice, as if she sang herself into existence, her limbs and lips and eyes, and the world was there because her voice needed things to reverberate through, the air was there to lift it, and men were there because they needed to imagine what it would be like to hear it.
1
Spotlight Carly Phoon ‘20
2
i imagine that i will never have children Hana Belmonte-Ryu ‘19
there is beauty in a child there is beauty in seeing your face in the face of your child there is blood in the future that women form with their hands but i will not defined by my ability to create we are not women because we can create we are women because we have created ourselves don’t look for me in the back of the room or the black of your coffee or the man you find reflected in my eyes because i won’t be there i’ll be here, childless, growing flowers inside myself, drawing blanks and feeling hungry for nobody but myself
3
THE BOSS IS A WOMAN Crystal Wang ‘19 The boss smiles warmly in her white dress in a home with no address nothing but abject upset on a salad dressing barbette the boss begins obsessing stressing objecting to the subject of objects of objectifying the subjects the boss looks in a mirror that looks like a painting the boss hires a hairdresser who looks like a painter the boss smooths down her dry hair like a caress like her own dry charisma will be enough to survive will be enough to revive the sailors who assail her for not killing them quicker for not thrilling them quicker for the broken-down button-down undone to show nothing the smile unzipped to show nothing the boss gives me a dressing-down for not dressing up for having no heels for walking on the balls of my feet for having no soul once I ran across town barefoot and felt like a champion once I ran across town and felt like a soldier the boss smiles her teeth are as white as the battlefield wounds she can’t wait to undress
4
To Chang’e From Her Servant Girl Crystal Wang ‘19 I stand before you with my shoes untied. You - barefoot teeth and oil-spill eyes - say This lion’s mane keeps scratching at my mind. Remember when our summers were candy-striped? Now nine suns run dry and my want, it weighs I stand before you with my shoes untied. I dreamed that you and yours had died, that lantern lights charred your smile away. (This lion’s mane keeps scratching at my mind.) Powdered silk above the evening sky, Autumn trembles before the earth the way I stand before you with my shoes untied. Rabbit fur - your braids - are intertwined, the mooncake’s waxing shine will wane. (This lion’s mane keeps scratching at my mind.) Osmanthus blossoms rob us blind. Do we have to live to see another day? I stand before you with my shoes untied, say This lion’s mane keeps scratching at my mind.
5
Cascade Nicole Ellsworth ‘21
6
blue black back Alexandria Delatorre ‘19 you see blue in the back curves of your eyelids, shallow, tinted shadows, the inverted hue of a stoplight, moonlight, heavy in the air blue dots, blue dust rains down when you rub the corners of your eyes as you fall asleep, filling with indigo dim in one dream, you’re falling through the clouds, your fingers tear at them your eyelids are the backside of the clouds, blue, but lighter, you could pass right through them and come out the other side still black, not blue, velocity uncharted, your muscles twitch and blink, the subconscious barrels forward your palms are the inside of your eyelids, black, they can’t hold thin blue water long enough, it slips out, when it goes, there’s nothing but blue pigment, set deep in the lines on your palms, the bones of a ship sunk shallow, you can’t tell if you’re awake or asleep, you can still see colors even though your eyes are shut, the ceiling, the dust, the inside of your eyelids are indistinguishable, are torn, are all blue, all black, the night expands in on itself, geometric shapes take form and inhale in the dark, the folds of your mind sink inward, collapsible the ship bodies creak sway and bleed below the sea, beneath the clouds, set under the same blue black indigo god-lost sky.
7
Rupture Day One:
Madi Chang ‘19
I count breaths with fingers as they curl into fists, waiting and sharpening. (don’t thrash, don’t seek stay still and still) I swallow thorn after thorn until my stomach coils and splits: hot blood, cold skin. Lighting flashes through this chasm of a chest as teeth crack, and spill out of mouth like petals in the wind. Day Two: I collapse into the aftermath of my eruption: warmth curls into me burning and burning and burning and
8
I lie in the midst of massive molten jaws Day Three: I clutch at my moon-bright ache, grasping between false ribs and curling rift Quieting and bowed, I puke ash and apologies and the opposite of healing, wringing my hands and pulling the Earth in like mouth to a stream
9
Mars Hawaii Ethan Chen ‘21
10
The Death of Abby Beamer Abby Beamer ‘22 Abby Beamer started to float away after she took her first breath. Every breath that filled her lungs also started to lift her body off the ground. First, she only felt it in her fingers. It was a slight tugging sensation, as if balloons were tied to her hands. The older she grew, the more she noticed herself going upwards. Her hair started to stand straight up, as if she had been struck by lightning. Then, her toes seemed to drift out of her sandals and she found it hard to balance. Soon, Abby Beamer floated around everywhere. She moved her feet as if she were walking, but she was really an inch above the ground. She started to bang her head on the ceiling of her own home. When she went to sleep, she woke up 5 feet above her ringing alarm clock, and she had to grab her bedpost to pull herself down to the ground. She knew that she was going to float away if she left her house, but she couldn’t help but want to see the world. “After all,” she thought, “what’s the point of living if I do not risk everything for what I love?” She put weights in her shoes and she tried wearing heavy jackets and she carried huge books, but nothing could hold her down. Her head was practically in the clouds, but still she refused to give up and go back to her house. “Why won’t you come inside” cried the people below her. “Because if I go back inside, I know I’ll never see the world again” she shouted back, as she desperately tried to reach the earth below her. But as she floated higher and higher, Abby Beamer realized that she could never come back down. She took off the weighted shoes, the heavy jackets, and she dropped the bag that contained many books. She finally looked at the world around her, the one she was dying for. She realized that in her effort to stay grounded, she had consequently missed seeing the world from above. She wished she had floated away sooner, because she could see everything she wanted, even as she got further and further away from it all. As she inhaled her last few breaths in the frigid air, as she floated towards the moon, she looked down at the world she had left. She couldn’t help but think about how much better the world looked from the clouds. This was all she ever wanted in her life: to see the world she loved as beautiful. She smiled as she died. The air grew too cold for her fragile, flying body, and she froze into ice when she didn’t take another breath to keep her afloat. She shattered, and on the earth below, it began to snow.
11
Cavity Crystal Wang ‘19 The hanged man sells toothpaste outside the graveyard gates. I flossed this morning, and out came car keys, plane tickets, jet skis, two plates, tulips, a staircase, and a single photo of you. You were there when the wild wind blew, your smile bruising to the taste, your front tooth slightly out of place. Deep inside the graveyard gates, we burned peanut packets on paper plates. When dawn awoke, no hangman came. The hangman’s grins are all the same, are maggots to the time we flew first class, across fourteen states, with your chapped lips speckled bright with toothpaste. But the hangman met us at the gates, and led us silent to the staircase. On the staircase, I misplace your cardboard car keys in the flame while your laugh fades black through gutter grates. Mirror-blank, devoid of you. I sing sweet nothings to the toothpaste, croon, I have nothing left but empty plates. Left of me the hangman waits and turns the tables out of place. He slinks his arms around my waist, tells me he is glad he came, but none is wild juniper to me but you, you who lie undone below graveyard gates.
12
The graveyard hangman celebrates, grins and gripes with voice that grates. While cuttle-clouds drip dry mildew, offbeat steps trickle down the staircase. You whisper, sweet, I’m glad you came, care to buy some sweet toothpaste? I have since lost sight of staircase gates, let teeth rot on plates from whence they came, and you do too, despite the toothpaste.
13
Sadhu Nicole Ellsworth ‘21
14
Gone with the Words Lucy Liu ‘21 Laura Rose’s life came to a close with the finality of the last word in a book being read. She threw herself at literature once she discovered the hidden worlds beneath the surface of ink and paper. She delved into books and never fully emerged again- streamlining through the stories and floating through the poetry, letting each and every word seep in. She loved fingering the delicate threads of words and punctuation that wove together to form breathtaking masterpieces. As more and more books filled her mind, less and less people filled Laura’s life. Books had taken her to far off lands, showed her unimaginable tragedies, and revealed heroes with unattainable qualities of virtue and courageousness. What others talked about seemed shallow and ignorant to her. Spoken words were rarely as beautiful as the artfully crafted dialogues she read. She loved discovering new, interesting words and strived to never use the same adjective twice a day. Oftentimes, her extensive vocabulary and sophisticated choice of words distanced herself from others who did not possess the same patience for literature. Every finished book brought an immense wave of heartache for all those characters that Laura had fallen in love with, spending hours watching silently as they lived their lives, for there were no more words for them to live off of. Each book she completed signified another amazing book that she could never read for the first time again. Rereading books brought a sensation of warm familiarity, but lacked the exhilarating, sharp, tanginess of suspense and anticipation that is only present when the words are still foreign to the mind. She mourned for the finished books and the characters that dwelled in them. Eventually, the books began to bleed into her life. One day, she woke up to the young heroine from a short story she had read countless years ago greeting her. Later, a man whose biography she had thoroughly enjoyed rose from the dead and had supper with her. Gradually, characters that she kept safe in her mind became real and touchable. Laura transformed in other’s eyes from the reclusive bookworm into the crazy book lady. Everyone assumed that she had read more books than her mind could hold and was now suffering the consequences. No one bothered to check on her and gave no more than a nod or brief glance her way when they crossed paths. “She brought it on herself, with all that reading she did and the fancy words she used,” they remarked. Her body was found weeks after she passed away. The brain tumor was discovered even later. In her last moments, the mirth of childhood, filled with amaranthine possibilities and endless yet-to-be-opened books, returned to her and her eyes shone with the bliss of finally joining her hallucinatory friends in the heaven of read books.
15
A Question of Stars Sancia Milton ‘22 “Do you know what makes the stars so beautiful?” the little girl asked. With her hands folded above her oversized white tee shirt, she was smiling like she already knew the answer. Lying beside her in the middle of their cul de sac, her neighbor, an older girl, grimaced at the question. She liked to think that she knew a lot about the world, but the little girl’s inquiries had a talent for humbling her. Stretching out on the pavement with her blue flannel sleeves snagging on the bumps, the older girl pressed her hands into the still-warm street, just wishing. Wishing on every star in the Van Gogh painting above her for straighter hair, and softer nails, and longer legs. For more trophies, and less weight and prettier eyes, and warmer smiles. The girl in the flannel shirt didn’t know why her little neighbor came to watch the night sky bloom like a black rose. But the older girl came for the wishes, for the half-hearted hopes of being beautiful. “I don’t know,” the older girl sighed. “Stars just are pretty. They’re lucky, I guess.” The girl in the flannel shirt shifted, breathing in every patch of August sky, letting each imperfect piece of herself float away as the enormity of night embraced her. She was forced to look up. Perhaps that’s what made lying in the street so wonderful. Forced to look away from frizzy hair and sleep-crusted eyes and red-marked tests and scale monitors. Just her, and the stars, and the space between. For now, imperfect, and for now, enough. The older girl met her neighbor’s pretty gaze from over the asphalt. Their cheeks squished into the street as the older girl brushed some hair aside and smiled faintly. “Since you’re so smart, what do you think makes the stars beautiful?” Turning back to the twinkling overheard, the small girl’s chest rose in a sigh, her white tee shirt fluttering. “They’re beautiful, because they’re wise. Even the baby stars. They don’t worry about their hair gel, or their eyebrows, or their dresses, or their skin... they don’t pass out because they’re always hungry, they don’t work all the time because they’re afraid of living, and they don’t look at themselves everyday and worry about being ugly. They don’t try to destroy everything that makes them special - I don’t think that stars even know what imperfection is. I think that we made up imperfection, and I think that makes the stars sad. I think they come out at night because they want to light up the world so we can feel beautiful too.” She paused, brows furrowing. The older girl let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “So… so stars are beautiful because they are exactly what they are supposed to be. To us, stars are beautiful because somebody decided to call them beautiful, just like somebody decided to call thirty years as a lawyer a successful life.” The wind stood still. “But to everything else, stars are beautiful because they can be nothing other than perfection. And they know it, because they’re wise like that.” The older girl bit her lip. Then, quietly enough that far-off cars resonated with her voice, the older girl whispered, “So does everything else think we’re beautiful too?” 16
This time, she knew the answer long before the girl in the white tee shirt nodded. In the middle of a neighborhood, in the middle of a cul de sac, two stars, one white and one blue, held hands for a moment that breathed infinity. People thought they were wishing on the Van Gogh painting above them, maybe for straighter hair, or softer nails, or longer legs, or other half-hearted hopes of being beautiful. But the girls already knew they were beautiful. If you looked closely, you could see them shine like paint against a black, asphalt canvas. If you looked closely, you could see that, while lying in the street, they didn’t dare close their eyes because they knew that when they looked up at the stars, they saw a world of only perfection. Just themselves, and the stars, and the space between. Always perfect, and always beautiful.
17
Branch Katherine Savchuk ‘21
18
amends Alyson Brown ‘19 sometimes i can taste the saltwater in my mouth, i do not know what to say or maybe i do know what to say but not how to say it i do not know if this is bitterness or tears i do not know how to ask and the vastness of what i do not know is enough to swallow me whole like the ocean apologizing, dragging me into its depths
19
Lies Abby Beamer ‘22 worse.
From a young age, my mother always taught me one thing: Don’t lie. It will make everything
“I am not a crook,” stated President Richard Nixon about Watergate. It was later confirmed that he, in fact, was a crook. He lied to his country to stay out of trouble, and in the end, people were outraged not only by his crime, but because he didn’t admit to his wrongdoing. When I was nine, I would take candy from my kitchen counter, run upstairs to my loft bed, eat the candy and stuff the wrappers in the space between my mattress and the frame of my bed. I hid the wrappers because I knew I wasn’t supposed to eat the candy, and the trash can was far too obvious. A few days later my mom confronted me, her hands full of the candy wrappers I had stowed away. She asked what they were from, and I said I didn’t know, it was probably my sister’s fault. She, of course, knew the truth, and said, “Don’t lie to me, Abby, that makes everything worse.” I lied before I even thought of telling the truth. In 2001, the CIA discovered there had been no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, which was the main argument for US invasion into Iraq and for the removal of Saddam Hussain. The biggest form of propaganda that the government used to manipulate the public into supporting the action was, essentially, false. President James Polk started the US-Mexican war on a lie. He sent troops to guard the Rio Grande River, where there was a border under dispute with Mexico. The Mexicans, believing that the US was entering their territory, injured and killed 16 American soldiers. Polk declared war on Mexico, stating that Mexico, “invaded (US) territory and shed the blood of our fellow-citizens on our own soil.” With this lie, Polk gained California, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Nevada. The addition of California was vital to the US economy, as California’s GDP in 2017 was 2.7 trillion. Mexico’s GDP, however, only was 1.15 trillion. As we get older, my siblings no longer remember the time I told them that there were no Easter Eggs in our garden, only to grab all the eggs myself. “These are the same people that said Saddam Hussain had weapons of Mass Destruction.” This is what President Donald Trump said about the CIA during the ongoing investigation into the Trump campaign’s possible collusion with Russia during the 2016 elections. In order to divert attention from the high stakes situation, the blame was pointed to the people who had lied about Iraq’s weapons. Their lie made them untrustworthy. We lie because it is easy. In the short term, it might get us out of harm’s way. As a little kid, I told lies for many reasons, to eat some candy or to find more Easter eggs. Although I might have felt good in the moment, I couldn’t help but wish that I could undo what couldn’t be undone. When my mom told me she was disappointed, or when my sister’s cried from only finding a couple easter eggs, I felt guilty. Guilt is one of the biggest reasons why we apologize for what we do to others. There is something so raw about guilt. While we might be selfish, we feel bad about it. That is why my mom always told me to never lie. “Lying makes everything worse,” means that not only does lying hurt others, but it hurts you too. You feel the pain that you inflict on others. No matter what lie you tell, it will always hurt someone, even you. 20
Things to Remember Alexander Wu ‘21 Remember to wake up at 7:03. Remember to eat breakfast. Remember to not daydream while eating cause then you’ll finish the entire box of cereal. Remember to brush your teeth. Remember to wash your face. Remember to bring the keys. Remember to head out at 7:35 and lock the door. Remember to say hi to your new neighbors. But then, you remember what Mrs. Addington said about them. You remember that they are better off in life than you. You don’t like that so you just wave. Remember to take the right bus. Remember that on Mondays, the bus schedule is different. Remember that the bus driver goes through the same shit as you so when you get off, remember to thank him. Remember to greet your boss when you walk through the office. But remember, he’s the dick that practically owns you. Remember to ignore the annoyingly positive newbie who remembers to tell everyone that today is a wonderful day. Remember to sit down at your cubicle. Remember to type ferociously when your boss walks behind you. Remember to occasionally walk to the printer so it looks like you’ve done some work. During lunch break, remember that employees aren’t allowed to go to the bathroom during work so head to the john. While in the bathroom, remember to look yourself in the mirror. Remember to reflect upon your life, but something deep from the inside, burns and burns, like charcoal, so you don’t finish your reflection. When you walk out, remember to stop wiping your boss’s ass. Remember that he’s been talking about your promotion for the past six months. After fourteen thousand four hundred grueling seconds, work is over, but then you remember that you have nothing to do for the rest of the day, so you head to the bar. Remember to drink to forget. Remember to ignore the hooker sitting uncomfortably close to you, but by now, you probably won’t remember. When you wake up tomorrow morning, you try to remember what happened last night. You try and try, but always fail. You eventually stop trying and forget the things you need to remember.
21
Wendy Alexandria Delatorre ‘19 To the windy city, came those who caught wind of corruption that could be theirs if they went downtown after midnight, after all the lights had wound down girls with winsome faces red lips trying to win over some man beneath the smoke and the booze they wind up losing more than they bet on the roulette wheel that flashes black and red the night flashes black and red and lips and booze wound up on the table, the stem of a crystal cocktail glass, easy in his hand is parts of a music box turned inside out, gears and glossy wood splinterings of childhood slumbers turn the key and wind up the dancer who turns on top her porcelain has cracked the night is winding up, heating up, spiraled upwards up towards the winded stars who can be heard breathless, gasp at the beauty, grasping her beauty the wind carries her perfume, her laughter, her memories through the city streets
22
Shy Blossom Lucy Liu ‘21 There once was a girl covered in vines. Her face was hidden Beneath the leaves, and we could only glimpse A small smile or a lock of hair tucked behind her ear. Under a shroud of new leaves and closed flower buds, she listened. She listened to our pain and joy, She absorbed words, smiles, and laughter, And she grew. Her roots stretched out towards us like open hands And slowly, bursts of color appeared As her flowers bloomed and pushed aside The armor of leaves she once wore. So finally, we could see the stars in her eyes.
23
confessions Sean Kim ‘21
24
Kaleidoscopic Musings of India & Identity Flavia Valente ‘22 The tiniest little shift and everything rests differently, whether it be not rolling up my skirt, the way my face looks when I’m not saying anything, or a muscle in my foot that alters my entire stride. The first little spark, the spark that some call the first domino, or others call the culprit, the first sight of newness, isn’t trackable. Scientists have tried to find what started love and why we dream, but they are all subjective, transformative elements, so how do we expect to measure something as clear cut as “the first” in something that doesn’t have a beginning or an end? So if math and science and thinking can’t describe the tiniest little shift that makes everything rest differently, than I must turn to creativity, which can express this transformation simply by embracing it in any form. I try to imagine what “India Flavia” would look like in sculpture form. But I can’t. Maybe that’s because my hands only type. Possibly the way to describe this indescribable experience is to be so completely in my body that I embrace all the tiny little butterfly effects that have taken effect inside of me. I feel the vibration of my voice as I hum, my tongue against the roof of my mouth, my hair brush against my cheek. Through admission of them, I have overcome my everyday fears and when I look into the mirror my eyes dart to my smile, and not my imperfections. I’m bored, but I’ve never had so many thoughts swirling through my mind. Transformative moments and life don’t have firsts, just many motions of different types of change, but at the beginning of this trip kaleidoscopic resonance themed each moment up until now, when I find myself speechless to describe India and the growth of my personality, when I realize a butterfly effect explains all my wordless thoughts perfectly, and thus proves that transformative energy loops around back to me, where the butterfly effect started. So effects do start? There’s a start to everything? I’m wrong in thinking India changed me. I changed me.
25
The Insatiable Urge to Read It Again Clare Malhotra ‘22 My eyes fall upon it, and in an instant, nothing else exists in my line of vision- just me and the book, tattered from a million reads. An invisible force thrusts me towards it, and I find myself opening the pages to begin chapter one again. People claim it seems absurd. “There is no point,” they persist, “in reading something you have already read when you could discover something new.” Entire worlds to explore live hidden inside tiny marks of ink imprinted on compressed wood pulp. Worlds exist where I can ride a glass elevator through the roof with Willy Wonka, witness gladiatorial combat in Ancient Rome, watch one of those reluctant-hero-versus-powerful-villain battles, or ride a spaceship far enough away to see the true size of the rock that we call our home. Yet I stay here. Riding the Hogwarts Express again. And again. And again. I could read something complex, something to advance my vocabulary or provide a history lesson, but instead, I select that story I first read four years ago. I always hope I’ll find another detail in one of my old favorites. Maybe I’ll notice a clue towards the beginning regarding Hermione’s Time-Turner, or Moody’s secret identity, or Scabbers’s dark origins, or Snape’s ambiguous moral motivations. Something minuscule that the author slipped in only for their most loyal rereaders. Nostalgia arrives as, once more, I taste a chocolate frog, jump on a broomstick, attack a troll, and walk the halls of Hogwarts. Rereading the familiar words feels comforting; however, I confront new, unread books clenching my blankets in fear, readying myself for what will come, fearing for characters, then I plunge myself into a story full of battles, both mental and physical. The masterminds behind unfamiliar stories place a cliffhanger at the end of each chapter: characters close to death, old characters returning, or a spy’s revelation. They doom me to late nights where I convince myself again and again that I will only indulge in one more page. C.S. Lewis wrote that “We do not enjoy a story fully at the first reading,” because authors write books for the second, third, and fourth read, their complex, carefully-woven mysteries packed with red herrings, tiny details, odd quotes, and subtle clues, all intertwined in a way that no one can comprehend the first time through. We can fathom them all the second time around, once we know whodunnit. It becomes a new story each time, for each time the readers change their perspectives and can perceive the book’s meaning as one of the hundred different interpretations. In a month, return to this narrative. I assure you, you’ll discover another meaning.
26
Geico Nathan Huynh ‘19
27
The Land of Enchantment Lucy Liu ‘21 Albuquerque is a small, unknown city from the even more obscure state of New Mexico. Strong gusts of desert winds uproot tumbleweeds that fly hundreds of feet above, among the hawks and falcons that circle in the piercing blue sky, above the small, scattered houses with acres of backyard, the earthy red and brown toned adobes left over from the Pueblo Indians, and the mica-filled sand that reflects light like a field of scattered diamonds. It’s a beautifully humble city grown out of mud and clay, feeding off of the Rio Grande river and a colorful history of Native Americans and old Spaniards, that has blossomed into an endless expanse of stories to be told and new lands to be explored. The summers in the Albuquerque desert are too hot for even the gears of time to function correctly; each blistering second slower than the next until you are suddenly slapped awake by the start of school. I remember running around the park one summer in a shirt and shorts yelling, “It’s so hot! What do I do?” I had been extremely perplexed as to how my mother sat perfectly calm in her sun protectant long sleeves and pants along with a wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses, appearing as cool as a pitcher of lemonade. Summer is a blazing oven that the entire town is placed in; the heat comes in sweltering waves fueled by the relentless, fiery sun in the sky. Everyone comes out of summer baked ten shades tanner and two shades redder, with a tale to match each tan line. Away from responsibilities and assignments, I was determined to spend the summer on a road of discovery. As any avid adventurer would, I buried myself in books. Each day was spent reading new books from the library while I sat outside catching the breeze on the balcony of our small apartment, a bulging basket of books beside me: one side for finished, one side for unread. As the unopened pile dwindled, boredom began slinking forward in anticipation, and as soon as I finished the last book, the unbearable boredom struck. I paced the hallway. I played pattycake with the wall. I refilled the ice cube tray and ate the thin sheet of ice formed above it after a few minutes. I knitted... in the middle of summer. I tried to climb the walls, literally. I created a permanent green stain on the concrete by mashing wild plants with a big rock to create some “medicine”. Slowly, the boredom drove me insane, and I began to scour my parents’ bookshelves. I came up with a book about economics and handling money called The Automatic Millionaire. Imagine my father’s surprise when his second grade daughter told him to pay off any bank loans and mortgage as soon as possible because interest accumulates more than you think, and to make long term investments because money is more useful in circulation. Albuquerque gave me a taste of boredom so that I could appreciate excitement. Living in a quaint little city makes one hungry for knowledge, to discover every corner and crevice of the world. Simplicity makes small discoveries so much more extraordinary. Perhaps that’s why the inconspicuous desert state of New Mexico is coined the Land of Enchantment. Simple, small things are also often what we hold closest and dearest to our hearts. The gift of a diamond necklace is so wrapped up in luxury and price, that the message of love can sometimes be smothered underneath. While a written card can warm one’s heart so much more because there are no diversions to dilute the meaning. Albuquerque is not a city filled with flashy, ostentatious attractions to distract people from living. An eventful day isn’t spent at a huge shopping mall acquiring material goods, but instead, hiking up the Sandia Mountains, visiting the Natural History Museum, or meandering through the art 28
gallery that is a local market with artisans sitting on blankets along the street, their beautiful creations sprawled out before them. Wealth and opulence are not given a second glance, for it is enriching ourselves- heart, mind, and spirit- that is valued because those are the parts of us that we share with others and yet hold onto most tightly. Everyone is made up of unique stories and experiences, and in the high desert landscape, adventure is in abundance. The Sandia Mountains, which translates to ‘watermelon mountains’, are located in the east, and get their name from the rich red and pink hues that appear on it every evening, as it reflects the sunset. The chain of mountains creates a monsoon season, and every spring is filled with heavy rain and thunderstorms. The desert becomes studded with shrubbery and the sweet scent of flowers infuses the air; but the plants grow hesitantly- knowing that an extremely dry summer will follow. Fall is more mellow, where leaves turn the colors of sunset as they say their farewells to the tree. At dusk, bonfires and burning leaves create an earthy and woody aroma. As the temperature continues on its steady decline, soft snow gathers on the mountaintops to prepare for a busy ski season. High desert winters are not to be overlooked, the winds blow in frigid temperatures that make you gasp in shock when you step outside and exhale little puffs of clouds. Still, we put on our heavy coats, winter hats, and thick gloves and say, We can handle it, just a little colder. From the first drifts of a winter breeze to the first snowfall, Albuquerque’s impatience is that of a restless young child’s; the agonizing wait continuing day after day. Until finally, our wishes are granted and we awake one morning to no school and a world covered in white. The snow is like a blank canvas, ready to capture any signs of life. A well trodden, icy path is left behind the morning walkers, while dog prints run next to them. Smaller prints lead to a rabbit’s burrow, while larger ones trail behind a coyote hunting for food in the suddenly colorless world. Small, delicate criss-crosses signify the path a bird took towards flight. The crisp crunching of frozen snow rings through the air as we run and skip around in joy, our footsteps declaring our presence to the world. Each season creates a new terrain to explore and discoveries to be made. The character of Albuquerque is defined by the drumbeats of the heavy monsoon rains, the leftover stories of Native Americans heard in the howling winds, the eagerness of eternal summer, and the intricate tapestry of life, frozen in the snow each year. Albuquerque is a town preserved in time and seeped in Native American history, where the dirt glitters like gold, turquoise is just as beautiful as diamonds, and brown, stuccoed pueblos are the warmest homes. But some people cannot stay in the sanctuary of a small town, protected from the changing world, forever. So, each year, Albuquerque becomes smaller as more people leave than arrive. Desire for adventure is fostered through familiarity, and, if you’ve lived in Albuquerque, then you won’t have a problem scaling mountains, trekking through a forest, or rafting in whitewater rapids. Albuquerque is a land of compassionate hearts, imaginative minds, and strong spirits, where people call it home, even from a hundred different miles away. It is a place where even boredom is an adventure that leads towards discovery; It is the favorite chapter of book where you slow down to savor each word and relish the scene before the character grows up all too quickly and maturity dampens the spark of playfulness. Even now, thinking about Albuquerque brings about a deep-seated, primitive tug within, as if the Albuquerque breeze is coming to bring me back as it whispers, come home, come visit, come explore. 29