AMUSED

amused miami country day school

SPRING 2013

English Honor Society Miami Country Day School

Self Portrait | Charcoal | RUBI FERRAS ’13

If you would rule the world quietly, you must keep it amused.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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amused SPRING 2013

ARTWORK 02 Self-Portrait

Poetry & Prose Editors

LUNA PEREZ ’15 SYDNEY THOMAS ’15 Art Editor

JAKE BUTTERS ’15

06 Fading

MR. SCOTT BRENNAN MR. AARON GILLEGO

DR. JOHN DAVIES Head of School

MR. GLEN TURF Upper School Director

Watercolor & Ink

Charcoal

09 Untitled

MS. JUDY MISTOR Fine Arts

MCDS ENGLISH HONOR SOCIETY

Sarita Sasson | ’13

15 Abstract

Sarita Sasson | ’13

Ceramic Sculpture Ceramic Sculpture

16 Spirits

Rubi Ferras | ’13

Mixed Media

19 What I See in the Sea

Acrylic

25 Sara

Maia Walker | ’15

Technicolor Rain

Eleonora Longhi | ’13

Pencil

Watercolor

Dasha Tuberman | ’13

Aminah Austin | ’15

34 Chained

Acrylic

36 Tour Eiffel

Acrylic

Clay & Glass Beads

Watercolor & Pen

39 Wrapped in Emotion 41 On the Steps Acrylic Acrylic

Diana Katz | ’13 Veronica Serrano | ’14

43 Somnus

Aminah Austin | ’15 Zack Gettis | ’15

Acrylic & Crayon

33 Collie

Oil Pastels

30 Shade

Acrylic

22 Frank Lloyd Wright

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Carol Civre | ’13

Ink

38 Buddha Published by the students of Miami Country Day School, 601 Northeast 107 Street, Miami, FL 33161. The poetry, prose, and artwork found herein are the original and creative works of the students. Copyright on all works is retained by the authors and artists.

Rubi Ferras | ’13

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Fine Arts

12 Amused

Humanities Department Chair

MR. WILLIAM LARZELERE

Aminah Austin | ’15

10 Ode to Mr. Brennan

MRS. AMY GALLUP

Fine Arts Department Facilitator

Maia Walker | ’15

07 Top of the Food Chain

MRS. JONINA PITCHMAN

Acrylic on Wood

Acknowledgments

Rubi Ferras | ’13

Faculty Advisors

Charcoal

Samuel Cohen | ’16

Aminah Austin | ’15 Rubi Ferras | ’13 Diana Katz | ’13

FRONT & BACK COVER ART

BY CHELSEA BLAKE ’13 David | Acrylic on Canvas Found Objects | B&W Photography

POETRY & PROSE 06 Estrangement

Free Verse

Chelsea Blake | ’13

07 A Soldier’s Thoughts

Villanelle

Sam Edelstein | ’13

27 Aurora

Aliyah Stephen | ’14

28 Home on the Prairie

Amanda Gavcovich | ’14

Free Verse Short Story

08 Plastic

Luna Fayad | ’15

30 Thunderstorm

Ryan Amoils | ’15

08 Entropy

Jake Butters | ’15

30 Hibiscus Lane

Paul-Julien Giraud | ’15

Hannah Snitcovski | ’13

Free Verse

Ekphrastic Poem

Non-traditional Sonnet Free Verse

11 Of the Wild Tamarind

Shalini Chandar | ’15

30 It was [home]

12 Idiosocratic Dialogue

Madison Gallup | ’14

31 Il Giudizio Universale

Free Verse

Personal Essay

14 In the Beginning

AJ Bedenbaugh-Cortes | ’14

Flash Fiction

15 The History Guy

Free Verse

Douglas Singer | ’13

15 Epiphanies in Haiku

17 July in Kruščić

Traditional Haiku

Marni Weiss | ’15

Free Verse

Free Verse

32 Starcatchers

Free Verse

Free Verse

33 Fashion Statement

Ivana Vlahovic | ’13

37 Nothing but Sunflowers 37 Dusk on the Bayou

18 Out of Her Shell

Ryan MacDonell | ’15

37 So Much More

20 Cries of a Coyote

Gina Macropolus | ’14

38 Tsunami

Ekphrastic Poem Short Story

Arthur Vandervoort | ’15

39 Zarathustra

24 I Will Wake As I Sleep

39 Off the Rack

Haiku

Free Verse

24 Camas para Sueños

Ekphrastic Sonnet

24 What Dreams May Come

Sonnet

26 Poupée de son

Rhyming Verse

Winona Paez | ’14 Alvaro Ortega | ’15 Ryan MacDonell | ’15 Annie Perry | ’13

Alessandra Settineri | ’15

Luna Perez | ’15

Jordan Morris | ’15

Ekphrastic Poem

23 Observations in Haiku

Rachel Garazi | ’15

Free Verse

Rhymed Verse

Sonnet

David Gonzalez | ’15

Shalini Chandar | ’15

Non-traditional Sonnet

40 Confessions of a Rock Star

Prose Poem

40 The Old Guitarist

Free Verse

42 Aboard the Bel Esprit

Free Verse

Jaclyn Lash | ’15 Mateo Bolivar | ’15

Free Verse

Blake Colongo | ’14

Personal Essay

Ekphrastic Poem

Anna Apice | ’15

32 I Wish I Could Be You, Lilly

18 A Pit for a Pearl

Guglielmo Mazza | ’14

Ekphrastic Poem

Joshua Rivas | ’14 Belochi Lacombe | ’15

Sam Schechter | ’14

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Estrangement CHELSEA BLAKE | ’13 When she was seven her mum ran away didn’t say goodbye.

She was at school.

It was all her fault.

She hadn’t tidied her bedroom and she lied about the dishes.

When she was nine she wrote mum a letter: I’m sorry. I love you.

Come home.

No reply.

She waited for months, crying when she checked the post box.

It was all her fault.

She hadn’t tidied her bedroom and she lied about the dishes.

When she was eleven her mum called her unlovable said she didn’t need a daughter, that she was happy by herself,

Fading | Acrylic on wood | MAIA WALKER ’15

and it was all her fault because she hadn’t tidied her bedroom and she lied about the dishes.

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When she was fifteen she stopped eating.

If she got really sick maybe her mum would realize she did still love her and forgive her for not tidying her bedroom and lying about the dishes.

Top of the Food Chain | Watercolor & Ink | AMINAH AUSTIN ’15

A Soldier’s Thoughts [before jumping out of a chopper] SAM EDELSTEIN | ’13

I take a breath before leaping The open sky full of mystery This experience should be freeing I can barely sense my being Adrenaline sparks like electricity I take a breath before leaping My fingers caress the photo I’ve been keeping Joyful times are history Our moments as one were freeing

Side by side while sleeping Hours together flew by wistfully I take a breath before leaping You keep my heart beating Life alone is an ocean of misery So perhaps death will be freeing Parachute on my back, I must remember my teaching I’ll jump and lead my country to victory I take a breath as I go leaping The experience is freeing amused | 7

Plastic

LUNA FAYAD | ’15

The day you received your first Barbie doll you idolized her. Her skinny legs, her pretty face— perfect was the word that crossed your mind.

You’ll never be as skinny.

You’ll never have her skin.

At the age of four you asked mom if you were as pretty as the Barbie doll you held: Maybe if you straightened and bleached your hair.

Maybe if you went on that popular diet.

Maybe, just maybe.

The first ten years you played with Barbie’s; the next ten you tried to look like one.

Entropy

JAKE BUTTERS | ’15

after Salvador Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory” The memories are from a time before the ocean drifted away.

What lived in it now lies on a bed of sand. The rocks reveal a late sunset. No birds are to be seen in the blue sleepy sky.

The clock is contorted.

It is time for the new to be brought into this world.

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Untitled | Charcoal | RUBI FERRAS ’13

The tree has seen better days— leafless on a bed of sand.

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Ode to Mr. Brennan | Ink | CAROL CIVRE ’13

Of the Wild Tamarind

SHALINI CHANDAR | ’15

a tiny spider rests

on its intricate silk web among the leaves of a Simpson’s Stopper it begins its leisurely crawl across the gossamer as I peer through the undergrowth towards the shape of a twitching insect mummified like an Egyptian pharaoh I can’t help but think that a wave of my hand would send the web slinking down to the soil below a squeaking squirrel scurries from under a wax myrtle bush to a Vera wood breaking open a brown nut with a crack disrupting my thoughts three boys race past me up and down the pathway, exuding the smell of sweat formed by the moist humidity embracing us the web and the spider I realize are barely the size of my nail so miniscule in the expanse of the garden among the squirrel and the raucous boys insignificant grains of sand on the Florida beach infinitesimal in the scope of the mighty world so crucial to the life of a tiny twitching insect I reach up to the leaves of the wild tamarind that shower through my outstretched fingers feeling like paper confetti I sense that nature is throwing a party amused | 11

Idiosocratic Dialogue MADISON GALLUP | ’14

R

Amused | Ceramic sculpture | SARITA SASSON ’13

ays of blended oranges and yellows enveloped the mountain we had been climbing all day. It was rather out of character for me to camp out overnight, but my friend Lily had finally convinced me that it was an experience worth having. She believed it was a crime not to spend at least one night in the mountains when visiting Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I took her word for it; she should know this area quite well after living here for nearly five years. Squinting directly into the setting sun’s glare, I called up to Lily. She was ascending at a much more rapid pace than me.

“Hey, up there! It’s starting to get dark. Think we

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should stop for the night?” With a smile stretching across her face, she practically flew back down to where I was panting. As much as I love Lily, I feel like the most useless person in her presence. Her breath was as calm as a still pond while mine sounded like I was attempting to start up an old lawnmower. I watched as she found a flat surface on the mountain that would serve as an area to set up our tent. When she had finally settled on a spot, we both started to unpack our bags. Wiping a bead of sweat off her head, the only sign that this activity had been difficult for her in any way, Lily playfully nudged me.

“Sometime before the stars are out, please,” she teased. My glare was enough to silence her until everything had been set up. We set down our blankets just outside of the tent; after all Lily did tell me that stargazing is one of the very best parts of mountain climbing. I liked to convince myself that the fact that Lily and I could spend so much time together without having to talk was a testament to how strong our relationship was.

Truthfully though, silence bothered me. Even when I was alone it made me uneasy.

As I gazed out over the silhouetted mountains

lining the sky, a topic of discussion popped into my head.

“Lily,” I began hesitantly, “if you could make your own Mount Rushmore, who would be on it?” Her freckled face turned to me.

“Maddie,” she replied acting as though she were getting choked up from how powerful the question was, “That is a question that would require months, maybe even years, of deep meditation.”

“Well, let’s work it out, brainstorm some ideas!

I’ll start. My mountain would have to include John Green.” Lily rolled her eyes. She had heard me rant about this man, my hero, far too many times.

“I’d choose John Green because, in addition to being one of my favorite authors and YouTube vloggers, he has shown me that being an introverted person is not an excuse for not speaking your mind. He is perceptive and curious. Lily, John Green is everything I hope I am and aspire to be.”

“Okay, my turn!” she responded excitedly.

“My ideals are represented by Ben and Jerry.

There needs to be spots reserved on my mountain for the creators of Cinnamon Bun ice-cream!” I poked her in her side, a particularly ticklish spot for her, for teasing me with her silly choices.

“Come on, this is a serious discussion! Ice cream creators don’t represent your ideals, and if they do, you have to give a better reason. After all, Ben and Jerry do have great social principles. I’ll pick somebody else. Okay, Walt Disney! He stands for my aspiration to create and inspires me to keep my dreams alive.”

With a slight tilt of her head, Lily implored, “Shouldn’t these be political or historical figures?

If you are going to be all serious then you should put someone that is significant to the country as a

whole, just like the presidents on the real Mount Rushmore.”

I shrugged and retorted, “But that’s the whole point! There are no restrictions on my Mount Rushmore. These should be people who are significant to you, who represent you. It happens to be that the people with the most impact in my life aren’t political figures. For example, I grew up reading J.K Rowling’s Harry Potter series. She would have a place on my mountain for sure. She is responsible for creating one of the first strong female characters I had ever seen. She taught me that intelligence and independence are traits that should be valued, and that you should seek your own approval before anyone else’s. Persistence and belief in her abilities allowed J.K Rowling to publish my favorite book series, and I keep that in mind when working on any project.”

“Okay,” Lily huffed, “finish up your mountain.

You’re good at this, and I’m getting tired. Who is the last person on ‘Maddie’s mountain’?”

“Jon Stewart,” I responded after a few minutes had passed. “I want my last person to be one who can find the humor in life. Jon Stewart represents my passionate liberal views, sense of humor, and interest in what is happening in the world. He makes me want to be an engaging and interested person. He gets the last spot.”

“I like that one,” Lily said with a yawn. “Come on, help me get these blankets back inside. It may not seem like it, but that climb really did make me tired.”

I cast a final look over the mountain skyline.

I could have sworn that the four faces were staring back at me, honored to have been chosen, and eager to emerge from their rocky enclosure.

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In the Beginning AJ BEDENBAUGH-CORTES | ’14

A

He lost faith though—that was his sacrifice...”

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ccording to God, we were all the same. The same spirit, energy, soul, ghost, angel— whatever humans like to call us.

When God made us he made us all the same. That’s why we go to earth and wear the flesh, to give ourselves distinction.

It’s almost my turn to go now, almost my turn to wear the flesh of a human too. Michael is going before me, but we asked God if he would let us cross paths on earth. God agreed and I’m excited, but worried— worried if our personalities will differ to the point where Michael and I won’t be friends anymore. That all depends on the sacrifice we make before we go.

Henry just got back and he’s so different. Everything about him is different, his humor, his laugh, his everything. He lost faith though— that was his sacrifice. He sacrificed happiness to gain the power of strength and speed because he was a boxer. He also sacrificed a comfortable life to have a family. His life was not a happy one, but he was happy for his family to have good lives. He died in a car crash and now he is back. He regrets nothing. Now he has so much ahead of him thanks to his distinction, too much ahead to explain in words.

What will I sacrifice when I go? I thnk I will sacrifice the life of a loved one for the power of precision. Making a long-term sacrifice will help once in heaven. When Gandhi went down he sacrificed the pleasure for all material things for enlightenment. He ended up as the right hand man of God and he is happier than ever.

I have a similar idea: if I sacrifice for precision, I will be right most of the time… least I think that’s how it works. God won’t tell us. He wants us to figure it out on our own. But if I sacrifice something as valuable as a loved one when it’s my time on earth then I should be really precise…I hope…

But I am concerned about Michael. Despite the fact that he is the same as most of us he has been acting strangely; he started watching those on earth. He has been saying things about how valuable power is, and how the more you sacrifice the better it works out for you. But he’s forgetting about the test, the test of your morals. We have all figured it out; God wants to see how our new personalities work out and if we turn out to be evil rather than remain good. That’s why we lose our memory when we go to earth, so we don’t know about the test to see whether we become evil in nature or not.

“It is time, my child, for you to go as so many others have before you. But as you know, you must make your sacrifice to gain power.

It’s time now, I have to go with Michael to earth and make our sacrifice. I’m excited and worried about everything. Where will I be born? Who will be my parents? Which one of my loved ones will die?

Michael is going first.

“So tell me, how much are you willing to sacrifice?” God asked. “…Everything…”

The History Guy DOUGLAS SINGER | ’13 I wear this title as a painter would a dirty smock.

When Toto and the farm are thrust in the air, it is history that brings us back to Kansas... through the thickets of an unknown jungle, inside the Oval Office during the thirteen October days.

Like tin soldiers to a child I watch the dominoes fall in line.

I lunge from a tunnel of darkness to an apple dangling from a tree.

Spend an afternoon with me and ask: why Gettysburg led to the demise of the Confederacy, why the Bay of Pigs was disastrous, how the Mongols changed the world, how without history we are but stargazers searching the lonely night.

Epiphanies in Haiku

MARNI WEISS | ’15

Flowers blow in wind Their petals scattered around Spring has just begun

Abstract | Ceramic sculpture | SARITA SASSON ’13

Have you counted them?

The billions of diamonds— Stars in the night sky She sits in her room Awaiting her prince to come But he never comes

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Spirits | Mixed Media | RUBI FERRAS ’13

July in Kruščić IVANA VLAHOVIC | ’13 air crisp as day turns to night – I look around at the houses and the fields where my dad grew up picking plums and playing soccer on those no-shoes-no-worries Serbian summers my uncle comes out waving – “Kako si?” swarms the air as he turns to me with open arms – I smile – then follow him inside with my mom and sisters into a small room with couches – blue hues and photos splatter the wall I turn and see someone strangely familiar – I lose my breath – I see the future my dad, in a different form – a seventy year-old version of himself seated on the couch – more frail and small in stature looking up at me — in awe – he has brown eyes, unlike my dad whose eyes shift from green to blue to brown, depending on the scenery and on his clothes – he smiles at me – I am dumbstruck his hair shines gray – his features defined and familiar my grandfather – Miroslav – Miro for short – I turn to my mom and chuckle – “He’s mini Dad!” outside – food sprawls out on the table – smoke dancing like choreographed waves swirling in the air – the food is glorious mounds of lamb find their way onto my plate my uncle motions, “Dodji ovamo!” – I follow him with my oldest sister to a hidden cage – full of little ducklings, their feathers glowing yellow in the night – he points up at the sky – I stare at stars glimmering as I stand unable to recall the last time stars flaunted their greatness

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Out of Her Shell after Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus”

A Pit for a Pearl BLAKE COLONGO | ’14 The nudity the lack of dignity or care more like a mantel than a human a statue than a girl The flowers don’t fall they disperse along the sea each on their own a dark time none smile The oil through the painting is thick— Botticelli a piece of himself is here.

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I rose from the sea alive born of the foam from my father

I was never an infant nor a child but a grown woman coming into the world

wasted time floating on my shell my only home in the open sea

a man with wings, an angel, comes to me roses fly across his ethereal form

a woman is clutched around his body she looks at me with envy

an angel draws a magnificent force his wind starts to push my shell

I reach land for the first time see people whose skin is covered in cloth

I seize my flowing blonde hair to cover my body as best as I can

a woman comes to me, bearing cloth of purple and right before I step onto this new world

she covers my naked body the people speak with words I do not know

they keep saying the same word, Beautiful I wish I understood its meaning

What I See in the Sea | Acrylic | AMINAH AUSTIN ’15

RYAN MACDONELL | ’15

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Cries of a Coyote GINA MACROPULUS | ’14

I

open my eyes. I lie in the blazing dirt of the desert, drenched in blood and sweat. Only a few hundred feet ahead, I can see America.

I stretch out my arm in an attempt to grasp the land of promise, extending my trembling, misshapen fingers toward the border. I fall short. Next to me lies the mauled body of the woman I was smuggling. Even now, her lacerated face is somehow beautiful, but the light of her still-open eyes has been put out, the rosy life of her lips gone. She had been run over by the van of the other coyote. Cerdo.

I look around, able to move only my eyes, my muscles burning like the flames of the sun, my bones deformed and shattered as if they had been crushed in a mortar by an unforgiving pestle. A few feet from the woman’s body rests that of her child. I can see a small black hole in his lower abdomen where a bullet was now situated, his lifeless body an innocent victim of crossfire. I suppose I knew this would happen sooner or later. We had had failed operations before—an arrest or two, a couple of retreats, deaths due to dehydration and fatigue along the way, but nothing like this.

I am a coyote. A smuggler. A trafficker. That is what most people call me at least. Some even call me a criminal; I, however, like to think of myself as something different, something more.

I grow weaker and weaker by the minute. The pain washes over me like cold water, paralyzing and consuming. I close my eyes to evade my agony and see my mother’s shack; I escape to memories of my village, my home.

Suddenly, I remember the reasons I became involved in this business. I recall my desire, my hunger, for change, for betterment, for opportunity.

I grew up in a small barrio by the name of Chanez within the world’s largest slum, Neza-Chalco-Itza, in the heart of Mexico City, bearing witness to poverty, crime, and disease amongst huts in which unemployment and illiteracy thrived. There were four million of us—four million chiqueritos (as we called ourselves), jammed into twelve square miles of shantytown filth. Most of us lived

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in rickety huts and ramshackle cottages. The lucky ones crammed themselves into vecindades, small dilapidated mansions abandoned in the early twentieth century by wealthy families. This did not matter though because every shack, filled to the brim and ready to burst, overflowed with slum dwellers, as every family consisted of six or more children.

I blame the Church for this overpopulation and poor quality of life, as they encouraged the growth of large families and the breeding of countless children that Mexican chiqueritos simply could not cater to.

Sanitation was incredibly poor and proper sewage, nonexistent. In fact, if Neza-Chalco-Itza were a country, the flying toilet would be its national symbol. These plastic, feces-filled bags were the primary mode of excreta disposal, pervading trenches, gutters, and rooftops, making our village seem like more of a landfill than a town. These bags sometimes found their way into the water system, contaminating an already filthy water supply, leading to high rates of disease and death.

Employment was another issue. I did not know who my father was, but Mother did what she could to support her children,myself and my three older siblings. She performed mostly domestic work in the city, and when my brothers and sister grew older they, too, began to gather income, even if by questionable means. Juan and Julio, my older brothers, got involved in drug dealing, Carmen in prostitution, but the truth of the matter was that there were simply no other options for us at the time. As I stumbled through the years of adolescence, rummaging through fly-ridden waste in search of food and fleeing angry street vendors whose goods I had stolen, I witnessed the horrors of slum life and poverty and, noticing that matters never seemed to improve, I decided to help.

S

o I became involved with the coyotes—not because of greed or for the possibility of gaining the considerable profits that come with human smuggling. I like to think that I am not like the others—that I am different from the

ruthless and disloyal pigs who abandon their smuggled chiqueritos in the middle of the desert and drive off with their money, cackling and rejoicing at their revolting behavior. I aim to reunite families split by the border. I aim to remove men from their miserable lives of poverty and suffering, men who otherwise would not have a chance at a life of relative prosperity, and to usher them to a land of possibilities. In America, these men can find work and educate their families, but the US government does not seem to understand. They seem to think that it is an easy choice for us to make; that it is a simple decision to uproot one’s life and put oneself in life-threatening situations, all for the hope of a better tomorrow. These would-be immigrants are desperate and have no chance of immigrating legally; they have no alternative.

Sometimes I felt like a giant sea turtle carrying my barrio on my back, transporting fellow chiqueritoes to a better world, one of job opportunities and proper sanitation. I felt this to be my sole duty, my raison d’être. I had an obligation to my people, and I was going to fulfill it, illegal as it may be.

My latest operation was going to be my last with these coyote pigs before becoming independent; I was transporting a wife and her child to reunite them with her husband who had been living and working in America for six months now as a maintenance man in a small Napa motel. As always on the morning of an operation, I woke with a start at the crack of dawn, panting and sweating from the same nightmare that had been bedeviling my slumber for years like a relentless, belligerent bully taunting a child—the nightmare that it would all be over, that we would be caught, handcuffed, and tossed in the slammer, along with our smuggled chiqueritos. I shook it off and mentally prepared myself for the day that lay ahead.

A few hours later, I was in the front seat of the van used for our smaller operations, sitting alongside another coyote who was driving. The driver was a short balding man with a round belly and rotting, yellow teeth from years of smoking, his eyes covered by dark glasses, undoubtedly American made, gave him an inscrutable look of countenance. I had never been on an operation with him before. The audible revving of the old engine almost drowned out the mother and her child sitting in the back of the van. I could hear the young boy’s faint whimpers of fear and his mother’s consolation, “No llores.

Todo va a estar bien, mi hijo. No llores.”

After several hours of driving, we had reached our destination. I got out of the van and made my way to the rear to release the woman and her child from the dingy back seat. The yellow-toothed coyote made his way out as well. All four of us began walking towards the border, we were about two kilometers away. After a couple minutes of walking, I saw a figure in the distance—and then I heard a shout.

E

verything happened very quickly. I turned around and began a mad dash for the van.

“Vamonos!” I yelled at the mother. She swiftly embraced her child, picked him up, and turned for the van in one fluid motion. Yellow Tooth had already reached the vehicle and was entering the front seat. I ran as fast as I could, my legs about to give out. I turned and saw the American soldier sprinting towards us, rifle at the ready, shouting, “Stop! Stop I say!” Yellow Tooth started the engine and hit the gas, lurching the van forward. He stuck his arm out the window and, rifle in hand, shot at the American. He missed. The soldier suddenly halted and shot back. I leapt onto the ground face first. I heard some more firing, the revving of the engine, and then a most terrible cry, the shriek of a child. Next I heard another piercing wail—that of a weeping mother. Another shot rang out. I could no longer hear the shouts of the soldier commanding us to stop. After a few seconds of silence I got up from the ground. A few feet away from me, I saw the mother crouched over her son’s body. She let out a cry and began to weep loudly, shaking him by the shoulders as if trying to wake him from a deep sleep. I made my way toward her. Suddenly, I heard the uproar of the engine once more, felt the hard metal of the van smack against my body, and then nothing.

And now, here I lie, waiting for the pain to subside, knowing that it will not. I open my eyes one last time to the bright beaming rays of the sun knowing, that it is over. The mother lying next to me, dead, will never see her husband in America, their child will never be given the chance to grow up. In the distance, I see two uniformed figures coming my way, and, just like that, my greatest nightmare comes to fruition—I will be taken away. I think of the four million back home, close my eyes again, and see my village for the last time.

I felt like a giant sea turtle carrying my barrio on my back...”

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Observations in Haiku ARTHUR VANDERVOORT | ’15 I. cold as the wind blows winter approaches slowly a flower blossoms II. as the sun rises the cold hides in the darkness life rises again

Frank Lloyd Wright | Acrylic | ZACK GETTIS ’15

III. just like silver disks the leaves fall from the branches covering the world

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Camas para Sueños after Carmen Lomas Garza

WINONA PAEZ | ’14

ALVARO ORTEGA | ’15 These are a people coming for second chances thought to teach salsa and merengue dances These are a people from rich cultures diminished to tend fields under vultures

Head cushioned on my pillow my eyes, an unattended door of wonder. A new realm awaits, where I am invincible.

A boy on a roof conjuring dreams America to Mexicans as roof is to beams

Here I stand, pierced by the resilient sun.

Here I dance below the heavens’ tears.

Here I indulge in my sweet intangible desires.

A woman and her children as future citizens not aliens, foreigners, housemaid or handymen

There is no ball and chain I am infinite.

When I wake, this sanctum proves to be ephemeral. A tethered being in a world of defeat Ambition vanishes.

Again and again reality proves to have its limits. Limits that jeer at my inability to overcome them at my inability to succeed.

A flame must be lit these boundaries must be burnt and I will soon wake as I sleep.

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A woman taking care of her home America to Mexicans as body is to bones

Not gardener and two bank-robbing goons just children enjoying a peculiar full moon

What Dreams May Come RYAN MACDONELL | ’15 I was a knight in shining armor riding to battle followed closely by a brigade of cattle.

Motorcycles roared with fury onto a field then smashing and bashing, steel against shield.

I never thought unicorns could be so violent until they started to leave my best men silent.

The sky darkened with a sickening gloom: Japanese fighting whales landed in my room.

They thrashed and fought with all of their might but my mighty sword pushed them out of sight.

I lunged and stabbed and drew fire from the sky, the remains of the whales became stir-fry.

I found myself being covered in poisonous syrup— all until my mother told me to wake up.

Sara | Oil pastels | MAIA WALKER ’15

I Will Wake as I Sleep

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Poupée de son ANNIE PERRY | ’13 At night my mind is wrapped in aluminum foil.

I find no silver linings in this dream turmoil.

A munchkin cries to me while the moon keeps us warm.

A dragon shatters my tea party to try not to conform.

I lost my train ticket and here I am in Space; It seems I fit well with the alienated race.

Planets draw near and ask to orbit my side, But I am no sun, a fact I cannot hide.

If I had it my way I would be a seed With no anxiety or a body to feed.

No parent is more stable than a tree.

Yet the dream mechanics who control it all Say no to my wishes, for I am their puppet-doll.

I lie on a rainbow when its colors start to choke me.

A painful sensation masked by hues of beauty.

I start to cry but my tears turn into saws; I knew right there this was the last straw.

I opened my eyes but the burden did not dissipate.

I am no longer a contender and I wish not to participate.

If both dreams and reality bring upon pain I need to pack up and go somewhere more humane.

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Aurora

ALIYAH STEPHEN | ’14 a hush across the land precipitates her arrival using her rainbow-colored palette, she paints the sky and the clouds with light her work is never done as she travels the world in a continuous cycle painting a million dawns

Technicolor Rain | Acrylic & crayon | Eleonora Longhi ’13

whenever she emerges with a flourish another day begins

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Home on the Prairie AMANDA GAVCOVICH | ’14

T

ake a minute to think about your home.

Where is it? Who else is there? Twelve years ago, I didn’t have one. Yes, I had a house, a fractured concrete shelter over my head, but it wasn’t quite a home. I knew what a home was supposed to be, back in El Salvador every day I was transfixed by the bleary, gargling television set watching Little House on the Prairie with an awkward Spanish dubbing and a surprising Latina twang for a young girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. “Home is the nicest word there is,” Laura Wilder once proclaimed, but, up until recently, I didn’t know how that should be. Was it the way the whispery “h” connected with the “ome” to create a word, when repeated slowly, closely resembles that of the Hindu hum? That seemed all too apparent; I came to believe that it was the antithesis of what I’d had, and the embodiment of everything I’d ever wanted.

In the midst of a ravaging civil war, I was a nine year old twig, looking up at my pregnant mother, stronger than a tank, more powerful than the war. It came down to just the two of us, surviving day by day as we still grieved my father’s death, his body blown to pieces, devastating his family.

I would fall asleep next to my mother, huddled under her arm, blocking out the sounds of gunshots with her hushed and steady breath. I dreamt of being on the prairie, Daddy in a cowboy hat and burly arms encompassing Mommy and I; I was home, only to be burst awake by the unforgiving eerie sound of silence with sweat saturating my skin as I smudged away chalky tear stains. After helping out around the house, I would go to school as long as there were no blockades that day. My mother always said education makes you strong, “fuerte,” and to always remember that, even when she isn’t around. Being that education, especially for young girls in El Salvador, was lacking, I could do nothing, but in my nine year old sincerity, I read in the daylight hours that did not include Laura Ingalls Wilder on the television set. The days overlapped and imitated the days prior, save a slight drop in the temperature and a waddle in my mother’s walk.

During an episode of Little House on the Prarie, I overheard my mother whispering into the telephone and caught a few repeated phrases, “fresh start” and “America” 28 | amused

among them. I became flushed with excitement, my cheeks rosier than usual, at the thought of the idea of finally returning to a home. I floated through the next few weeks as my mother only became swifter with the additional weight.

Throughout the month following the telephone conversation, my mother’s calm became disrupted by waves fraught with angst and apprehension. Finally, my mother, swollen belly and all, cupped my rounded chin in her raw, callused hand guiding it to her piercing gaze. Earnestly, she ordered me to pack my things. As solemn as the order was, I noticed the faint glimmer in her eyes, that optimistic yearning for a resurrection that we both knew could only be possible in America. I’d heard it was the “land of opportunity.” This friend’s uncle went to America and became a doctor, this cousin’s neighbor became an actor, and a relative twice removed, I heard, became a big time banker. America was where everyone’s dream became a reality. But, opportunity for my mother and I meant safety and an education for her children without the worry of being shot while walking down the street or our house being imploded.

As I packed my belongings – a pair of shoes, a sweater, a book, and an extra pair of underwear and socks – I smiled with anticipation of my return home. As boundlessly smart as I was, my intelligence did not yet mask my nine year old naivety, and the legalities of the immigration did not surface in my thoughts.

Saying our “goodbyes” and “see you laters” to our friends in El Salvador, my eyes never veered. I didn’t even look back at the house, once my home, void of joyfulness, empty in every which way. I was ready. We were ready.

Ready to be submerged in the fountains of opportunity we had been promised, ready to fulfill the dreams for a future unhampered by societal turmoil. As ready as we were, opportunity did not seem ready for us.

W

e arrived. After crouching in the corner of a truck I could only assume carried livestock, we arrived. In those days on the truck with sweat proliferating in the dense air, I had no aspect of time or orientation. I thought maybe we were passing through Canada or maybe it was Africa.

Nevertheless, we arrived. Leaping off the truck, I thought I would have this moment, a moment where all the burdens in life would be lifted from my shoulders by two little angels; after all, we were in Los Angeles. Instead, I had this creeping notion, echoing behind my enthusiasm, simply put as, “What now?”

We lived with a distant cousin in an apartment just a little bigger than my mother’s fully grown stomach. Many of the other tenants were also from El Salvador, escaping the civil war with the simple hopes of living.

M

y mother gave birth to my baby sister, who we named Hope. I succumbed to a seething jealousy, not that my mother’s attention would be lessened, but that this lucky girl was born directly into a home, safe of war and safe of constant threats of danger. She was a citizen of America, a title of strength and pride, a title accompanied by the right to a pursuit of happiness.

I picked up on English pretty quickly, and soon after, I enrolled in school. We even got our own apartment with the money Daddy had saved. I looked after the baby as my mother, with her serene composure never ruffling, hunted for a job.

I felt as if I was finally settling into a home. I felt safe, I felt warm, and I felt my void filling day by day. As my comfort leveled, my mother’s smile waned and the lines between her brows deepened, darkness etching into her skin. She bounced from one job to the next unable to keep a steady path, unsure, yet unafraid how she would provide us with our next meal.

Still, she was poised, and still, she was sure.

Her worries lessened when my mother discovered a stable source of income.

At the time, I did not understand how it all turned around so quickly or why I was left with the baby into the late hours

of the night. I just drifted along with my routine still finding time to watch my latest episode of Little House on the Prairie.Sometimes, if I stayed awake late enough, I would catch my mother returning from “work” in spidery heels, a sequined skirt that looked like she took it right off a Barbie doll, and a plunging blouse, all topped off with disheveled hair and raccoon eyes. Day by day, her shoulders hunched toward the ground as more bruises dotted her frail legs.

Accustomed to the late night work shifts, I jumped when I heard the door slam open, sending a thundering vibration through the walls. My mother, wide eyed and trembling, clutched my sharp shoulders beneath her cold hands. After an outpour of fragments, she just murmured, “Run.” For the next five years, that was all I did. I ran through the prairie. I ran from foster home to foster home, Hope running alongside. I never had time to think where my mother was as I ran because I never stopped. I never knew or questioned if I would see her again. I ran.

I ran in search of the home that I was promised, the home that was ripped from my grasp time and time again.

I stopped running and I stopped searching. I stopped searching for this intangible myth of this American Dream because I was unsure if I would ever find it.

Instead, I got an education, and I became “fuerte.” In this time, I had the worst of nightmares; I had the best of dreams. It was the time of growing and the time of healing. I felt the radiating hope against the glaring despair.

Now, twelve years later, I am graduating from an American college at the top of my class. My mother is not here nor is my father, but I am sure they are both proud, proud that I have found my opportunity, proud that I have found my home, because I am home.

I stopped searching for this intangible myth of this American Dream because I was unsure I would ever find it.”

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Thunderstorm

It was [home]

RYAN AMOILS | ’15

HANNAH SNITCOVSKI | ’13

The rain speaks to my heart, about its journey to earth from the night sky. The thunder shakes as I hear it roar like a loud chorus and lightning strikes. Wind begins to rock the grass, offbeat tunes of low and high, scooping up leaves like cupped hands and catapulting them into the air.

Other leaves unhook themselves from the trees as they fly in freedom. The wind whistles just as the thunder adds a drummer’s beat— nature creating its own type of music. Then lightning lights up the sky as if turning a switch on/off in my room. When the storm comes to a halt, I can go back to sleep and tuck in under the covers, having observed nature at its best.

I thought I understood it—the semi-wholeness of what was home, the fragmented breaths of its nonexistence, uncertainty tainted by its lack of substance— that it was sealed within a lapse of time, no longer a tangible place—but a home to the questions that lurked, that kept the bad away.

I thought it was concrete like the smile on a child’s face. Washed away like the figments beneath their imagination.

Hibiscus Lane PAUL-JULIEN GIRAUD | ’15 Cracked sidewalk beneath my feet I peer up at the great trees above and hear the gentle buzzing of the flies A little spider hangs by its last thread A gray rock next to a tree forms a small nook by a large patch of brown grass

different shades of dying leaves— coming out of the emptiness of what used to be Water drips from leaf to leaf The smell of wet wood like nothing else in the man-made world— A squirrel rests by a crowded garden.

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Shade | Pencil | DASHA TUBERMAN ’13

The spider in its rapid descent is surrounded by natural colors— different shades of brown wood

Il Giudizio Universale

GUGLIELMO MAZZA | ’14

What has always struck me about this fresco is the countless people who are painted in it I was just seven years old when I first stood there behind the altar of the Cappella Sistina on a school trip, yet I still remember the figure of Christ in all his majesty standing on a cloud surrounded by light back to earth at the end of times to inaugurate the kingdom of God. Maria is the only one who can stay close to him. At his feet are all the apostles awaiting their place in the paradise. The dead seem to be coming back to life, some of them emerge from the ground others move the rocks that have buried them others crawl from crevices, some are dressed others naked, others not yet processed and are half skeleton and half flesh.

Figures of devils drag souls of the damned to the hell where they shall remain for the rest of eternity paying for the sins of their miserable lives.

The monstrous Charon ferries them over to punishment hitting them with the oar.

I remember my teacher explaining to me the figure of Saint Bartolomeo, the Israelite at the feet of Christ sitting on a rock while holding his skin.

Michelangelo himself, as a human being does not appear neither among the men destined for paradise nor among the damned intended to hell. He paints his face on the skin of St. Bartolomeo, in the hope of joining the circle destined for salvation.

I was in that chapel with my nose upward wide-eyed, my teacher talking about death and sins and redemption and resurrection.

Too small in front of so much greatness so helpless and frightened in front of the inevitable fate of every man. amused | 31

I Wish I Could Be You, Lilly JACLYN LASH | ’15

Starcatchers ANNA APICE | ’15

You stare at the swaying trees and uncommon passing cars, at the gardeners working on the untrimmed lawn, and the feral cats lost in this world.

Flying, flying, flying away from here with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys to somewhere nowhere near

You probably went to your food dish around noon and sat there eating the mountains of delicious dry food that is always left for you.

To Pirate’s Cove, Mermaid Lagoon and the Indian Tribes, somewhere I’ll never have to grow up never to grow ugly and old

Now, I stand in front of your body plopped on the floor blocking my path and you beg me to scratch that furry belly. Of course,

I’m going to spend the days fighting with pirates like Captain Hook braiding mermaids’ beautiful long hair hunting with Indians And I will be with Peter Pan! Oh, and don’t forget Tinker bell, the prettiest fairy of them all!

The adventure is waiting for me.

Goodbye, dear mother, brother, father!

Neverland is calling me!

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I say yes because you are the princess of the house, my parents’ third child and my little sister.

Twenty-four hours in a day and you sleep through sixteen; an entire world to explore yet you stay in the house.

What a hard life you have! Such a hard life for curious cats— and that is the life I want for me.

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Collie | Watercolor | AMINAH AUSTIN ’15

Fashion Statement

MATEO BOLIVAR | ’14

W

hat Vladimir Lenin was to the Bolsheviks, David Beckham is to me. And like the Bolsheviks, I am ready to go against the established norms of society in favor of my own designs.

I can’t bear going out of the house looking anything less than presentable: I go to the gym, I eat organic, I get facials, I get my hair done (not just cut) before important occasions, I color-coordinate, I enjoy buying clothes, I enjoy and actively seek out culture, and I don’t care.

This label came about originally as an insult, but after contemplating the implications, I realize it’s more of a true statement than a slur or jab.

I now wear it like armor—a slim, double-breasted suit of armor with a pocket square with matching shoes.

The term “metrosexual” was coined

in 1994, just two years before my birth. Journalist Mark Simpson used it to describe a heterosexual male who adopts the lifestyle of homosexual men, but also is more openly emotional and sensitive. Sexuality has little to do with metrosexuality, since the metrosexual identity is solely a cosmetic and social one. As Simpson states, “He [the metrosexual] might be officially gay, straight or bisexual, but this is utterly immaterial because he has clearly taken himself as his own love object and pleasure as his sexual preference.”

This hits the nail on the head. My metrosexuality is one of self-betterment and affinity for good impressions, with a light coating of vanity and self-absorbance that comes from my self-imposed pampering. I’m not going to lie about my vanity and excessive confidence, and I admit

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they’re bad traits to have, but the fact is that they come naturally from metrosexuality and I apply as much effort to curtail them as I do to inadvertently foster them.

Alex Simpson goes on to declare that metrosexuality is a large step in the right direction to breaking down gender norms and the constraints of a socially sexualized society. The metrosexual experience is one of social pioneering, met with equal parts acceptance (in my case, mostly from my girl friends), and disparagement (the repeated questioning of my sexuality by my male peers).

None of it brings me down because I understand that attempting to look your best and being less of an emotional hermit are not bad qualities.

I also understand that since these things go against the typical adolescent male’s view of what a typical adolescent male should do. I should be good at sports, wear shorts and a plain white t-shirt when going out, and find the notion of dressing formally repulsive rather than enjoyable. The guys from my friend group understand my metrosexuality and know I’m straight, yet I still get comments from others like “Why don’t you just wear some basketball shorts?” or “You look like a gay pirate.”

M

y metrosexuality stems from my upbringing. My parents divorced when I was about 7 years old, and I have lived daily ever since with my mother and grandmother.

I’m not saying my father has been absent, because I see him every few days, but I believe this minor absence tips the scale in favor of

Chained | Acrylic | DIANA KATZ ’13

emotional openness from the start, seeing that I’ve been raised mostly by women who have always encouraged me to be vocal about my thoughts.

Furthermore, my mother works in the music industry as an artist manager, and that has contributed to my more open mind concerning sexuality and established social roles. I have been exposed to homosexuality and metrosexuality from an early age in the form of stylists, dancers, background singers, musicians, and wardrobe designers. My mother’s coworkers have left an impression on me in regards to what it means to be male. I was conditioned by my exposure to the world of music and entertainment to not fall into the ubiquitous adolescent mire of identity repression and denial of interests in order to fit in with the mold. I was not sold into the classic.

Lastly, my mother’s hectic travel schedule had her voyaging to fashion meccas like Italy and France on a regular basis.

She would always bring me back toys and clothes, and as the years progressed, the toys diminished and the clothes proliferated. She also exposed me to the classics of European literature and art. She stressed me to appreciate culture, stating that it just as important as good grades when it came to being prepared for life. The emotional openness, social freedom, and fashion-conscientiousness that heavily contribute to the metrosexual identity has been imparted on me since my childhood.

Everyone has a right to determine how he or she comes across to others. The teenage metrosexual stays resolute in his pursuit of self-improvement in all aspects and faces off against the model of the conventional adolescent male. In the end, I really don’t care for the disparagement I sometimes receive; because of my upbringing and open-mindedness, I understand that there is nothing wrong with being in touch with my feminine side.

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Dusk on the Bayou ALESSANDRA SETTINERI | ’15

Nothing but Sunflowers RACHEL GARAZI | ’15

beneath a powerful oak tree: holding hands, he listens to her as she speaks. The light of the setting sun gracefully trickles through the trees.

a hot August day in Arles with large brush strokes to impress—

On the water a riverboat passes on its way to La Grande Maison.

a token of kindness and friendship by a young, lonely artist

Nearby, a wizened voodoo queen watches on, protecting them from the serpentine Shadow Man.

to hang in Gauguin’s guestroom for only Gauguin to admire

The prince and his princess—

thick sunflowers with long green stems placed in a vase shades of yellow and orange pointed petals like the sun take notice, these beauties wilt so quickly— several are already dried out and brown a man and his sunflowers— both too soon to die

Tour Eiffel | Acrylic | VERONICA SERRANO ’14

A Cajun firefly, a trumpet-playing gator at the couple’s feet, lovely pink flowers

reminiscing the times when they were just two bewitched frogs falling in love on the Louisiana bayou.

So Much More LUNA PEREZ | ’15 Enjoy the simplicity of rain Falling on your head.

The sand between your toes.

For the roses – so very red For lavender’s scent on your nose.

Take in the life you’ve been given.

The world has so much more to give.

I want and need you to keep living, There’s so much that you have to see.

Why do the young so often wish to die When they’ve yet had the chance to live– To travel or love or sail or see?

The world has so much more to give.

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after “The Great Wave off Kanagawa” by Katsushika Hokusai

JORDAN MORRIS | ’15 the sun, the yellow giant, nowhere to be seen the water, a blue overshadowed by the sun I wonder the thoughts of those who see this sight an enormous wall of sorts, ocean blue and sky high underneath the heavens the firmament rages a town carries on with its simple farm life unaware the danger headed its way – fishermen cling to their boats brace for this wave engulfing Mount Fuji on the low horizon

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Buddha | Clay & glass beads | SAMUEL COHEN ’16

Tsunami

Zarathustra

DAVID GONZALEZ | ’15

On the terrace I play chess, and although I often win, the thoughts of black pawn structure in the king’s Indian defense blur and the group of imbalances whizz through my wits. We discuss the multidimensional cube, deliberate metaphysics. My ears perk up like those of a wolf at what I then overhear: diatribes about Nicki Minaj, Tyler the Creator, swag, and a detailed look at Jersey Shore.

The topics I had heard about so many times before—the extent of all they knew.

Alas, there is but one notion only that plagues my mind: what has the world come to?

Off the Rack

Wrapped in Emotion | Watercolor & pen | AMINAH AUSTIN ’15

SHALINI CHANDAR | ’15 She calls his name as obnoxious Rock blasts through throbbing speakers in Hot Topic: Patrick, a name that will always conjure the picture of a boy with nicotine burns and a life-is-just-a-game attitude. Homeless, run away from his strict father, spurned by his private school. He pulls from a rack an obscene black shirt and detaches the ink case with a Swiss Army. The screws in my body tighten, my eyes widen. Surely, he’ll be caught! “Can we please leave?” I ask her. “What?” she asks, “Haven’t you ever seen someone steal?” What happened that he and I— prospects so alike—have such different ideals?

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Confessions of a Recovering JOSHUA RIVAS | ’14 Rock Star I always knew I was going to be a rock star and there was no changing that. I knew the moment I touched the stage for my first recital: I was playing “Hot Cross Buns.” I can still feel the warmth radiating from the crowd’s cheering. The crowds just got better as I got older, and if I played the right song, they would even sing along.

But that ecstasy faded fast. L.A. was a tempest compared to the zephyr of my hometown. My ego clouded from arrogance. Mom and dad cut me off. This resulted with a job at Pandora’s Box, bartending.

As I was washing my hands in a public bathroom, scrawled into the wall I saw “Be on the alert for new opportunity.” There I was, at rock bottom. I had to make a choice, give up or keep fighting.

I locked the guitar in its box, enrolled at the community college, and tried my hand at Public Relations. I was phenomenal, top of my class. I landed a job quickly, and life was good.

Occasionally, my fingers would ache with longing. The passion to play kept burning at my fingertips. I could hear my guitar calling me from its prison. I couldn’t take it any longer! I snapped the box open and there it was. As she took her first breath again, reborn, my fingers guided me through the chords of “Hot Cross Buns.”

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The Old Guitarist BELOCHI LACOMBE | ’15 By the slow croon of the addicting tune awakening the lost heart A chance for a new and better life with melody to bury the weight of stress No one to blame for this but myself I must deal with this in between the grey The struggle of the lonesome night Look to my side and see this silent guitar a little bit rusty and not played in years But still like a mystical charm when put to rest in my arms

amused | 41

On the Steps | Acrylic | Rubi Ferras ’13

Aboard the Bel Esprit SAM SCHECHTER | ’14 just three miles off the Exumas, we wait our eyes fixed on the trolling lines clear blue surrounds us, almost flat like a mirror ripples brush against the hull the wake, so gentle, as if the ocean’s lullabye

when the line rings—a song to a fisherman’s ears— we grab the rods and reel under the hot sun, we pull—both of us in our own fight with each pull of drag, the line slices through the water like a knife and we make gains against our fish

its bill breaks through the water’s calm surface the lure’s hook, pierced through the marlin’s mouth, shaking mid-air in its own struggle [fish tend to breach the surface when they feel threatened] in seconds, its sleek, 11-foot body is again submerged

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Somnus | Acrylic | Diana Katz ’13

drenched in sweat, we push each other to keep going until, at last, with one last pull and one last reel, I touch the leader and win my battle against the white marlin

when we retreat to the shade of our boat’s cabin, tired and pouring sweat, I put my arm around him, turning into a hug for my best friend and say, what a great day, dad

Ode to the Circle MRS. GALLUP’S ALT LIT CLASS | TRACK 2

The circle is a simple, geometric shape— a connection of points that form a continuous, infinite curve.

A chain of links, each link connected to the other, using their surroundings as support.

Life is like a circle— its formula is: there is no formula.

We try to control it, the perfect pitch; we also occasionally lose that control, a morbid strikeout. That sense of security that allows us to lead our own lives seems to be so unreachable.

The food chain is a circle...no not a doughnut or a bagel, but what goes around comes around.

Just think about pizza— that its problem was the round shape, which was solved by triangles.

If we continue to repeat ourselves, the world will change around us.

If the word around us repeats itself, we will continue to change.

Life is like the Infinity sign.

It’s made of two circles: the past and the future, and it only ever meets at one point—the present.

A circle is an infinite curve.

At the end of the day, we all live in a circle.

Discover that circle to find the path to life which will be good for your soul. (y-h)^2 + (x-k)^2 = r^2 If you find the h and the k, you will find the center of who you are.