Mandala 2010

Mandala

2010

Mandala: An Art and Literary Magazine

May, 2010 Northfield Mount Hermon School Mount Hermon, MA 01354 i

Table of Contents Autumn...................................................... ManYi Au............................................. Cover Winter....................................................... Catherine Blewer..........................................1 Beauty........................................................ Gillian Friedlander.......................................2 Ezra............................................................ Augustus Potter.............................................3 Ovetrure..................................................... Junius Ross-Martin.......................................4 Underground City...................................... Hansen Cheng..............................................5 Speed......................................................... Soumynona..................................................6 msitu.......................................................... Saskia Giramma...........................................7 Mi Nombre................................................ Sierra Dickey................................................8 My Name................................................... Sierra Dickey................................................9 Jetty and Children...................................... William Werblow........................................10 Collage....................................................... Megan Denison.......................................... 11 Echo........................................................... M. Edwards...............................................12 Portrait....................................................... Tong Liu....................................................13 Standing on a Rooftop............................... Wylie Earp.................................................14 Design........................................................ Min Kyung Kim.........................................17 January Thaw............................................. William Roberts..........................................18 December................................................... Oona Kilcommons......................................19 Guanajuato................................................ Tassos Bareiss..............................................20 Laps........................................................... Soumynona................................................21 My Mother Killed...................................... Charles Milliken.........................................22 Sloane........................................................ Brady Ward................................................23 Northampton............................................. Cade Halkyard...........................................24 Where Does Childhood Go?...................... Mallory Pipich............................................25 Hair........................................................... Corey Atkins...............................................26 Self-Portrait................................................ Nora Hefner...............................................27 Musician's Shadowbox............................... ManYi Au..................................................28 Sleeping Sorely........................................... Oona Kilcommons......................................29 Bugles & Death.......................................... Charles Milliken.........................................30 Rust on 3 Beauties...................................... Mark Yates.................................................31 Volcano ..................................................... Tassos Bareiss..............................................32 Acknowledgement........................................................................................................35 Editorial Staff ..............................................................................................................37

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I dream of painting and then, I paint my dream.

Vincent van Gogh

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Beauty I see beauty where others never could.

It rests in your deep wrinkles.

It burrows underneath your papery skin.

It lays over your pale, watery, eyes.

And when you smile it hangs on at the corners and swims in the dips of your single, lone dimple.

And when you cry it rides the tears down your worn, tanned cheeks.

And when you take my hand in yours I can see it in the cracks and calluses on your palms. I can feel it in the warmth you radiate into my own smooth, untouched hands.

And when you say your good byes it coats you in a blanket, an everlasting blanket laid over top.

And those who spend hours looking, but never see that beauty, aren’t looking hard enough.

And when they call themselves beautiful years from now, they will lack those wrinkles and cracks and warmth. They will lack that everlasting blanket.

Gillian Friedlander

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Overture The conductor stands on the corner; In Tim’s, a backwards flat-brim, A heavy coat and all black denim.

Calling upon his overture: sirens While upon him the resplendent streetlight Quietly reveals his adumbral figure on the sidewalk; He turns his gun on its side For the look not the clout Squeezes the metal; Resistance mounts on the trigger And finally a release The metal skin of the bullet reverberates the sound A single bell tolls with every loss of life When the lead finds its place on the ground; On a street a symphony beam’s Can only concrete hear through the screams?

Junius Ross-Martin

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Speed Sometimes I think I'm on speed.

There's so much built up energy, I don't know what to do with myself.

I tie myself to my desk chair and feel my torso wiggle and squirm with the sheer need to move.

My legs twitch and pull against the ropes.

Twine cuts into my pale legs.

Anything I say either makes you laugh or wince and turn away.

I don't lash out in cruelty I try to tell you.

It's merely too much energy coursing through me.

I sit alone, quiet, feeling the rush. Keeping it to myself.

The worst part is the crash. Sudden. Quick. Crushing.

All motivation, all joy, all of the bottled energy zooms out of my feet leaving quicker than you could ever imagine.

I'm left deflated, empty, motionless in this chair.

The twine eases.

Soumynona

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Mi Nombre

Mis padres necesitaban una palabra suave para poner en equilibrio el ruido firme Escocés de “Dickey”. Sierra.

Significa hoja serrada, no lo heredé de nadie a excepción de las montañas. La Sierra Nevada, una cordillera salvaje, de belleza feroz, que se sienta, al oeste de los Estados Unidos. Mis padres que tienen una pasión por las montañas y la naturaleza real, me nombraron en honor de la belleza y fuerza de las montañas, una de las últimas cosas naturales que todavía están intactas, y son resistentes.

Mi apellido era siempre un chiste para chicos perversos. Durante la escuela primaria odiaba el tiempo en que la maestra pasaba la lista. Yo me sentaba, comprimía mi cuerpo, intentaba entrar adentro de mi silla. Quería cubrir mis mejillas rojas y mis labios mordidos.

“… Dickey?” Dijo la profesora,

“ Phhhhh, ja.”

“Jaja jaaaaaaaa..”

Chistes y risas sucias procedían del salón. Por eso, odiaba mi nombre, Sierra era extraño al lado de todos los Sarahs y Kates. Y Dickey era asqueroso y además vergonzoso.

Finalmente, me detuve con esa trayectoria de ideas. Un día durante el campamento de verano, una chica que yo admiraba mucho, me dijo que tenía un nombre especial, que necesitaba ser la dueña de mi nombre. Necesitaba hacerlo mío.

Sierra Dickey era una combinación especial, las palabras juntas, tenían un buen sonido. Empecé a creer eso, y después caminé con mi nombre, con un pequeño orgullo en mis pasos.

“Sierra Dickey”, tenia un sonido que decía: optimista, animada, palabras de sol. No seria una broma más. Sierra Dickey no iba a ser una chica con labios mordidos quien quiere ocultarse adentro de su silla. Yo quería que ella fuera saliente, extrovertida, definida y punzante como las montañas.

Sierra Dickey

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My Name

My parents needed a soft word to balance the strong Scottish sound of “Dickey”. Sierra means saw. I am not named after anybody but the mountains. The Sierra Nevada, a wild mountain range of fierce beauty that sits to the west of the United States. My parents, who have a passion for mountains and nature, named me to honor the beauty and strength of the mountains, one of the few natural treasures that is still untouched and that resists.

My last name was always a joke for bad boys. During my time in elementary school I hated the roll calling time. I sat there, shrinking and hiding under my chair. I wanted to cover my blushed cheeks and my bitten lips.

“… Dickey?” called the teahcer

“ Phhhhh, ha.”

“haha haaaaaaaa..”

Jokes and dirty smiles coming from the room. That is why I hated my name. Sierra was weird next to all the Sarahs and Kates and Dickey was nasty and shameful.

Finally, I stopped thinking like that. One day, during summer camp, a girl I particularly admired, told me that I had a very special name. That I needed to be in charge of my name. I had to own it. Sierra Dickey was a especial combination, the words together had a good sound. I started to believe in that and soon I walked with my name, with some pride in my steps.

“Sierra Dickey” had a sound that said, optimistic, enthusiastic, sunny words. I wouldn’t be a joke anymore. Sierra Dickey would not be a girl with bitten lips who tries to hide under her chair. I wanted her to be brave, extrovert, determined and sharp, like the mountains.

Sierra Dickey

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Echo

Gregorian chant Distant Crimson lit memory

M. Edwards

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Standing on a Rooftop I stood o n the roof of the condemned First National Bank and Trust in Greenfield, my friends were frantically scrambling down the fire escape, and the police cruiser was circling like a shark around the building next door, getting into position to block the alleyway. Coco and Emily made it to the bottom of the ladder first and were trying to climb over the fence.

Imogene and I were still on the ladder when they made it over the fence and paused on the other fire escape.

“Go, get outta here!” I tried to yell as quietly as I could, but it was too late. The car had made it around to the opening of the alley and the cop was climbing out of the front seat.

“Climb the fuck down from there!” His shout carried around the edge of the building next door. He had seen Emily and Coco, but the part of the roof that Imogene and I were on wasn’t visible from the end of the alley. The two of them glanced at us quickly, fear in their eyes, fear in ours. They stepped slowly towards the cop and out of my view.

“What do we do?” Imogene whispered.

“Aw, shit” I didn’t move.

It ended dramatically, the scene with the rooftop and the police, but that’s not what first comes to mind when I look back on last summer. The summer of 2009 was a time I won't soon forget. There was a lonely slowness in the passage of time, a restlessness in me I couldn’t fulfill. My school year had ended anti-climactically, many people leaving before I had the chance to say goodbye. After the buses left, my school friends, the ones new to that year, and I drove from campus to the swimming spot on the Green River. That was one of the only times we would see each other as a full group for the rest of the summer, preferring mostly to hang out with our old friends. A week later I met a girl at a local school dance in Greenfield.

We talked on the phone nightly for the rest of the season, a relationship that would turn destructive and spiteful but continued for months out of a lack of activity and a mutual desire for something better than what either of us could provide.

The school year, for me, had been spent in a different world from the rest of my friends. The prep school that consumed my life, that I loved, had kept me out of touch with my old friends who went to the public schools scattered across the valley.

Their schools stayed in session weeks after I got off, and in those first two weeks I settled into a routine that would last the rest of the summer. I would wake up late and spend my days watching movies, fantasizing about the lives of the characters on and off screen, riding my bike over the roads in town, then walking in the woods behind my house or climbing on the rooftops of the buildings in town. Each night I would have long conversations on the phone, with varying degrees of sincerity.

My favorite roof was that of the elementary school I never went too. I had figured out how to climb from the tool shed to the roof the year my family moved to this town, and back then I would go there to read batman comics. Roof climbing had become an almost religious experience by the end of the school year. It was a search for that self induced isolation that is so different from anything imposed, an intimate sense of separation that most people can get from a partner.

When my old friends did get out of school, we reunited as quickly as possible. We were still close. I felt like I was with my brothers and sisters more than anything else, but I couldn’t help noticing that new social lines had formed. As close as we were as a family, there were divisions. The rumors I had heard over the year - “Kate hates her school” “Max is a killjoy, and he only hangs out with seniors” “Dalia did cocaine” “Nobody gets along with Eliot any more” “Mia had sex with this guy named Alan” - were much more believable when I could actually see how much people had changed. Over the summer I tried to

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keep in touch with them, I talked with individuals every once in a while, and we swapped stories about the school year. But we rarely saw each other in person after that first day.

In truth I was terrible at keeping in touch and prep school was no longer an excuse; my mind was elsewhere. I returned to my daily routine. Every once in a while I would steal bottles of alcohol from the handful of weddings my family went to.

The bottles would remain under my bed, the thrill lying in the idea of the theft and possession rather than the actual consumption. I would shoplift condoms that would also stay under the bed unused or tucked into my wallet, where the packaging would start to look beat up after a few days.

The summer dragged on. I climbed the roof of my school’s Arts Center, something that had been a goal of mine for a long time, though the day left something to be desired. I worked at my school, making the beds entire dorms at a time and waxing walls and chair surfaces that already looked perfectly clean to me. I did a week of farm work, long hot days for which I received a genuine sense of accomplishment. I went to arts camp, an environment of surreal joy and color.

There where memorable times. The Green River Music Festival, with the crowds and the hot air balloons, where I needed to walk away from a group of friends with a younger girl who felt nervous about smoking her first time. Fourth of July in Montague, the field where we watched the bonfire, and the playground of the school were all the teenagers went late at night. That was a good time.

Eventually, when I could count the number of days left in August on my hands, I realized that I had missed the opportunity of spending the summer with my friends. I felt disappointed but I also felt motivated to get everybody together one last time before school started. I made the phone calls to my old friends, they all wanted to come but only a few were able to. I also called friends from school, hoping to get together to see each other again before the year started.

We all spent the day in Greenfield. From the start the two groups didn’t meld as seamlessly as I had naively imagined.

Everybody got along well enough at first, but by the end of the day there were people trying to leave the larger group to go off and do things by themselves. It was my idea to sneak into and explore the condemned apartment building across from the People’s Pint. I had broken in before; I loved the interior covered in trash and parts of the collapsing building. Only a handful of us went in, further dividing the group. That building has been torn down since then.

The apartment building didn’t satisfy me though; the bank had been in the back of my mind all day. It was the largest building in town that I knew how to climb, but I had never actually been on the roof. I had heard all sorts of stories about that bank back in elementary school: that millions of dollars were stolen and the bank had to close, that eventually the empty building was judged by the town to be unsafe to enter because of anthrax. Whatever its past, the bank is undergoing a major renovation now, and the presence of the workers prevented me from climbing it that summer, but the workers weren’t there that day.

It was getting late when I proposed the idea. Only three of my friends wanted to go, all of them from my old school.

The rest of the people there stayed on the town commons in front of the building while we walked into the alley between the movie theater and the bank. The emergency doors to the different cinemas line the theater’s side of the alley. None of the alarms work. The projectionists go outside to smoke every once in a while, but the alley was empty that day. We climbed up the fire escape to a small roof that had a metal ladder that went all the way up to the roof of the bank. Then there was a ten foot fence with barbed wire that separated the fire escape from that part of the roof, but I knew a spot where the fence ended and you could climb over relatively easily. We all got over and climbed slowly up the ladder.

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The view from the top of that building is incredible; you can see the whole town differently. I stood in the middle of the roof watching the sun setting on the rooftops over the rest of the town.

“Don’t get too close to the edges.” We sat in the middle of the roof for a while - Emily, Coco, Imogene, and I. We talked about the day and about the summer. I took my backpack off and hid some bottles I had decided to get rid of. I hid the alcohol underneath small piles of bricks over on the roof of the theater. When I got back the three of them were leaning over the edge of the building.

“Man, don’t go over there…” They started waving at our friends on the commons. I stayed near the middle. Our friends started waving back, but not in gestures of greeting. They were waving dramatically with worried looks on their faces.

We on the rooftop didn’t immediately notice the blue and white car with the sirens on top; when we did see it we didn’t have time to think, we ran for the ladder.

The cop had blocked off the alley easily and saw Emily and Coco first. He shouted at them and they started walking slowly towards the car.

“I don’t think he saw us”, I whispered to Imogene.

“What’s going to happen?” she breathed.

“All of you” the cop barked “…damn it” I thought. Imogene and I climbed back over the fence, onto the fire escape, and down to the police officer.

We stood in a line in front of the car, the theater to our left, the boarded up back of the building to our right. He asked for our names, Coco first. She glanced at all of us, trying to communicate with her eyes. In that instant I started running through fake names in my head, creating fake back stories for them just like that assignment in acting class. It all depended on how Coco answered.

“Coco Moore” she choked out, her real name. The rest of us followed suit. The cop informed us that a town council meeting was getting out across the street and that we had been seen by the entire city government and dozens of cops that were leaving the building. The whole time he sounded like he would rather have been anywhere else. He informed us that a court summons would be coming in the mail.

Telling my parents was difficult, and the punishment I got was intense and left resentment in my house for weeks. Our court date was on, of all days, September 11th. The hearing was scheduled during my free block at school, so I never missed a minute of class; everybody assumed that I wore dress clothes that day out of mourning.

At the Greenfield Juvenile Court they’re used to dealing with actual delinquents, truly directionless kids. The court chose let us off with no criminal record, no public service, and no parole officer. We didn’t even have to write letters of apology.

This, I think, was because of our brief prepared statements. I was honest with mine; I said exactly why I climbed on the roof, what it meant to me then.

It was a long and embarrassing process. I felt terrible. Still, the fact that we got caught gave my old group of friends a common experience, a story none of them could believe. For better or for worse it brought together all of us who stood on the building that day.

Wylie Earp

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December His approach is like that Of the downy owl Of pale eyes And silent, soft flight.

With the tapered radiance Arcing from behind his pearlescent face The sky adores this.

He: the white splendor of morning Just before dawn.

His icy feet grace the land With a frozen and frigid finesse This treaded path kissed by his rime Is slowly turning to diamonds.

Kingly boots of cold, of quiet.

I step down from my window into The chilly, silver softness My feet freezing and cheeks red.

My clothes I abandon, so that I may be touched by his presence.

Breathing grows harder, But my heart is braver.

A beloved fool danced naked in the Blanched, whirling of the world That snowy night.

Oona Kilcommons

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Laps When swimming laps you need to tie a rope, around you and your opponent.

Not a lose rope, dragging behind in the depths of the pool, but a tight, suffocating rope.

Wrap it tightly around each ankle, pull until it leaves bloody marks behind.

Move up to the thighs and keep pulling. 'Watch the rosy red of the blood mix with the mud brown of the rope.

Tighten it around the hips, yank it hard against the bare bone see it cut deep into the fleshy stomach.

Breathing should now be a struggle. . twist it snug around the neck and step up to the starting blocks.

Swimmers take your mark.

GO! Never should that rope slack.

It should only cut deeper and deeper as you try to pull ahead.

The blues of the water turning red are a sign of success.

Make him bleed, make him whimper.

Never let him out of your sight.

That rope should continue to cut and pull until the very last second when you pound into the wall your opponent lagging behind.

Soumynona

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My Mother Killed

My mother killed Some chickens in our backyard.

At night, the coyotes come to lick the grass.

Charles Milliken

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Where Does Childhood Go? Where does childhood go?

I went to look for it the other day, and it was gone.

I searched high and low, Lifting rocks, finding only spiders, Checking drawers and finding only paperwork and essays.

Someone probably has a jar somewhere, of childhoods taken too early, of unfinished laughs and fun.

Or maybe it just slips away, a red balloon floating up to the clouds and beyond.

Maybe we misplace it, and there is a lost-and-found bin somewhere of forgotten fire trucks and melted ice-cream sundaes.

I intend to find my childhood, wherever it went.

I don’t care what adults say about growing up, I have block towers to finish, and dandelion chains to make.

There is an unfinished game of flashlight tag, and pet rocks that need to be fed.

Mallory Pipich

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Hair When I met you there was almost none Just short strong studs that poked my fingers when I ran my hands though In the cool autumn wind your ears turned pink and all kinds of hats were compiled to replace the missing strings that I had only seen in photographs, caressing your neck and warming your shoulders Snow stuck in little clumps, gently resting on the tips and you shook your head spastically as we laughed The flakes sprayed our faces By spring the ends were long enough to pull up in a tiny bob on the top of your head, supported by thousands of clips taming the loose strands Summer dresses clung and swirled around your knees the same way uneven bangs twisted in and around your earrings; the threads grew like vines, wrapping around silver hoops As time slithered into September, your ponytail softened into hazel The color of your eyes The color of perfectly toasted marshmallows The color of cool mud on a hot day Rich, Bold, Creamy and Deep Soon, short French braids flicked on your shoulders I remember running in from the rain one day, and watching each strand rise up to the sky as they dried, as if trying to pull from you and escape But then, after you gently brushed them through, they hugged you again, caressing your scalp in ways I wish I knew how As I realized time was growing short, longer it grew And faster now Thick, heavy, though it still danced with life and body Elegant pins and flowers decorated it daily Tiny clips left on the dock as we splashed below I spent the last summer evenings running my fingers through the silky fountains So soft, so warm, so smooth And then we cut it In one giant snip it was gone Like me As I turned to say goodbye I saw you there in your bare feet and dirty bathrobe The dawn broke the window and gleamed off the strands on the floor Your eyes Your sad smile Your hair Corey Atkins

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Sleeping Sorely Solely quiet, and alone With hands all cold and feet of stone, I keep my time with words I read My mind is barren, no fertile seed.

I curl for warmth and undectection, Somewhat afraid of introspection.

I wait, though I may weep, Yet still, I sorely sleep.

I’d keep a diary for a day But the ink will dim and fade to gray, I feel it now, this sudden jet But fairly soon I will forget, Just what it means to feel so hard As a magician, who draws the wrong card.

I wait, though my body cries, For velvet sleep to come and close my eyes.

Gentle dawn is letting down My melting self to solid ground, I keep my fingers crossed behind And shadowy Doubt haunts my mind.

I promise that I will not falter Yet like a cloud, my mind does alter.

This hard a day, it feels so long, Hopefully sleep will cure my wrong.

I dream of light, of feathery fall And in my heart I’ve seen it all.

To face the morn, I shake my spear And yell out, for all to hear: “I am a knight! I fear not!

My heart of hearts hasn’t forgot!”

I know myself, I’m strong, I hope And still I climb this sleepless slope.

Oona Kilcommons

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Bugles & Death k k k caps on my fingers— de mented de luded de liscious.

Charles Milliken

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The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.

Friedrich Nietzsch

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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

Jack Gobillot Yichen Li JaHyun Song

Philip J. Calabria - Faculty Advisor

Layout, printing and binding by TigerPress, Northampton, Massachusetts Printed with soy ink. Environmentally friendly printing since 1985.

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