Mandala
2007
Mandala: An Art and Literary Magazine
May, 2007 Northfield Mount Hermon School Northfield, MA 01360
Table of Contents Cover: Practice Pending: View from the NMH Boathouse....Keiko Stobaeus Dedication......................................................................................................................v Self-Portrait...........................................................................Yuki Hirai......................... 1 boots ....................................................................................Caroline Henderson............ 2 East Hall Attic Cogs..............................................................Nicole Derr........................ 4 The Part That Sticks Out A Little Bit When You Look Close Enough.............................................David Field....................... 5 Figure....................................................................................Cynthia Chang................... 9 The Wrestler.........................................................................John Adams...................... 10 Montreal...............................................................................Rachel Shayne.................. 11 Over the Rainbow.................................................................John Smith Johnson.......... 12 Lithogram.............................................................................Frank H. Redner.............. 14 Pride Goeth: Pulpit Falls, Northfield MA .............................Mark Yates....................... 15 CaĂąa de AzĂşcar.....................................................................Blisse Wilkinson................ 16 Sunrise..................................................................................Zuzana Jasenkova............. 18 Lines for Nora.......................................................................David Rowland................ 19 Self-Portrait...........................................................................Tae Hyung Kim . ............. 20 The Least Likely....................................................................Lilly Richardson............... 21 Reminiscence........................................................................Tae Hyung Kim................ 25 Poem for Restriction..............................................................Peter Weis......................... 26 Window Shopping................................................................Meredith Pamp................ 27 Sailboats................................................................................L. Samson........................ 28 Interior..................................................................................Galen Anderson................ 29 The Artist's Model................................................................M. Pawley........................ 30 Serenity.................................................................................Ceridwyn Ely................... 31 Pretentious Poem..................................................................Lilly Richardson............... 32 Autumn Afternoon on the Connecticut................................William Roberts Jr............ 33 War Poem 5..........................................................................John Adams...................... 34 Bart.......................................................................................Anonymous...................... 35 Untitled................................................................................t. s. sage........................... 36 Childhood Memory..............................................................Stephanie Zhao................ 37 She Works at The Panda........................................................Meredith Storrs................ 38 Bridge to Nowhere................................................................Glenn Minshall................ 39 Acknowledgements....................................................................................................... 41 Editorial Staff............................................................................................................... 42
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Creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties. Erich Fromm
boots a 4 inch chunk of heel will set me on my toes will elevate my stature and rectify my posture the reaffirming click when the plastic hits the tile triggers the image of a clandestine file and the lady in the jacket who patrols the halls and transfers the calls who escorts the confidential packet tucked beneath a swinging arm in stride with the metronome monotone beat that these boots belt out beckoning followers off the streets sensational leadership over-stimulated power trip vexed sexual dominance grip monitoring every measured pace trying to capture voracious grace a processional performance that requires steady abhorrence of purity, lack of clarity, affection for the boy who is staring at me confronted by the obtrusive tone of my leather platform as I consolidate butterflies within my stomach’s spring form pan and this black plastic kick-stand is not a pulpit for my preaching or a soapbox for my teaching not a way of reaching out my conscience gives a concerned, stirring shout “empress, uncoil your fist unhinge your toes that keep you from sliding down the slippery slope of your sole” my whole body slumps forward toward the pavement
behaving like a teetering stilt act but with tact I manage to put it off as a minor stumble but if you let your whole body crumple from knees to nose, head over feet spine recoiling, toes unfurling back hurling your faceless wonder-boot pride into the ground with the definitive threat, nay the promise of that sound of humility resounding as the heavy bondage upon your ankles splits your legs in different angles and your body is torn between which limb to follow and when you finally hit the asphalt the response is as hollow as the collective drone of an entire army of clones clad in combat boots marching in step synchronized, desensitized just one instrument, just one tone just one cadence, amplified and alone leave the pieces where they lay or confront the character you choose to play whose costume you climb into, whose mission you assume, whose tick-tock your heart skips to catch up to. the thud becomes the rhythm of your core, suffocating the gentle swelling and deflating of that red balloon in your chest at best, the beat your body resumes is the muted pulse of your plastic shoe Caroline Henderson
The Part That Sticks Out A Little Bit When You Look Close Enough Hot dogs were one of those unfortunate foods. I knew exactly how they would make me feel. I knew the slithery feeling of hot dog flesh as it meandered down my esophagus. I knew those gross burps I would have after eating them, the ones that make you never want to eat again. I knew about how my conscience would feel, too. I knew that I would think about the pig farms where the hot dogs were made, thousands of hormonally enlarged pigs crowded into a shit-covered, concrete room reeking of their dead brothers and sisters. I knew about ketchup, too. I knew all about ketchup. I knew about the liquidy surface of the ketchup container, the red juice which lounges innocently on the top of the thick mass of ketchup like it didn’t know how or why it got there. I knew. I knew how it got there. So there I sat, in a nooked, crannied, balconied, modern cabin of a house. It was preciously paneled with aged wood and graced with the free-air sensation of a wide open living room. The artistically misshapen pool was out back; a flower garden formed the island around which the chestnut-lined, circular driveway ran. The barbeque was on the side porch, not to be confused with the back porch, the other side porch, or the other, other side porch. I had nothing else to eat. It had to be hot dogs. I was a guest in this intimidating residence, so it would be hot dogs. I realized that I would be sacrificing my digestive system for the hopeful night to come, but this scared me less than asking my hosts for something different. I suspected that they would have something tasty in their pantry, but I pathetically sat there watching the row of hot dogs on the barbeque, almost as offensive as the rolling weiners in the 7-Eleven, or the rotating rotisserie chickens in Stop & Shop. But there I was, gazing into the grill, appalled at the hot dogs for being unnaturally colored, flavored, and shaped, and at myself for being so inhibited about everything I do. I was petrified to talk to anyone, scared that I might appear rude, have bad breath, stutter and blush and blush more because I was blushing, or uncontrollably blurt out a horribly slanderous statement. I over-analyzed every situation, maddening myself, and now lost the chance that I might have had to eat something other than hot dogs. Once the father put two hot dogs on my plate, I knew that I would be eating two hot dogs that evening. I already knew how I might feel if I didn’t eat all the food that was offered to me. I had experience at a friend’s house with heaps of florescent Korean food. I had become a pro at shoveling kim-chi and seaweed and octopus into my mouth, swallowing it as quickly as possible, while trying to shield my oral sensors from the nauseatingly rippled textures of the foods. All six of us sat around the table. I settled in and tried to fathom all of the strange emotions and dark family secrets that were guarded with friendly smiles and jokes. The brother sat across from me. He had a shaved head and a tiny trace of a lisp that made him a lot less terrifying than if he had talked normally. The brother’s jeans were baggy enough to allow a little bit of yellow boxer to poke out in the back, and he had mistakenly tucked his t-shirt into his yellow boxers. This haphazard tuck-in job similarly softened his appearance. Scrawled across the inside of his forearm was an intriguing tattoo. 26-21=1 was etched in bold black ink. Immediately, I thought that this incorrect math equation was supposed
to be an ironic miscalculation, and I liked him for that. Later I found out that the tattoo was a statement about the counties of Ireland: once 21 enemy counties were eliminated, the country would be united. The mother sat to the brother’s left. She was the last one to sit down at the table. My first impression of her was dashed when I realized that her son was actually her son. But I maintained this impression I had about her, just because I had no other interactions with her to prove her to be different from my initial notion. When I had entered the house, I walked in on what seemed to be a piano lesson: student at the piano, attempting a difficult piece, and teacher observing from a chair behind the piano bench. It turned out to be the son fooling around on the piano, and the mother staring blankly out into one of the nooks of the house. But when I first saw the mother there, I pictured her as an emotionally tortured soul. She would be intelligent, but have a natural disposition towards spells of excruciating sadness and depression. She had always been masterful on the piano, trained classically, but she played songs from all of the music books. She had been a writer and a teacher, but had left those careers because of the emotional distress that they produced. Now, she gave a few piano lessons a day, sulking around the house and reading The Nation the rest of the day. She was a great mother to her daughter, who sat next to her at the dinner table. The daughter looked emaciated. She was about nine years old, but had spindly legs and arms like a fiveyear old. Her face was bony and gray. Her skin seemed like it was stretched over her face and held taut by a vice. I couldn’t stand looking at her, but she couldn’t stand being silent, so I gave in and looked at her when she talked. Before dinner she was running around like a madman. It was as if she had bipolar disorder and was in one of her moments of violent and unrestrained creativity. She had installed an alarm system on her door, but in her haste had forgotten to lock her door, so the alarm was useless. She had carefully constructed a nest for her stuffed animal eagle, placing a real chicken egg from the refrigerator inside the nest for the eagle to take care of. Unfortunately, the eagle wouldn’t move from its roosting place on the edge of the shoebox that contained its nest. It stared out beyond its nest, on the lookout for danger, but neglected its different-specie baby, who needed warmth. Next, the sister ran outside with her bow and arrow, launching arrows into the woods like a thirteenth century sharpshooter. I felt like it was wasteful for her to sit at dinner while she had this unbridled attack of impulsive but productive energy. How could her parents confine her to a seat at the dinner table for an hour in the midst of this passionate and prolific behavior? She sat between her mother and father, scheming and plotting and losing her mind in all the things she was about to do. The father had brought in the hot dogs from the grill, and put two on my plate. He sat down next to me, shifting his chair so that it was not lined up with the table, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to be. It was as if he wanted his family and guests to know that he was serious about dinner, but equally serious about life, so he might have to jump out of his seat at any time to go make some money or save a drowning child. His long hair suited him well, but also made him look like a self-absorbed, materialistic actor. His existence seemed like a culturally formed phenomenon—the rich, slick jerk. I figured that he would look equally jerky if his hair were short, but more of a culturally poorer, greasier jerk: an insecure, brazen man, wife-beater, child-molester, insurance scammer. His attire was so bland and ambiguous that I couldn’t even remember what it was when I
glanced away for a moment. Despite his obnoxious appearance, he seemed genuinely happy to have his family and guests seated around the table, to be providing the hearty meat to nourish them. He seemed to enjoy this incredibly instinctive paternal feeling. To me it was comically stereotypical. He man. He get food for family. He happy. I wondered what his relationship was like with his thoughtful, sad wife. They had produced a strange skinhead-musician son, an emaciated fiendish daughter, and one overly sensitive, but nearly-normal daughter, like me. This daughter sat to the right of her brother and to the left of her boyfriend—my friend and connection to this family. The daughter was the middle child of her family, the most socially capable, but the most emotionally tormented. She didn’t look like her mother, but seemed to share many of her traits (at least my preconception of her as the piano teacher). The daughter was obviously embarrassed and anxious about having two guests at the dinner table with her family. She was probably sensitive to everything that her family was doing, the intricacies that only she could notice, presuming that these unnoticeable details would make me and my friend laugh. Her room was across the hall from her sister’s room. It was full of posters of hip entertainment. There was a great glass window behind her bed that looked out onto the driveway and front yard. She had a few guitars that she didn’t know how to play, but that her boyfriend could play. I hoped that his guitar-skill reduced her evident guilt about having them and not being able to use them. Stuffed in the desk in her closet were dollar bills that her cleaning lady had found in the family’s pants’ pockets and given to her. The cleaning lady probably viewed her as the most lucid member of the family. The father asked me if I wanted beans. I gleefully responded that, yes I would love beans. “I really like beans,” I said to the father. “Me too. I really like beans, they are excellent.” “Yeah, beans are great,” my friend asserted nervously. “Sometimes they come with little bits of meat in them,” I remarked hopefully. “These beans have little bits of fat in them,” retorted the father. I could see the little bits of fat when the father put the beans on my plate. I was overjoyed that these beans had come to join my two hot dogs on the plate. But then the dagger struck. Innocently, the brother lifted a metal cover off a bowl, revealing five juicy steaks. When he ripped into the steaks with a knife, I could feel the same blade ripping a jagged line from my right cheekbone down to my stomach. As I gnawed stupidly on my hot dog, I looked at my plate and back at the steaks. The Heinz ketchup bottle looked like a Happy Meal Toy—a plastic spaceship that would break the first time you touched it. I looked back at the royal brown slabs, protected by a moat of red juice that surrounded them. I looked at the beans—their thick sauce already beginning to congeal, leaving the beans and bits of fat to protrude nakedly out of the puke-colored muck. Absent-mindedly swishing around the saliva in my mouth, I looked back at the steaks. “Oh, yeah,” the father interrupted my trance. “We, uhh, we made a few extra steaks,” he said in an
irritating, leering voice, giving one of those false sigh laughs. “Go on, take one.” But I was angry. The father’s voice, his gesticulations, and his famous actor look had begun to grate on me. Plus, I was already full and disgusted by the hot dogs—too full to “go on and take” a steak. But the steaks were incredibly enticing. So I went on and took a steak, feeling overmatched already as the father continued with his sighing laugh—really just a repeated blow out of his nose, accompanied by a smirk. I began my battle with the steak. First I shifted in my seat, suppressing a bowel movement and digesting the hot dog at the same time. The father began to talk about the magician David Blaine with his son and youngest daughter. I moved the beans around on my plate, hoping to buy time while I suppressed and digested, suppressed and digested. The mother smiled sadly at the participants of the David Blaine conversation while my friend and his girlfriend looked at each other excitedly, wondering if dinner was over yet. I was not aware of my seclusion from the dinner table as I prepared to battle the steak. The brother was convinced that David Blaine actually suffered through the events which were his tricks. He believed that he could actually hold his breath underwater for hours, and could actually sever his head harmlessly. I was finally ready. I set my fork and knife into the meat, slicing into the steak, and creating the necessary moat of red juice around the tenderloin. The father claimed that David Blaine’s tricks were embedded in his ability to create a magnificent illusion. The first few bites felt good. They were tasty, and I had managed to clear up some space in my digestive tract. The little daughter was amused by the conversation, but going along with her impish manner, she channeled her interest into sophisticated new ideas for her pleasure—all far more intricate and mischievous than any of David Blaine’s. I was halfway there by now, eating slow and steady, using David Blaine to distract myself from my uphill battle. I finished the steak; they finished the conversation. Dinner was clearly over, but we had all enjoyed our mealtime stimulation, both the intellectual and nourishing elements. No one wanted to leave the table—not the sulking mother, who had an article to finish in Mother Jones, not the gentle giant of a brother, who had some screeching rock music to make, not my friend or his girlfriend, who had some important feelings to discuss, not the little sister, who had five billion projects to start and forget to finish, not the father, who had some sketchy people to call and some money to launder, not even me, who had to furiously relieve his bowels. So, we stayed at the table. It was an unspoken agreement, but it worked perfectly. The father started talking about his relationship with Muhammad Ali, and everyone else settled back in their chairs, all sporting their own version of an uneasy grin. David Field
The Wrestler The books & mags are great about mental preparation, about visualizing success and every move you might employ in the struggle. Your busy mind picks up the anxiety and, like the manual says, transforms it into energy you can use in the match. And you do use it, that is, to good effect, subduing your fellow by total domination, limping his muscles, chinning his neck, elbowing his spine, grapevining his legs, half-nelsoning his head, pinning his blades back. The book says nothing about how to cope after the victory, after you see his face defeated, dying, after you see the crowd a day later and they don’t remember you because you don’t have on your headpiece and your nads don’t bulge out of that black and gold skin like Tommy Hilfiger high fashion and the bruises don’t show through your uniform of the day.
January 2002 John Adams
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Over The Rainbow
I. When we drift in on the seas of analogy the sheets of rain at last thrust aside for a green-brown apology. And I look at the boy I used to be. Perhaps his tears will fall - heat, steam and fog the mountains but in reality they wouldn't fall because even if I don't lose control I can still climb the stairs, and slice the difference in half sigh a wintry sigh, as if I know how you feel.
II. It was Gandhi’s birthday that day, and Yom Kippur. Murmured mantras and friendly faces Skittles trickle through my eyes, Georgia on my mind. Yeah, I’m fine, but I might lose it. Yeah, I’m good, but hard to swallow. A funny thing - the brain goes away somewhere, and something takes over, but what? Maybe a soul, but don't quote me on that. I know you're out there and I would never make you do anything you didn't want to do.
III. You're the best friend any guy could have. Our campus is wide, expansive like it could slide out from underneath you. Boi for rent, will work for the hell of it.
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Bleached and fried by your gaze and your applause it’s over. entering the strange garden of self-worth.
IV. And later on, I knew she was crying even before we found her on the stairs and stood there, with our arms heaving. Nobody cares but us. And my violin knows you better than I do. So we tripped down the hills of this barren life and into a chapel, 60 degrees And ate Thai food with our hands like it was just another day. And the moral is, you can't love without a bruise or two. “Thank you,” you said, as we walked on stage.
John Smith Johnson Smithjohn
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Raíz de Caña de Azúcar
Caña de Azúcar Crece en las colinas de St. Thomas Donde la familia de Castillo nació Y vivió por años Caña de Azúcar abarca la tierra El clima tropical Los animales indígenas de la selva tropical Comparten la tierra linda, fértil, mojada y rica El primer bocado de la fruta blanca El sabor subió a mi cuerpo Zumbó en mi cuerpo como una mosca La sensación está refrescando Se azucara el aire Se alegran las personas cerca de mí Caña de Azúcar abarca la tierra Los esclavos y mis antepasados Que trabajaban como burros Mis padres y mis hijos por venir Comparten la tierra linda, fértil, mojada y rica Los habían traído los españoles en 1506 a las Antillas Pero Cultivaron con duro trabajo, horas largas, y abuso La planta tropical que los golpeó Aún se queda y mira Esta esperando el día Un día Cuando todos compartirán la tierra y el mundo, Diverso, lindo, fértil, mojado y rico
por Blisse Wilkinson
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Sugar Cane
Sugar Cane Created in the hills of St. Thomas Where the family of Castillo was born And lived for years Sugar Cane empowers the land, The tropical climate The indigenous animals of the rain forest Share the beautiful, fertile, wet, rich land. In first bite of the white fruit The taste covers my body It buzzes through my body like a fly The sensation is refreshing It sweetens the air Everyone around me is filled with happiness Sugar cane empowers the land The slaves and my ancestors Who worked like donkeys My parents and my children to come Share the beautiful, fertile, wet and rich land Brought to the West Indies in 1506 by the Spaniards But Cultivated with hard work, long hours, and abuse The tropical plant which has been trough a beating Yet, they stay quiet and watch Waiting for the day One day When everyone will share the land and world, Diverse, beautiful, fertile, wet and rich
Blisse Wilkinson
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Lines For Nora
All night I’ve tended southward, past the sprawled unsleeping cities, down the unstarred dark, drifting toward morning. Does a dreaming lark still recall sunrise? Can a house unwalled by brute necessity still live, give way to new days? In the human heart’s dumbshow and drama, shall the unsaid things we know ever find speech? (I reach for you to say nothing and everything, drive on alone.) Now night lapses toward dawn. Light swells through rain past Richmond, bathes my truck. With luck, such pain as endings bring may help us each to own some share of greater joy, teach us to rise like birds through broken weather toward blue skies. David Rowland
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The Least Likely It was lights-out in the freshmen girls’ dormitory, and the night was settling in on Room 302. The roommate, Leah Newman, was stretched out across a neatly folded plaid comforter, giggling into her cell phone. I didn’t have to ask to know that she was talking to Martin, for it truly never varied. The veritable class couple, their nine-month romance was the envy of everyone. Photographs of wholesome, smiling people and cutouts from fashion magazines were checkered across the wall over her head, and it looked as though the world in all its revered ancientness had never seen a happier young girl. Five feet away, I raised my head from the pillow in which it had just been buried, brow wrinkled with exhaustion and exasperation. Attempting to drown out her crooning was futile. “Leah,” I grumbled “I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in two weeks, and I’ve got a Geometry test tomorrow which I will fail if you don’t shut up and let me sleep.” “Sure thing, sorry, Jen!” she chirped, and went on as though I had said nothing. I thought that surely there had never been another roommate pair whose characters more strikingly contrasted one another. I found her utterly superfluous; everything about her seemed exaggerated and ridiculous. As far as I could see, she had absolutely no business existing in this outrageous manner. I’m sure that she in turn found my disposition sour and tremendously tiresome, although because she always maintained a painful degree of kindness, she would never let on. A thousand problems scurried through my mind. It began with the impending Geometry test I hadn’t studied for, and progressed into Leah’s incessant and infuriating joy, bickering with the girl across the hall, whether or not I was going to miss breakfast the next morning, war overseas, and a pimple lurking on my left cheek. I lay there, somber, letting my infinite grievances guide me into slumber. Much to my displeasure, my drifting off was rudely interrupted. “Jen!” Leah breathed with excitement, her saccharine voice earnest.” Guess what?” “Nnn.” I groaned into my pillow. “Martin is coming over tonight.” At this I started, bolting straight up in bed. “He‘s what? You mean, he’s sneaking over to our dorm?” I asked cautiously, not sure if I wanted to know the answer. Being in the dormitory of the opposite sex, especially after hours, was strictly forbidden. If you were caught, you would be lucky not to be expelled. “Yeah, sneaking over.” Her nonchalant intonation both baffled and outraged me. “You’re gonna get caught.” “No, we will not, Jen, lighten up.” “Elizabeth Bullworth is on Dorm Duty tonight, and she will catch you.” I proclaimed with confidence. Elizabeth Bullworth, our formidable Dorm Head, was a stretched out prune of a woman, thirty-seven going on sixty with dark hair done up in a prim bun over a thin-lipped, sharp-eyed face. It was common knowledge that Leah and I were her two most hated students in the dormitory, Leah for her intimate public displays of affection to Martin in the dorm lounge, and I for my sour and misanthropic ways. Since we happened to share a room, we were two rotten peas in a pod, to be sure, and not to be trusted.
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“Oh, stop overreacting.” What incredulous behavior! Still, it was her choice. Why had she even mentioned this business to me?” "All right, then. Just go to the empty room next door or something, leave me out of it. I’ve got a Geometry test tomorrow, you know, which I’m going to fail if I don’t go to sleep right now. “ “No problem!” she affirmed cheerfully. I wanted to snap back, but she had already resumed her phone chatter with Martin. Indignant, I began to drift off again. I attempted to remember theorems and postulates, but they seemed to slip out of my mind as though through a sieve. Once again, I began to fall into unconsciousness. It seemed that I had only just drifted off, when I was rudely awoken by Leah shaking my arm, the corners of her eyes full of something I couldn’t define. “Hey, Jen, guess what?” “Get off me, God, Leah! Can’t you leave me alone for once?” This was really too much. "Andy is coming over tonight, too.” At this I was merely perplexed. Andy, Martin's roommate, was That Freshman On Varsity Basketball. Quite attractive, he elicited the attention of many upperclasswomen. What his business was in joining Leah and Martin on their ridiculous midnight adventure, I hadn’t the slightest idea. I didn’t want to satisfy Leah with a response, but curiosity eventually overcame arrogance, and I sputtered a confused “Why?” “Oh, I don’t know.” she laughed. “But it’s going to be so much fun!” I rolled my eyes. I had really had enough. “Leah, you know I haven’t got time for this. I’m going to bed; I’ve got a Geo-” “My God, I know you’ve got a Geometry test tomorrow!” she interrupted. “But you know what, I think you should really come along, Jen.” I stared at her blankly. Come along! The very audacity of it! Throwing everything to the winds for a Sunday night romping around after hours with my roommate, her ridiculous boyfriend, and Andy? I was about to come back with a dry rebuttal, when, to my great surprise, I considered her offer. It was entirely beyond any reason or sensibility, and the consequences would be dire, were we caught. Somehow, my conscience drifting between Geometry and my roommate’s giddy grin, it began to sound strangely appealing. The very idea somehow stirred an unfamiliar twinge of excitement within me, which seemed to slice through my exhaustion, leaving me wide awake. “What time are we meeting them?” I finally asked. “You mean you’re coming?” she exclaimed. “Yeah.” I conceded, feeling my heart pumping blood and adrenaline throughout my body. “We’re letting them in through the back door of the basement at midnight.” “And Elizabeth Bullworth?” “God, Jen, take a risk for once in your life.” “All right, then.” The clock turned to two before midnight sooner than I’d have liked, and it was with terrible anticipation that we opened our door and ventured out into the hallway. The silence was unbearable, each step lasted an eternity as
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we made it to the end of the hallway and began our descent into the stairwell. The adrenaline coursed through my body as we edged down four flights of stairs to the basement, and every sensation was increased a hundred fold. The brush of my roommate’s sleeve against the railing filled my entire body with chills. I could hardly believe I was following through, but oddly enough, I wasn’t regretting my agreement. Tentatively opening the basement door, it was quite the shock to see the twin figures of Martin and Andy filling the door frame. Letting them in, we all doubled up with silent laughter at what we had just gotten away with, and made our way to the center of the room, so that we could see one another in the light. We were an obscure group, to be sure. Andy was an imposingly tall figure in athletic shorts and a grey sweatshirt, and he seemed to carry with him that air of arrogance that is characteristic of basketball players with talent. He could probably bench press Martin, who, though equally tall, was a lanky kid with huge eyes and an uncertain temper. He wrapped his long arms around Leah, and it seemed that we had done it. “So, whatcha wanna do?” whispered Martin. “Well, we could go to our room...” suggested Leah. “What!” I exclaimed. “Isn’t it enough that we’re here?!” However, they all seemed quite in agreement with Leah, and it was with reluctance that I found myself gingerly hoisting myself again up the steps. My mind rushed, trying to think of excuses to use if Elizabeth Bullworth came bursting into the stairwell. None came to mind. What on earth could we say? At last, we made it to our room and turned the lock behind us. For the first time in probably half an hour, we breathed. After a few minutes of awkward conversation, Martin and Leah abruptly left to go to the empty room next door, saying they’d be back in fifteen minutes. Suddenly, it was just Andy and I. The minute the door closed I cursed my roommate for getting me into this. I sat uncomfortably on my bed as he took a place in my chair. I hoped he didn’t find the old gum stuck under it. “Why you hang out with wack kids?” he asked abruptly. He had a touch of a Boston accent and seemed to skip over some words in his sentences. “Because they’re my friends, I guess.” I shot at him. “They messed up, you know that?” “I guess that you could say that.” “They be wilin'.” “They’re what?” Our conversation went on briefly in this manner but quickly dwindled due to lack of mutual interests. If anyone walked in here right now, I thought, they would be absolutely baffled. Andy and Jen, the basketball jock and the crazy cynic, alone together in a little room after hours! I don’t think they could have even comprehended it, and I was having enough difficulty figuring out how it had happened, myself. A wave of exhaustion overcame me, and I lay down on my bed. To my great shock, Andy lay down beside me. My bed scarcely had sufficient room for me, let alone this giant, imposing personage. He shoved some Geometry notes off of the bed as he lay down, and they scattered among the laundry strewn about the floor. Theorems and postulates had never seemed so distant. This left him sprawled out on his back, and I lay precariously on my side at
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the edge of the bed. “You room with Leah again next year?” he inquired in a drowsy mumble. “Nah.” I answered sleepily. “How come?” “Just look at her! She’s all ‘Isn’t life dandy?’ all the time, it’s enough to drive a person crazy!” “Mmm.” He acknowledged, clearly not interested. But once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. And it does drive me crazy, you know. What in the world is there to be so happy about? She’s such a delusional. Sometimes I wonder, though... how would it feel to be so happy all the time? Wouldn’t you feel, so, you know, happy? Oh, you know what I mean...” I trailed off. Andy just stared, and I bit my lip. I’d done it. I’d gone and let my melodramatic cynicism bubble over. “You know,” he eventually replied, “it could be worse.” “What could?” I snapped. “You know...” he paused again. I turned around in bed and glared at him. “Life.” he said, struggling for the right words. “It could be worse than this.” “Well, it could also be a hell of a lot better!” I retorted. “Yo, chill!” he laughed. I retaliated with my most hostile look. I wanted to spit verbal venom, but I was so overcome that words failed me. This was well beyond the realm of ridiculous. This transcended any sort of irrationality that I had ever imagined. It was some odd hour of the early morning and I was lying in my bed with Andy of all people in the world, and he, who had utterly invaded my privacy called my friends “wack kids”, and gotten me into this quandary, dared to tell me to ‘chill’? And then, somehow, simultaneously, we began to laugh. Quietly, as we did not want to be discovered by Elizabeth Bullworth, but the sort of silent shaking where you can’t control yourself and you have to bury your face into the sheets, your toes curling because you’re laughing so hard. This was beyond anything we could ever have conceived; it was the least likely circumstance either of us hadn’t ever pictured. What else could we do but laugh? In our silent hysterics, I felt something come to touch my hand. Andy was squeezing my hand. It was utterly incomprehensible, but at that moment, in the logic of the night, nothing had ever seemed more sensible. God knows how long we lay, drenched in our own laughter and grasping hands in this utterly new and giddy sort of way, holding hands as if to hold onto this new kind of laughter. Right on cue, Leah and Martin came in, and they, too, became enraptured with that mad bug of laughter. It seemed the only thing to be done. Lying in bed with Andy’s hand in mine, looking into my roommate and Martin‘s laughing faces, I wondered if they had connived this. I would never know, so it was all I could do to join in the laughter, my face a reflection of my roommate’s for once instead of our usual stark contrast. I’d probably never understand the source of her endless happiness. But in this idiosyncratic turn of fate, I had somehow found something to laugh about. It was only going to exist in these few hours between these four walls, but for now, what was beyond impossible and beyond inconceivable was real. And so we lay. Four freshmen, three in the morning, two beds, laughing at the beautiful irrationality of something well beyond us. Lilly Richardson
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Poem for Restriction To my 98 muses I dedicate these lines
What do you think Goes on in the mind of that foolish adult Who sits over you of a Saturday morning? Do you imagine that he sees himself a Lord Dispensing favor to his subjects Enjoying the view from his mighty throne Frowning on those who might disobey? Maybe you have guessed Something different But you will never (I’ll bet) Suppose that he writes Verses to your paperboard crimes And that the exercise of thought Makes minutes fly Far faster than the exercise of power.
Peter Weis ’78
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Sailboats
One must have a feel for the ocean and its currents to know the uncertain flight of birds in a V to trust the wind and ride here and there leaving a ripple in your tail and never turning back. Then one would know what it's like to have the sun setting in your face and the relief of no regrets, and one would wander foreverwith its mast always open welcoming the shifts in the weather The one day, a long way off while stuck in low tide and aching one might realize that although the ride's been grand it should probably turn around and wander back to where it once began.
L. Samson
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The Artist’s Model
I. Near, glass splintered over a black cloth. Light, strong from the left – soft and scattered all the rest Figure behind a gauze veil Close to a window and the night sky. Beyond, the arc of the compass.
II. Bowed head, eyes covered. Hands, outstretched over A bowl of water on a walnut table, That reflects her face. Hidden from my eyes.
M. Pawley
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Pretentious Poem
a thing of yesterday is grammar skipping lines before they’ve even been usedand, punctuating! equally; curiously? with allusions to Freud and nature! meaning something you have to analyze into meaninglessness to understand, a monument of anathemic hagiography! (whatever that means) so long as your eloquence baffles you win. little stains around the edges from coffee; bought at four bucks a cup and that’s a small.
Lilly Richardson
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War Poem # 5
I floated through the moonlit sky slow enough to see the shadows of haystacks and scarecrows and hedgerows in the field below. Although the air fairly choked with parachutes I was alone, the last man on earth in the sky and, being a student of these things, I thought this a Dickinsonian moment, no green fly but certainly the air that buoys it and transmits its buzz, no grief but certainly the calm that spawns it, no thought but possibly the peace that makes it pregnant. The scarecrow below me rushes up, not a scarecrow now but another floater like me, another man with a gun.
November 2001
John Adams
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Untitled
Under the influence of digital steroids The Head careens, impatiently toward the twenty second century Lashed to the throttle of internal combustion The hand relentlessly reshapes the landscape Rendered virtually helpless The heart is torn asunder, without missing a beat
t. s. sage
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She works at The Panda
She works at The Panda, a sleazy bar downtown In her violet, vulgar, velour pantsuit She waits on men like Fred Who sidle up and ask for something a little bit more But she just surreptitiously dreams of sea shells And organic time In between cigarettes Where there is no limit No blatant bruises No pain anymore, I guess. And no Cheerios thrown on the cold linoleum floor.
Meredith Storrs
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Acknowledgment The staff of Mandala extends its heartfelt thanks & best wishes for the future to those faculty & staff members who will be leaving the School at the end of this year.
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Editorial Staff Brooke Evans - I Esther Gutow - I Caroline Henderson - II Yuki Hirai - III Christina McCausland - I Diana Parker - I Frank H. Redner - II Hannah Rider - II Gilmour Spears - II Rachael Sperry - III Meredith Storrs - II Angus Wan - I Philip J. Calabria - Faculty Advisor Note: Roman numerals refer to the number of terms participated in.
Layout, printing and binding by TigerPress, Northampton, Massachusetts Printed with soy ink. Environmentally friendly printing since 1985.
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