plaid reality.

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reality. plaid magazine vol. 54 2011

plaid reality. vol. 54 2011 winchester thurston school

“Everything you can imagine is real.” –Pablo Picasso No one experiences reality in the same way. The way we experience the world around us is based on our own thoughts, ideas, and imaginings. Art is how we take these personal realities– this combination of the real and the imagined– and turn them into something concrete. plaid reality aims to take the artistic visions of each of us and express them as something real.

prose.

table of contents.

4 Imagination by Madeline Dressen 24 The Piano Room by Maya Muenzer 36 The War Against Plumbing by Penelope Smith 42 No Manmade Light by Themba Searles 50 Boshi by Nathan Siegel 53 Wooden Deck by Jess Block 57 Chatting with the Artist: Interview with Blaine Siegel by Melissa Rostek 62 Diver by Drea Ortiz +XPDQ &RQĂ LFW LQ WKH =RPELH $SRFDO\SVH E\ %HQ *UDQGLV 3OD\LQJ *RG E\ 0HOLVVD 5RVWHN 77 Master Wei by Charles Lehman 78 Returned by Alli Kunkle

poetry.

Rush by Elizabeth Friedman 7 1RW *RG E\ 6DP 5XVVHOO Who Is Her Kind? by Alli Kunkle 10 %HDXW\ E\ $OH[ =XNRII Nice Car by Jess Block 15 Not to Be Confused by DeVaughn Robinson 16 7KH 8OWLPDWH 3HDFH E\ =RH =LVVX The Watergun Fight by Antonia D’Emilio 20 WYEP’s Wednesday Evening Mix with Tania by Jess Block 27 Beach Chair Poetry by Jess Block 28 0\ %URWKHU WKH $UWLVW DW 6HYHQWHHQ E\ 'DLV\ =KX All Ages by Brendan Agnew 32 6XUHO\ 1DWXUH 0H DQG <RX E\ $OH[ =XNRII Rabbit/Death by Ramsey Daniels 38 5HYHO E\ $OH[ =XNRII Extended Day by Ramsey Daniels 41 6RPH 3HRSOH 7HOO 0H ´*HW D /LIHÂľ E\ $UL 6FKXPDQ An Actor Remembers Lincoln by Charles Lehman 46 5HĂ HFWLQJ 8SRQ 'LVDVWHU E\ 6DPDQWKD :DQNR *OREV RI WKH 8QLYHUVH E\ %HQ *UDQGLV *XOOLYHU¡V 7UDYHOV SW E\ $UL 6FKXPDQ +RZ 7R 6WDON LQ D 0DWLVVH *DOOHU\ E\ -HVV %ORFN Hermit Crab by Lisa Fierstein 68 6QRZ $QJHO E\ *UDFH +DPLOWRQ 9DUJR Music by Rina Petek 72 2FWREHU &DPSĂ€UHV E\ 0HOLVVD 5RVWHN

photography. Swirling Light by Camille Petricola 5 6XQÁRZHU E\ &DPLOOH 3HWULFROD Gate by Lisa Fierstein 9 Women by Camille Petricola 10 Inside Flower by Josh Loevner 13 Beads of Light by Benjamin Chait 14 Lily by Aaren Barge 19 0LFURSKRQH E\ 0LFKDHO &XUU\

art.

1 Marbilized Paper by Lisa Fierstein 2 Fantasy Drawings by Tori Hirata 17 Skeleton by Josh Loevner 20 Watergun Photograms by Melissa Rostek 22 Designs by Carly Heywood 22 Designs by Tori Hirata 24 Flower by Blake Uretsky 25 Spoon Bracelet by Tori Hirata 25 Piano by Lisa Fierstein *UDIÀWL E\ %ODNH 8UHWVN\ 34 Mosaic by Melissa Rostek 39 Dotted Pot by Blake Uretsky 45 Portrait by Josh Loevner 54 Mask Collage by Alli Kunkle 58 Woman by Carly Heywood 0DWLVVH &XWRXW E\ /LVD )LHUVWHLQ 71 Charcoal Woman by Josh Loevner

Rowboat by Kaila Yallum 29 Honey Bee by Josh Loevnver 31 Faucet by Lisa Fierstein 37 Bright Light by Benjamin Chait 40 Firework by Rick Thompson 43 Actor by Ari Schuman 47 In Rememberance by Aaren Barge 48 Paper Cranes by Lisa Fierstein 51 Lantern by Ally Bartlett 52 7KH (QVXLQJ $IWHU E\ /LVD )LHUVWHLQ 'LYLQJ 3HQJXLQ E\ $OO\ %DUWOHWW +RUURU 0RYLH 7UHHV E\ %HQMDPLQ &KDLW +RUURU 0RYLH :RPDQ E\ %HQMDPLQ &KDLW 3RODURLG 3KRWRV E\ 1RDK 9LWR &UDE E\ 5LFN 7KRPSVRQ Drummer by Elizabeth Friedman 73 Wood and Newspaper After a Fire by Aaren Barge 74 0RQNH\ E\ $UL 6FKXPDQ Returning Boy by Camille Petricola 79

I MAGINATI ON by Madeline Dressen

What if it was possible to expand upon reality in a forcefully exclusive atmosphere, limiting the unrealistic behaviors that want our thoughts to run wild? What if as we aged we were able to explore the undeveloped nature of our beings, like children with imaginary friends who they can only see– exploring ideas that one would not think possible, except the few? What if we were able to go above normality and force us, the human race, to visualize animals in clouds, frogs doing yoga, or like many young children, makebelieve characters perhaps by the name Bob? The difference between realistic and unrealistic, learning and developing, seeing and believing, are what disable us from growth in our imagination. Not learning, but beginning to imagine developing a new intellectual capacity, which will allow one to exceed the basics, and explore the obscurities through creativity.

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Digital Photo by Camille Petricola

Digital Photo by Camille Petricola

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Rush

by Elizabeth Friedman

It came in a wave, like the icy cold saltwater of a splash in July greeted by the burning hot sand, the warm sea breezes, and the love and relaxation that I pack up, take to the beach house, and bask in for two effortless weeks. That’s how I recognized it, the rush of nostalgia that overcame me the day that I dragged my emotional suitcase through the long corridors, paint-splattered art rooms, and memories of good times passed.

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Not God E\ 6DP 5XVVHOO I looked up and down at your arms. , WULHG ÀQGLQJ VRPH ZD\ WR H[SUHVV 7KH IHHOLQJV , IHHO DQG KDYH QHYHU IHOW EHIRUH 7KHUH ZHUH DWWDFNV DOO RYHU 6RPH GUDJRQ KDG EUHDWKHG LWV ÀHU\ EUHDWK WKHUH <RXU GRJ ZHQW D OLWWOH ZLOG , WULHG WR ÀQG QHZ UHDVRQV WR H[SODLQ LW DOO :LWKLQ WKH VSOLW VHFRQG EHWZHHQ UHYHDO DQG H[SODQDWLRQ ´, EXUQ P\VHOI DQG , GRQ·W NQRZ KRZ WR VWRS µ 6RPHWKLQJ QHZ VZHOOHG LQVLGH PH 7KLV ZDV QR RXWVLGH DQWDJRQLVW The woman had affected the woman. , WULHG WR KHOS DV EHVW , FRXOG 7KDQN \RX IRU JHWWLQJ KHOS

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Her kind goes into the woods to seek peace, <HW ÀQGV WKDW SHDFH GRHV QRW OLQJHU WKHUH 6KH ORRNV IRU UHGHPSWLRQ <HW WKH WRUPHQW GRHV QRW FHDVH² 7HUURU KRUURU DQG SDLQ ÀOO WKH DLU 6KH LV OHIW EHKLQG DQ RXWFDVW VKH OLYHV DORQH :KR LV VKH WR VD\ WKDW KHOO LVQ·W UHDO"

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XX 10

Her kind is a headache and a stomachache and a heartache. Her kind faces a never-ending winter. +HU NLQG LV NLFNHG DQG KLW DQG IRUFHG WR KHU NQHHV RQ WKH KDUG VWRQH à RRU Her kind uses her sewing thread time and time again to stitch her scars. Her kind will always put the needs of others above those of her own. Her kind faces a battle. +HU NLQG ZRQGHUV ZKHQ ZLOO WKH FHDVH ÀUH FRPH" I have been her kind. We have been her kind.

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Beauty by Alex Zukoff

Beauty is ÀQGLQJ VHUHQLW\ LQ VLPSOLFLW\ OLNH PRPHQWV WLPH ÁHHWLQJ H\HV ORFNHG OLSV PDWFKHG , ÀQG P\ ZRUULHV WHQG WR VOLS DZD\ HDVLO\ ZLWK XQ DEUD]R XQ EHVR XQR PiV Á\LQJ WULS VPLOH VK\ NLVV FRQÀGHQW ÀQG EHDXW\ LQ ORYH

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Digital Photo by Josh Loevner

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Digital Photo by Benjamin Chait

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Nice Car by Jess Block

Yelling nice car to the beat-up BMW while stranded at the coffeeshop chain smoking cigarettes and getting the date in May wrong. Balancing on one leg while staring at street signs. Blind Pedestrian Crossing. And pulling the hair away from a sweaty neck. Noticing the Venezuela t-shirt behind the city trash can. Deserted because suddenly Venezuela wasn’t as appealing as it was when that shirt proudly advertised it across someone’s chest.

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Not to Be Confused by DeVaughn Robinson

Don’t confuse black with relationship Because we still lack the common sense And haven’t made no sense. You think I don’t need this, you really need to stop it %XW ,¡P VD\LQJ SURĂ€W Ever see my pocket. That’s real. Don’t confuse yacht with slaveship “Aw, why you got to be racist?â€? Prejudice. Because I’m in the midst of it They got Latino groups that kill blacks for the hell of it. Don’t confuse the 9 to 5 with slavery Still goes on you see You’re in it, probably. Probability for living males is down Either we locked up Or gunned down. I would like these words to be profound, be heard, be trusted, and real. Don’t confuse sports with foolery That’s all the little kids wanna be We just looking for the fame today Live tomorrow because there’s no dreaming today. The little kids say “I wanna be in the NBA and my mom named me Lebron because she said I can jump too And that’s all I’m going to do and amount toâ€? Ima teach you all black perspective This should be a school elective. We have a long way to go, yes Be we shall not be America’s guest We are the people We are next 5HPHPEHU VWD\ Ă \ VWD\ IUHVK From the young Mos Def.

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Drawing by Josh Loevner

The Ultimate Peace by ZoĂŤ Zissu

Solitude is only preparation )RU WKH ÀQDO PRPHQW RI OLIH The most intense separation. We are the most alone No matter how hard we try to not be In this resolution Which emphasizes our singularity. :KHQ ZH UHDFK LW ZH DUH JRQH /RVW IRUHYHU RU (WHUQDOO\ IRXQG :H DUH DOO DFTXDLQWHG ZLWK VROLGDULW\ :KHWKHU LW EH KDXQWLQJ RU JUDWLI\LQJ :H UHFRJQL]H LW E\ LWV ODFN RI FODULW\ :KHWKHU DV D IULHQG RU DV D IRH We well enough know We cannot in the least 5HPRYH WKH XOWLPDWH SHDFH

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Digital Photo by Aaren Barge

Digital Photo by Aaren Barge

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The Watergun Fight by Antonia D’Emilio

,W VWDUWHG RXW DV D ZDWHUJXQ Ă€JKW +DUPOHVV FKLOGLVK IXQ Jim was the slyest of the four, his ten-year-old boy bottom swiftly darting WKURXJK WKH IRUHVW WKDW LV WKH 3UDWW¡V EDFN\DUG 6WHOOD ZDV WKH ROGHVW She was just like her mother, Loud, bold, and in charge, demonstrating that personality while mercilessly blasting her sister and brothers with WKH FRRO VXPPHU WUHDW RI K\GUDWLRQ At least, Lily treated it as such, as she opened her mouth wide, longing to quench her thirst that she’d worked up chasing Joe, little Joe, DURXQG WKH \DUG +H IHOO +H FULHG +H LPPHGLDWHO\ EODPHG KLV EURWKHU DQG VLVWHUV I sat with him, kissing his bruised knees GU\LQJ KLV DQJU\ H\HV ZLWK WKH EDFN RI P\ GLUW VWDLQHG KDQG 6WHOOD FDPH Ă€UVW her motherly instincts kicking in as she nursed Joe’s emotions, DOO ZKLOH FXUVLQJ KHU \RXQJHU VLVWHU Jim, like a rabbit popping out of its hole, SRNHG KLV KHDG RXW IURP EHKLQG D WUHH

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Photograms by Melissa Rostek

He slowly approached the crowd, kneeing in a grass patch next to the one the three of us sat on, looking at his baby brother with sympathetic eyes. Finally, Lily the culprit, the wrong-doer, the criminal, attempted to comfort her brother. “Joe, I’m sorry I pushed you,” she said as her voice grew soft, eyes planted to the grass, one toe behind her drawing summer doodles in the child-made mud. “It’s okay…” was the barely audible response from the victim. Hugging ensued, play resumed, and love went unsaid, but not unfelt $V WKH ZDWHUJXQ ÀJKW FRQWLQXHG

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Design by Tori Hirata

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Design by Carly Heywood

Design by Tori Hirata

Design by Carly Heywood

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The Piano Room

The shape of the room is perfect for this piano. The EDE\ JUDQG ¡ ¡¡ Ă€WV WKH FXUYHV RI WKH VSDFH VHDPOHVVO\ ZLWK MXVW HQRXJK URRP IRU VOLP Ă€JXUHV WR PRYH EDFN The heavy sliding door retracts into the wall. An and forth around its body. A bust of Mozart sees and HFKR UHVRQDWHV DQG SLHUFHV DOO HDUV RQ DOO Ă RRUV hears all that goes on near the piano: smiling, laughing, of the house when the weight of the door slams singing; doubting, crying, thinking. The music sounded against the solid wall. Moving from the entry- E\ WKH LQVWUXPHQW UHĂ HFWV WKH FRQVFLRXV DQG XQFRQway to the living room, my feet can feel the chill scious thoughts and feelings of the musician. An anitile give way to warmer wood. The simultane- mated piece becomes tranquil. A livid piece becomes ous click-click of the push-in light switches cre- loving. An airy piece becomes heavy. The piano puts ates a dull orange glow. The glow permeates the all emotions on display, exhibiting them for listeners room from the far left corner, drawing my eye to critique. The space is acoustic; open and resonant, to the sleek brown instrument that sits there. the room is the epitome of household sound systems. by Maya Muenzer

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spin around at t choices and pre

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WYEP’s Wednesday Evening Mix with Tania by Jess Block

the song etend to dance.

I wish I could listen to you on the radio, your voice coming in waves into my room, smiling while I fold my dirty shirts– because they don’t smell like smoke yet– spin around at the song choices and pretend to dance.

Digital Photo by Michael Curry

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Beach Chair Poetry by Jess Block

By the sea, by the sea in the morning midday or afternoon, can’t uncap a pen or eliminate pronouns. Messing around with salt water words, hands holding hard onto commas and shell, beach, glass, beer, bottles, cut my feet. Hide behind the waves of capital letters and the fortresses of sandcastles, don’t forget the moats. Ears hear pel-i-cans LQ WKH FRQÀQHV RI WKH EHDFK

Digital Photo by Kaila Yallum

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My Brother, the Artist, at Seventeen Inspired by “My Brother, the Artist, at Seven” by Phillip Levine by Daisy Zhu

As what a teenager would do to show off the energy and power blossoming from youth, he placed his one foot on a long board skating through another street of glittering solitude. By no means would he care about the neighbor’s crazy cat or his parents’ worries over his future. He passed by everything like sirocco– Mr. Golevski’s grocery store, Auntie Lee’s backyard, Allspring High School, Buffalo Cinema, Dr. Petcash’s dentistry, Rock Stone Art Museum, his girlfriend’s house. How much can matter to a man who’s almost grown up? Everything, yet nothing. The whole world, as he put it, was “escaping from his fetch.” He was tired of chasing. He once imagined himself running on a narrow bridge made of grapevines between two cliffs. With eyes closed, he saw himself hiding behind tall grass and pretending to be a warrior. The sun was spinning around his sword; he wore the moon as a French beret and ate burnt corn like a grizzly bear. 1RWKLQJ FRXOG VWRS KLP IURP NLVVLQJ D ÀHOG of daffodils. Then he opened his eyes and saw the long board beneath his Converse, scarlet like a drop of tear from memory. Under a cherry tree, he got off the long board to smell a tulip. The air slipping from his nose blew away some pollen and his melancholy, while the sunset dyed his hair gold as if a crown.

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by Elizabeth Friedman

Digital Photo by Josh Loevner

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All Ages by Brendan Agnew

I. We celebrate ourselves A few bold characters Lingering beneath the bright marquee As their smoke lingers around us As does the applause Of two bit shoe soles That converse with concrete And us, framed in a doorway Red-handed, hands clutching tickets That push anxiously through our hands As we push our way through the doors To create room for us

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II. Inside, 6PRNH DFKHV IURP DFKLQJ ÀQJHUV Towards the creaking rafters Steam heat, From an external combustion engine A performance piece

III. The body, the blood pressure, The buildup, the feedback of speakers is The Holy Ghost in the room Screaming out towards heaven’s face Only to see particles gathering Around plastic light Plastic heat

IV. The Bands leave, the crowd clears And leads itself Out into the night And we all wait For the next turn of the wheels For the next spin of a record For some revolution

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Mosaic by Melissa Rostek

Surely Nature (Me and You) Song Lyrics by Alex Zukoff

Love is like an open wound 3ODQW WKDW Ă RZHU ZDWFK LW EORRP )HHO LW KHDO LW GRQ W FRQFHDO 7KH EORRG WKDW WLHV XS PH DQG \RX Make a picture with your scars 3DLQW XS SHUIHFW PHWDSKRUV 6SDFH\ VSDWWHUV FRXOGQ W GR $ WKLQJ WR EUHDN XS PH DQG \RX

<RX¡YH EHHQ UXQQLQJ WKURXJK P\ PLQG 'ULYH PH FUD]\ DOO WKH WLPH ,W¡V FOHDU WR PH WKDW \RX FDQ¡W VHH The sleepless nights that have ensued Gentle child of the earth Surely nature blessed your birth Âś&DXVH QLJKW ZRQ¡W OHW PH VOXPEHU GXH To Mother Nature’s faith in you

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The War Against 3OXPELQJ E\ 3HQHORSH 6PLWK

In the winter of 2009 I fought a war. The drippy faucet in my bathroom was trying to conquer my sanity, and on the third night of drip-induced insomnia we IRXJKW RXU ÀUVW EDWWOH 8VLQJ ZKDW , UHmembered of freshman physics, I fashLRQHG D OHYHU RXW RI P\ KDLUEUXVK WKH IXOFUXP ZDV LPSURYLVHG ZLWK WKH NQREV RI WKH VLQN , SXOOHG DQG , \DQNHG RQ WKDW WKLQJ IRU KRXUV EXW LW VWLOO GULSSHG RQ , GHFLGHG WKH SUREOHP ZDV LQWHUQDO *RLQJ GRZQ WR WKH JDUDJH , ÀOOHG D PLON FUDWH ZLWK ZKDWHYHU WRROV , WKRXJKW , ZRXOG QHHG² ZUHQFKHV RI YDU\LQJ VL]HV D FURZEDU VHYHUDO VFUHZGULYHUV DQG D KDPPHU 7KH KDPPHU ZDV P\ ODVW UHVRUW $IWHU DOO P\ FRDFK KDV WDXJKW PH D YDOXDEOH OHVVRQ ZKHQ DOO HOVH IDLOV KLW WKH WKLQJ DV KDUG DV \RX FDQ ,W PD\ QRW ZRUN EXW LW ZLOO PDNH \RX IHHO EHWWHU %\ PLG PRUQLQJ , KDG WDNHQ WKH VLQN DSDUW SXW LW EDFN WRJHWKHU DQG VKHG PDQ\ WHDUV EXW P\ QREOH HIIRUWV RQO\ SURYHG WR PDNH WKH SUREOHP ZRUVH 7KH IDXFHW KDG ZRQ RXU ÀUVW WZR HQFRXQWHUV 0\ ODFN RI VOHHS KD]LQJ P\ MXGJPHQW , WRRN WKH IDFW WKDW LW GULSSHG RQ DV DQ LQVXOW WR P\ KRQRU

:LWK UHQHZHG YLJRU , PDUFKHG GRZQstairs to my parents’ bathroom, to a SHUIHFW H[DPSOH RI D ZRUNLQJ IDXFHW $UPHG ZLWK P\ PLON FUDWH RI YDULRXV WRROV , DWWDFNHG WKLQNLQJ WKDW SHUKDSV LI , WRRN LW DSDUW , FRXOG ÀQG RXW ZK\ LW didn’t drip. In hindsight this was a misWDNH $Q KRXU ODWHU WKHLU IDXFHW VWRRG OHDNLQJ ,Q P\ GHOXVLRQDO PLQG WKH VROXWLRQ ZDV WR UHSHDW WKH SURFHVV %\ QRRQ , ZDV D FU\LQJ KHDS RQ WKH ÁRRU ZLWK WKUHH VFUHZV RI WKH VDPH VL]H LQ P\ KDQG REYLRXVO\ , QHHGHG WR WDNH DQRWKHU ORRN DW P\ RZQ VLQN 7KRXJK , KDG KRSHG LW ZRXOG JLYH PH WKH NQRZOHGJH , ZDV ODFNLQJ WKLV RQO\ SURYHG WR DGG WR P\ FROOHFWLRQ RI VFUHZV 1RZ ZLWK VHYHQ VFUHZV RI XQNQRZQ RULJLQ , DWWDFNHG ZLWK UHQHZHG GHWHUPLQDWLRQ 7KH GHÀQLWLRQ RI LQVDQLW\ LV GRLQJ WKH VDPH WKLQJ RYHU DQG RYHU DJDLQ DQG H[SHFWLQJ D GLIIHUHQW UHVXOW RQ WKLV FROG Saturday I was embodiment of that defLQLWLRQ 6HYHUDO KRXUV ODWHU , KDG PDQDJHG WR À[ WKH IDXFHW LQ P\ SDUHQWV· URRP $IWHU , KDG SXW LW EDFN WRJHWKHU for the umpteenth time, the drip had VWRSSHG , KDYH QHYHU IHOW PRUH DFFRPSOLVKHG LQ P\ OLIH ,W GLGQ·W PDWWHU WKDW , FRXOGQ·W WHOO \RX ZK\ LW KDG VWRSSHG WKRXJK , KDYH VHYHUDO WKHRULHV $OO WKDW mattered was that I had won. Armed ZLWK WKH SULGH WKDW , FRXOG LQ IDFW FRQquer a faucet, I went upstairs to the URRW RI WKH SUREOHP ,W ZDV OLNH D VFHQH IURP DQ ROG ZDU PRYLH , VWRRG DFURVV IURP P\ QHPHVLV² ZUHQFK LQ KDQG² staring it down with determination.

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Digital Photo by Lisa Fierstein

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Rabbit/Death by Ramsey Daniels

Inspired by the painting Trophy of the Hunt by William M. Harnett

I am so sorry, little bunny. You have reached the expiration date that God planted on your butt. The men in the woods shot you, dear bunny, with a bullet the size of your little bunny poo. They pinned you upside down on the door. Your furry frame makes a bee-line towards hell. ,Q KHOO WKH FDUURWV DUH PDGH RI ÀUH Just warning you. They pinned you up on a green door, green like the grass you lived your life in. At least you were put to rest on a door painted green, a poor imitation of nature. Your ears are perked upwards and alert, listening for the footsteps of a friend who never came to save you. Alas, you were extremely late for a very important date. Is there any hope for you, drifting, homeless rabbit soul? Only time will tell.

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Revel by Alex Zukoff

By jamming my heart out I’ve reveled in negative emotion and thereby have lessened the pain. However, this paroxysm of angst and sorrowful ecstasy has ripped off the protective sheath of denial in which I have cloaked myself until now on this dizzying joke of a day in this strange mechanism called “Life.”

Ceramics Piece by Blake Uretsky

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Digital Photo by Benjamin Chait

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Extended Day by Ramsey Daniels

A little olive-skinned kid I play with every day In Extended Day We are setting up chess pieces He lifts the majestic, dark knight up to his miniscule ear It is hollow, and he declares “I can hear the ocean!�

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No Manmade Light by Themba Searles

Millions of lights crowded the night sky. It was an ideal night, clearer than any I’d ever seen. The shores of Tortugero were spotted with hundreds of green sea turtles, laying their eggs in deep holes in the sand, unaware of the small tour of seventh graders who were watching from a safe distance. The only sounds we heard were WKH RFFDVLRQDO VKXIĂ LQJ RI WKHLU ODUJH VWRQ\ Ă LSSHUV As our group passed along the beach, the darkness played tricks on our eyes, many stepping in large holes or tripping over driftwood. No manmade light was allowed in the surrounding few miles except for the red light of the JXLGH¡V VSHFLDO Ă DVKOLJKW ZKLFK ZDV QRW EULJKW HQRXJK WR prevent many of us from falling over the invisible obstacles. My naivetĂŠ and frustration drew my attention away from the miracle of birth scattered across this tropical shore. In my frustration with the lack of light, I refused to move from where I stood; in a desperate plea for light I tilted my head upwards looking for the moon or any other form of brightness. I was stricken with the brilliance of the night sky above me. Coming from the city I had never seen so many stars. It seemed as if every star in the galaxy lay in front of me, scattered along a deep navy blue blanket. The stars made me feel small, like I wasn’t the only thing that mattered. It gave me a sense of perspective that in the larger scheme of things, whatever problems I was having weren’t so bad. Since then, the thought of the Costa Rican night sky has always been a comfort to me and has helped me to understand that there is much more than just myself.

42

Digital Photo by Rick Thompson

43

Some People Tell Me “Get a Life” by Ari Schuman

On a shelf in my room, next to the ferns which are watered by a timer, I have a jar.

For now, she will stay in the terrarium and laugh at night with the astronauts and divers

In this jar, I have a tiny little life.

while my life watches from a desk in the jar, with a shelf on top, and a terrarium to its side.

It is not the kind of life which invigorates— no, it is not energy,

I am just waiting for the day when I put a cap and a gown on top of the ferns by the side of the jar and unscrew the lid, just maybe, and my little life will scramble up the sides,

instead, it is all of my jokes and all of my laughter bundled up into one little smile of a man who is occasionally let out

and he will run to the mermaid, yawping out her name,

LQWR D WHUUDULXP ZKLFK , NHHS RQ WKH ÁRRU by the side of the shelf where I keep the jar, where there is water and food and little toy astronauts and divers for him to play with.

and then bang at the walls of the terrarium until they shatter and the mermaid comes out

I have been considering, for a while, putting a mermaid into the jar where I keep my life.

and they gasp into each other’s arms and laugh and cry into the night.

44

Drawing by Josh Loevner

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Digital Photos by Aaren Barge

49

Boshi

by Nathan Siegel

“So guess what?� my older brother said to me from across the table, moving the large roll of paper towels that D’s Hot Dog Shoppe puts on each table instead of napkins to the side so that we could see each other. “Today I found out that boshi means “hat� in Japanese.� I looked across the table at him, my face widening in astonishment. “I never realized our elementary school Japanese class would have such a lasting effect,� I chuckled. But it did. Starting about ten years ago, the word boshi, which for years we had thought was entirely made up, worked its way into our dialect, having the meaning “hat.� The word evolved as we got older, later taking on the meanings “head� and “house� as well. About two years ago, as we continued to use the word, the long E sound at the end dropped itself organically and boshi became the shortened bosh. It has become a unique feature in our relationship; we use it, without thinking about it, practically every time we have a conversation.

RXU RULJLQDO GHĂ€QLWLRQ VKRZHG WKDW DW VRPH SRLQW between the songs and dried beans, the word boshi stuck in our boshes. :H VDW LQ '¡V +RW 'RJ 6KRSSH ORQJ DIWHU Ă€QLVKing our food, discussing just when and how boshi entered our dialect. We discussed its evolution, the morph of its meaning, its spread into the dialects of our friends. We discussed the connection of its three meanings, “hat,â€? “head,â€? and “house.â€? The way boshi had slowly changed as we aged, the way it revealed the inherent similarities between a house and a head, pushed my interest in linguistics forward. `

My brother had registered for a linguistics course at his college, and in anticipation of the coming semester, he pursued random aspects of the English language. His enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and we spent hours together investigating linguistics in books and online, learning interesting facts– like, for example, that “couldâ€? is the past tense, conditional tense, and past subjunctive of “canâ€?– that English Recently returned from a study abroad summer speakers use daily, hardly ever realizing it. And at program in Spain, we had a larger understanding D’s, a restaurant we frequented this past summer, of the Spanish language and a newly found interest ZH GLVFXVVHG RXU Ă€QGLQJV in linguistics, inspiring us to search for the origin of boshi. The morning of that lunch at D’s, my brother When my brother returned to college in the fall had some faint memory that boshi was connected and began his linguistics course, his interest only into our elementary school Japanese class, which had creased, and we now often talk on the phone about consisted mainly of singing songs about colors and his class. Once, his professor presented the fact moving dried beans from one plate to another us- that, when people invent new words, like our boshi, LQJ FKRSVWLFNV +H FRQĂ€UPHG KLV VXVSLFLRQ WKURXJK they never make up prepositions, only other parts the power of Google Translate, and the fact that he of speech. So, of course, we are currently thinking found the Japanese meaning of boshi to be exactly up our own preposition.

50

Film Photo by Lisa Fierstein

51

Digital Photo by Ally Bartlett

52

Wooden Deck by Jess Block

My brother says it’s cheating to wish on all of the shooting stars that we see sitting on the sunset deck with his multi-hundred-dollar telescope that I am not allowed to touch– I can only put my nervous right side of my face up to the eye piece and look at the Lagoon Nebula in awe. Nervous because, “What if I don’t see what my brother is talking about?â€? Or, “What if I break the telescope?â€? or “What if we don’t make the best of our time on the sunset deck?â€? It is 11:30 on Thursday night and possible to see more than a hundred shooting stars per hour. “Just put your head back and stare upwardâ€? is my brother’s advice for seeing the maximum number of shooting stars– and thus getting in the maximum number of wishes.When I close my eyes to make my wish after I see a shooting star, my brothHU ORRNV RYHU DQG Ă LFNV P\ DUP reprimanding me. “You’ll miss the next star if you’re too busy wishing, and technically, it’s not fair to

53

wish on so many stars. What about the people who might have never seen a shooting star? We have an unfair advantage, you and I. There are four meteor showers going on right now and we’re right in the middle of it. There are two coming from over there,� he says, pointing to my cousin’s side of the lake, “and two coming from over there,� he says, pointing to where the sun sets over Lake Michigan. “So, you can’t just wish on all of them. Save some wishes for other people. What do you wish for anyways? How do you come up with so many wishes?� He now decides to adjust his telescope so we can look at some different nebula or maybe the Milky Way again. “I don’t, and I’m not going to tell you, or else they won’t come true,� I say. My brother shakes his head at me, his silly sister, like he normally does when he’s lost an argument to lack-of-reason. Don’t tell my brother, but I’ve been wishing for the same thing with each shooting star.

Multimedia Piece by Alli Kunkle

54

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There is something surreal beyond all measure 6RPHWKLQJ WKDW GHÀHV EHOLHI RU FRPSUHKHQVLRQ And yet so strangely natural About watching paint move. %HDXWLIXO JOREV RI WKH XQLYHUVH &RORUV RI WKH UDLQERZ Floating slowly across secret walls; Where mystery compels the stains; 7R WDNH RQ D OLIH RI WKHLU RZQ Where the Reds and Yellows clumsily waltz To the music’s command; Which moves the Blues To tear and bleed. %XW WKH ZDOOV IHHO QR SDLQ From these vibrant scars. Only serenity resides 8QGHU WKH OD\HUV RI LPDJLQHG H[LVWHQFH :KHUH VKHHWV RI JODVV &DWFK WKH OLJKW RI *UHHQV $V WKH\ VZLP RII WKH VKRUHV RI ORVW FRDVWV Where the Reds and Yellows Now stumble into an unexpected tango.

Mixed media piece by Alli Kunkle

55

56

Chatting with the Artist:

An Interview with Blaine Siegel Interview by Melissa Rostek

Film Photo by Lisa Fierstein

Blaine Siegel is an artist based in Pittsburgh who works in experimental sculpture and other forms of urban art. Recently, he came to WT to work with students on an art installation called The Ensuing After 0DGH XS RI LQà DWDEOH sculptures of plastic bags which ÀOOHG WKH URRP DQG H[SDQGHG when someone entered the installation, the piece spoke to the lasting effect that humans have on our environment and the natural world.

Where do you get ideas for your work? What inspires you? My ideas come from everyday life. I pay attention to the world around me and never turn down a chance to experience something new. I am inspired by inGHSHQGHQW FRPLFV PRYLHV ÀOP music, amusement park rides and other artists.

:KHQ GLG \RX Ă€UVW EHFRPH LQWHUested in art? I’ve wanted to be an artist for as long as I can remember. Whenever asked as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always responded “I want to be an artLVW Âľ ,Q Ă€IWK JUDGH , ZDV VHOHFWHG along with 5 other students, to work with a guest painter every day for a month. I got to leave school after lunch and go to the artist’s studio. This experience made a lasting impression on me. He treated us as more than just children. He never talked down to us and explained his work to us in a way that was direct, simple and very moving.

What pieces are you currently working on? I have recently been creating small meditation Mandalas using children’s stickers. I am attempting to obtain a buffalo head from a buffalo farm in Edinborough, PA. I will work with a taxidermist and incorporate the head into an inà DWDEOH VFXOSWXUH

57

What other artists inspire you? I am inspired by Tim Hawkinson, Andrea Zittel, Stanley Kubrik ÀOPV -DFN .LUE\ FRPLF ERRNV Wassily Kandinsky and Bill Viola just to name a few artists that immediately come to mind.

Any advice to aspiring artists? Perseverance. You are embarking on a career in which most people will not hit their peak until much later in life.You need to have conÀGHQFH LQ \RXU YLVLRQ DQG ZRUN work, work.

Drawing by Carly Heywood

58

Gulliver’s Travels, pt. 2 by Ari Schuman

as the shell implies too much protection. so then, the shell fell off and the little boy slimed along the sidewalk until he couldn’t anymore, held up by the friction of pavement against slug, and

her shapely silhouette of angelic cotton and sea-blue denim laughed in front of a table covered with cups for lilliputian men.

as he stopped he seemed to grow legs and horns and little boy fur until he was a little gazelle, running from the silhouette which had formed

a little boy walked by, his little heart making little jumps, and as he saw her his stomach collapsed into a little black hole: a singularity

a mane and a tail and silhouette fur, pouncing along the pavement after the little boy gazelle

in his system which pulled in his brain and his heart.

who ran until he was out of breath and gasped and stood up,

e felt his legs recede into it, his arms grasp and try to escape, but they inevitably fell inside

a little boy again, out of sight of the house with the table for lilliputian men and the silhouette of cotton and denim.

and his little boy back became a shell and his little boy body became a snail— or rather not a snail,

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Paper Cutout by Lisa Fierstein

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How To: StalkforinLisa aFierstein MatiSSe Gallery by Jess Block

two girls stalked old man in matiSSe gallery (is what the headlines should have read) she with a l wondered what he had to say about jeanette (iv) and she with a j liked the glasses he was wearing, how the bottom half PDJQLÀHG KLV H\HV matiSSe would have befriended him, he could have given constructive criticism to his still lives– he didn’t need to depend on cezanne ZLWK KLV XVH RI FRORU they cold have had absinthe by the seine and talked about how this painting would have hung or the proportions in that ÀJXUH VWXG\ dearest henri, when did you get back from morocco? dearest henri, I understand you’re having an identity crisis, but pretending to be jan dandsz de heem won’t make you any more KHQUL PDWL66H he would have put his ear up close for the response, KH ZDV ROG WKDW ZDV EHQHÀFLDO WR WKH WZR JLUOV following him– to listen to him tell his uptight “not good enough for him” wife about the brush strokes and the texture DQG KRZ WKH DSSOHV ORRNHG RQ WKH ÁRRU² because he couldn’t hear their whispers about how much they liked to listen WR KLV OLVWOHVV WKRXJKWV “oh it’s you again” “hello again!” ´SVVW , WKLQN KH·V RQWR XV« µ

61

Diver by Drea Ortiz

The normal process goes something like this: People hurt themselves, recover, and go on with their lives. However, sometimes, as in my case, a trauma strengthens a person; it serves as an awakening shock, forcing him or her to realize what they have, and how easily a person could lose everything. It went like this: I grabbed onto the railing with my left hand and climbed up the ladder to reach the seafoam green diving board. I felt the slip-resistant surface against the bottom of my wet feet.The feeling was a familiar one, since it was my second year of diving in high school. My friends were around me, cracking jokes; I, of course, was cracking jokes with them. I looked down and saw the water from my bathing suit form little droplets and roll down P\ OHJ SDVW P\ DQNOHV DQG Ă€OO WKH MDJJHG FUHDVHV of the board. I remember her exact words: “Hey, Ms. Diver, remember that the goal is to jump OFF of the board without hitting it.â€? I was laughing to myself. I found humor in her sarcastic remarks, but kept walking towards the end of the board.

I was soaring; jumping up and down, kind of like I was on a trampoline, except the springboard was wet, and I was having too much fun laughing with my friends. Pause and rewind: I was being stupid, but who cares, because nothing bad could happen to me; after all, I am only a teenager, right? Play: My next move came from nowhere. Jumping up and down, higher and higher, watching as the VSULQJERDUG à HZ XS RQFH P\ ZHLJKW VSUXQJ RII RI LW I threw my body backwards off of the diving board and disobeyed the diver’s second most important rule: never close your eyes while diving. Eyes closed, soaring through the air, sounds like a dream does it not? It was not, actually. Closing my eyes caused me to lose my sense of location. I was somewhere above the diving board. That was all I knew.

Pause: It was like some sort of slow motion effect; everything slowed down. Then, somehow, I Pause: You know those occasions where you think regained some sense of intelligence, and opened to yourself, “Yeah right! That would never happen my eyes. Right as I did, I saw the green springboard to me.â€? Well, it happened to me. As a sophomore, LQFKLQJ XS DV , ZDV VORZO\ Ă \LQJ GRZQ WRZDUGV LW I could have lost everything I had. There was nothing left for me to do. What felt like Play: I walked towards the end of the board, turned minutes on a ticking clock happened like a slidearound, and left just enough room so that my feet show. The board crept up towards my forehead. I were still on the board. I had disobeyed the diver’s was a prisoner in Plato’s cave; I was helpless, blind. Ă€UVW UXOH QHYHU MXPS RII RI WKH ERDUG EDFNZDUGV until your feet are so far off that your toes are Play: BOOM next sound heard, along with keeping your balance. My mistake: my feet, heel to frantic screaming from my crowd of friends. toe, were on the board, but I was too busy laughing The force that hit the middle of my forehead, right above my eyes, was actually unrealistic. and joking around to prevent the next step.

62

Digital Photo by Ally Bartlett

Pause: This is where the shock kicked in and things Pause: This next part got blurry. was being fast-forwarded. Play: I smacked the water; a feeling that normally irritates me felt like nothing. I started to sink, deeper and deeper. The only thing I felt: numbness. I see nothing but red water all around me. The kind of red you see on Shark Week after a Great White attacks its prey.

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63

Play: People started pulling me out of the water. Their frantic yelling sounded like a foreign language to me, mysterious and bothersome. Somehow, I got up and ran into the bathroom, blinded by the blood dripping down my face. I faced a mirror. What I saw, P\ UHﾃ？FWLRQ PDGH PH WKH KDSSLHVW SHUVRQ LQ WKH world. How? Why? I was alive; I was breathing.

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64

MAN: (Dumbfounded) That’s what you woke me for? To ask– WOMAN: (Interrupting) Just answer the question. MAN: (Sighs) I know where this is going… WOMAN: (Starts to cry) Then why did you ask me? Why did you put me in a corner like that? I made a stupid mistake, you should’ve just let it go. (Cries harder) MAN: (Slowly crosses stage and hugs WOMAN) Shh. It’s okay. WOMAN: (Stops crying after a few moments) Tell me you love me. MAN: (Pulls back from her) You know I can’t do that. WOMAN: And why not? Am I that hideous that you can’t even lower yourself to the last woman on Earth?! MAN:You know it’s not like that. WOMAN: (Hysterical) Then what is it like? I don’t get you. You’ve been saving my life for the past month and yet you ask nothing of PH , SUDFWLFDOO\ WKUHZ P\VHOI DW \RX DQG \RX WXUQHG PH GRZQ ÁDW I was a model before this shit happened! Men would kill for me and here you are treating me like dirt. All because you’re a coward and can’t accept that they’re dead! MAN: (Furiously) Shut up! (Begins to pace angrily back and forth) WOMAN: Your wife’s dead! Your son’s dead! Your whole family is dead! I guarantee you their train never even made it past the border.Yeah, they’re probably out there now, foaming at the mouth and screaming like the rest of them, or worse– MAN: (Stops and roars at WOMAN) GET OUT! WOMAN: (Shocked) W-what? MAN: You heard me! GET OUT! (He grabs her by the arm and drags her to the door. WOMAN falls on the ground, sobbing and pleading.) WOMAN: (Stammering) P-p-please! I’m sorry, I-I overreacted. I don’t know what came over me, what I said I was horrible– MAN: (Picks WOMAN up in his arms and tosses her out the door, then slams it) AND DON’T COME BACK! WOMAN (Off-stage): Oh God no! They’ll kill me! Please don’t do this to me! I’M SORRY! (MAN ignores her pleas and goes over to couch. He sits on it, buries his face in his hands, and weeps.) WOMAN: I love you… I know you love me too. Please, open the door. 0$1 +H JHWV XS DQG SLFNV XS DVVRUWHG REMHFWV RII WKH ÁRRU DQG begins to toss them into a duffel bag. He then goes over to the gun rack and takes a pistol off of it and puts it into the bag as well. He goes to the door and opens it. WOMAN comes in but he holds up his hand to stop her. He hands her the bag.) Here’s everything you need to survive out there. Now go. (He goes over to couch and curls up under the blanket while WOMAN stands in the doorway.) WOMAN: (Pause) You killed me. You saved me, then you killed me. And the worst part? I’ll never know why. (Exits) (End of Scene)

65

Digital Photos by Benjamin Chait

Playing God

by Melissa Rostek

I’ve gotten used to being the weird one with the camera, the one who captures every moment and has them up within the hour, a frozen slice of time for everyone to devour, laugh DW RU PXOO RYHU EHIRUH Ă LSSLQJ WR WKH QH[W VOLFH and immediately forgetting about the last one. The world looks better through a lens, in my opinion. Some people claim it’s hiding behind it, but I prefer to think of it as living through it, where I can zoom in on the details, pause and rewind. I try to piece the slices back together later, but there are always gaps where the VOLFHV GRQ¡W TXLWH Ă€W DQG P\ PHPRU\ IDLOV PH I’ve never been sure if that’s what I do it for, or LI LW¡V WKH GDUNURRP 7KH Ă€UVW WLPH , ZDV WKHUH D friend brought me in, said he wanted to show me something. “Hold this,â€? he ordered, and I carefully held the paper by the edges, shiny side up, as he brought the image into focus, and adjusted the light above him. I watched with fascinated eyes as he gently shook it in a bath of odd-smelling chemicals and the image came to life again. It wasn’t long before I was in the darkroom myself. There is something soothing about locking the door and shutting off the lights, pulling the black curtain shut behind me, and blocking out the rest of the world for a little while. I guess you could say it’s my personal therapy. I live life in the soft glow of red lights dangling precariously above my head, blasting old Queen albums through my headphones and into my skull as I take each moPHQW DQG IRFXV LW ZDWFK LW VORZO\ IDGH LQWR H[LVtence. But maybe it’s not the therapy of it. Maybe it’s because I get to play God for a little while, hold the negatives up to the light, squint and choose which moments to bring to life, create something real and recognizable out of what was

RQFH D EODQN H[SDQVH RI ZKLWH 0D\EH LW¡V KRZ LW lets me make my own little world where the only WKLQJV WKDW H[LVW DUH WKH EODFN FXUWDLQ WKH VWRS bath, the broken clock radio, Freddie Mercury, and me. Maybe it’s the way that the scent of the chemicals sticks to my hands, and later when I reach up to pull my hair back, I can smell the room again, close my eyes and inhale and pretend I’m still blasting music in the dark with the trickling sound of the sink in the background. Or maybe it’s those moments I’m recreating, the ones appearing in front of my eyes as I shift the photo back and forth in the developer, another slice of my life permanently imbedded in the paper.

66

Polaroid Photos by Noah Vito

67

Hermit Crab by Lisa Fierstein

Being alone is not unmanageable. All must face the bleakness of lonesomeness; Some may be tarnished by solitariness.

Feeling detached is natural; accepting the bitter silent air is possible. Being alone is not unmanageable.

Aim focus on the rise and fall of lungs, or replace dead space of mind with memories. Being alone is not unmanageable.

I’ve been disconnected from consciousness for A while now– nothing seems to register. All I have is my shell: my retreat from fear.

, FDQ QRZ OLVWHQ WR WKH FUHDNV LQ WKH à RRU or piano sonatas for hours– for they are my company, while I’m alone.

Nights are a comfort– the rest of the cosmos experience the same stillness. All is muted, time hovers, light fades, and now being alone is not unmanageable.

68

by Elizabeth Friedman

It came in a wave, Like the icy cold saltwater of a splash in July Greeted by the burning hot sand, the warm sea breezes, and the love and relaxation that I pack up, take to the beach house, and bask in for two effortless weeks. That’s how I recognized it, The rush of nostalgia that overcame me the day that I dragged my emotional suitcase through the long corridors, paint-splattered art rooms, and memories of good times passed.

69

Digital Photo by Rick Thompson

Snow Angel by Grace Hamilton-Vargo

Carefully crafted ice crystals form a sphere within her hands. She pauses, inspecting her product for any imperfection. )LQGLQJ QRQH VKH OHWV LW à \ DQG IRU D PRPHQW it soars, arcing through the air, aimed at a nearby streetlight. You missed, I tell her. I know, she says. 7KH UHPQDQWV RI KHU à \LQJ PDFKLQH scatter through the scarred street as she explains her coat is too constricting; her arms cannot move correctly. She says nothing of the wings that cannot grow. Besides, she says, I didn’t want it to explode in your face. 6KH à DVKHV WHHWK DQG IRUJHV RQ DQG \HW , VHH VKH PDNHV QR QHZ DWWHPSW WR à \ Her hands stay harmless in her pockets. She says nothing of the nuclear wars she’s had to bear on her own. Thanks, I say. I stay a few steps behind, wistfully watching, waiting for her hands to revile their restraints and build herself a pair of wings from snowy, frozen feathers. , VD\ QRWKLQJ RI KRZ VXFK EUDYH à LJKW would melt come spring and drop her back into the thawing banks. I almost wish she’d try 6R , FRXOG VHH KHU à \

70

Drawing by Josh Loevner

71

Music

by Rina Petek

I like the vastness of music. The way that whoever one happens to be, There is something out there for him or her, Whether that be jazz, pop, or rock n’ roll. I like the beat of any type of music. The thumping of the rhythm beating through my body Encouraging me to sway, dance, sing, or do all of it at once. Listening to different timbresIndentifying each instrument like In a childhood game of “I Spy” with my ears– Is a relief from the monotony of everyday sounds. Unraveling the different parts of one melody Becomes a process that one can get lost in. I pick apart my favorite song to listen to one bass line, One soul singing its own story. Two ears, One mind, ,QÀQLWH SRVVLELOLWLHV

72

Digital Photo by Elizabeth Friedman

73

Digital Photo by Aaren Barge

74

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75

Digital Photo by Ari Schuman

76

Master Wei by Charles Lehman

Master Wei and the Key to Enlightenment

One of Master Wei’s disciples approached him one discovered that he was the same as before; day and said, “Master Wei, I wish to become enlight- Master Wei’s magic did not appear to be workHQHG &DQ \RX VKRZ PH WKH ZD\ WR HQOLJKWPHQW"Âľ ing. Upset, he returned to Master Wei and demanded to know why he was not enlightened. Master Wei beckoned the disciple to him and Regarding him with a pensive eye, Master Wei retapped him lightly on the head, “You are now sponded, “You believed that enlightenment can enlightened. Go out and do great things.â€? be attained by my touch. Enlightenment, young RQH FRPHV IURP QR KDQG EXW \RXU RZQ Âľ 7KH 7KH GLVFLSOH REYLRXVO\ WKULOOHG KXUULHG RII WR EH- disciple thought on this and was enlightened. gin spreading wisdom. Yet, as time passed, he

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Master Wei was meditating in his home when one of his young disciples approached him. “Master Wei,â€? said the disciple, “I have been thinking, and there is something which confuses me greatly. I happened XSRQ WZR EXWWHUĂ LHV LQ WKH JDUGHQ DQG LW FDPH WR me in an odd way that perhaps there were not two EXWWHUĂ LHV LQ WKDW JDUGHQ EXW RQH 7KDW SHUKDSV DOO WKH VLQJOH EXWWHUĂ LHV WKDW ZH VHH DUH LQGHHG D KXQGUHG EXWWHUĂ LHV WKDW DOO RI WKH EXWWHUĂ LHV DUH QRW DOO RQH EXWWHUĂ \ EXW PDQ\ EXWWHUĂ LHV +RZ GR ZH NQRZ WKDW DOO WKDW ZH VHH LV QRW D KXQGUHG EXWWHUĂ LHV"Âľ

Master Wei nodded, and thought on this for a PRPHQW 7KHQ KH ODLG RXW D KDQG LQ the long grass, upon which, after severDO PLQXWHV RI ZDLWLQJ D EXWWHUĂ \ DOLJKWHG ´/RRN KHUH DW WKLV EXWWHUĂ \ Âľ VDLG 0DVWHU :HL “Do we have, in all of the land, any evidence to suggest that it is not one hundred butterĂ LHV DQG WKDW RXU H\HV DUH SOD\LQJ WULFNV RQ XV" 7KH GLVFLSOH VKRRN KLV KHDG ´$QG Âľ VDLG 0DVWHU :HL ´GRHV WKDW PHDQ WKDW LW LV RQH KXQGUHG EXWWHUĂ LHV"Âľ 7KH GLVFLSOH WKRXJKW RQ WKLV DQG ZDV HQOLJKWHQHG

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Master Wei was one day sitting upon his D GUDJRQ ¡ +H LPDJLQHG WKH GUDJRQ ZLWK LWV JUHDW mountain when a man came stumbling up long tail and its big shiny, scales and its terrible, the path and fell, prostrate, before him. WHUULEOH ZLQJV $QG RQH GD\ WKH GRW VWDUWHG JHWWLQJ ELJJHU $QG ELJJHU $QG ELJJHU 8QWLO VXGGHQO\ “Master Wei!â€? he declared. “I am greatly afraid that D NLQJĂ€VKHU VZRRSHG RXW RI WKH VN\ DQG DWH WKH my wife is cheating on me. She leaves our house at Ă€VK ZKROH Âľ 0DVWHU :HL FORVHG KLV H\HV DQG QRGall hours of the night, she is always out with friends GHG ´6RPHWLPHV D NLQJĂ€VKHU LV D GUDJRQ 6RPHor at work, and I see her often in the market with WLPHV D NLQJĂ€VKHU LV D NLQJĂ€VKHU %XW LI \RX MXVW RWKHU PHQ 7HOO PH 0DVWHU :HL ZKDW VKRXOG , GR"Âľ sit there and watch, it will eat you either way.â€? 7KH PDQ WKRXJKW RQ WKLV DQG ZDV HQOLJKWHQHG Master Wei paused and thought for a moment beIRUH UHVSRQGLQJ ´2QFH WKHUH ZDV D OLWWOH Ă€VK (DFK day, he would look up in the sky and see a great EODFN GRW DQG WKLQN Âś7KDW JUHDW EODFN GRW PXVW EH

77

Returned by Alli Kunkle

Every year, with each passing day after my sorrowful departure, the details of the house and my vacation fade until they are just brief outlines of my experiences. The décor is the same. It hasn’t been replaced or changed in my seventeen years of life, not even once. The same old, brown wicker furniture, the same 90’s television set, the same gray shag rug covered in sand and dog hair, the same jars of beach glass covering the shelves, the same fake, forPLGDEOH UHSOLFDV RI ÀVK P\ JUDQGSD KDG FDXJKW LQ KLV JROGHQ \HDUV FRYHULQJ the walls– it is obvious that this house belongs to my grandparents. The only thing that I have seen change in my seventeen years are the photographs; as we get older, my grandparents add more photos of me, my sister, my cousins, P\ DXQWV DQG XQFOHV , EUHDWKH D VLJK RI UHOLHI EHFDXVH , KDYH ÀQDOO\ UHWXUQHG

78

Digital Photo by Camille Petricola

79

editor’s notes.

It’s been a long, weird year for Plaid, but it was worth every second. Plaid started out very differently this year than it has in the past. For one thing, our staff grew; two of our members graduated last year, but six new students joined. But aside from the growth, the attitude seemed to change. The energy was incredible. My co-editor Jess Block and I were faced with a very tight-knit, hyperactive, and GHĂ€QLWHO\ XQLTXH JURXS RI VWXGHQWV DV D VWDII 7KLV HQGHG XS EHWWHU IRU the magazine than we ever could have imagined. :H Ă€UVW VWDUWHG ORRNLQJ DW VXEPLVVLRQV LQ HDUO\ 2FWREHU DQG ZH ZHUH DPD]HG E\ WKH WDOHQW ZH KDG LQ front of us. We had some of the most– and the strongest– photography we’d ever had, not to mention some beautiful drawings and 3-D art, which we often don’t recieve much of in way of submissions. The TXDOLW\ RI RXU ZULWWHQ VXEPLVVLRQV ZDV HYHQ PRUH LPSUHVVLYH IURP FROOHJH HVVD\V DQG SRHWU\ WR VRQJ O\Uics and scripts, we had an amazing body of work to choose from. Needless to say, choosing which submisVLRQV WR SODFH LQ WKH PDJD]LQH ZDV GLIĂ€FXOW WKLV \HDU 7KLV JDYH XV RQH RI WKH ORQJHVW DQG PRVW WDOHQW Ă€OOHG magazines we’ve ever had, and we never could have done it without the many students who submitted. As we played with ideas for the theme of the magazine, two things came up over and over, both in our discussions and in the work we recieved: the ideas of surreality and imagination, of the unreal and the strange in art; and of the experiences that are shared through writing and art, how we take those memories and feelings we have and express them through creativity. But we couldn’t think of a way to express WKHVH LGHDV LQ ZD\V RI D WKHPH ,W ZDVQ¡W XQWLO ZH GLVFRYHUHG WKH 3DEOR 3LFDVVR TXRWH² ´(YHU\WKLQJ \RX FDQ imagine is realâ€?– that plaid reality came to life as a concept. But it wasn’t just the work we recieved and the theme that made this year’s magazine different. It was that new staff and the attitude that came with them. 2XU VWDII ZDV GHGLFDWHG HQHUJHWLF DQG exploding with ideas and creative insight. The closeness of the staff created an environment where we could generate endless ideas and give each other feedback, and their talent and creative genius allowed us to make some amazing layouts. And there was never a dull moment either; whether we were creating impromtu music videos or acting out the scripts that were submitted, we had way too much fun, which only served to add to the energy and closeness of the group. I can’t thank any of the staff members enough for what they’ve done this year. This magazine is the culmination of all that energy and hard work. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it. 0HOLVVD 5RVWHN 6HQLRU (GLWRU

plaid staff.

colophon.

Melissa Rostek Jess Block Jill Kazmierczak Senior Editor Junior Editor Faculty Advisor

Benjamin Chait

Aaren Barge

Noah Lafferty

Lisa Fierstein

Josh Loevner

Elizabeth Friedman

Camille Petricola

Plaid is published annually by the Literary Magazine Staff of Winchester Thurston School. Plaid Reality was created using Adobe InDesign CS3 and Adobe Photoshop CS3. All text was set in Gill Sans MT. Body text was set in font size 12, attributions were set in font size 11, and the font size of titles varied. Plaid is a free publication available to all students and faculty at Winchester Thurston School, both in its paper form and online. It is created entirely by its student staff. All Winchester students are encouraged to submit all forms of art and literature. Submissions are chosen by staff based on quality, length, and available space, while featuring as many pieces and students as possible. All non-digital art is either scanned into WKH FRPSXWHU DV D GLJLWDO ÀOH RU SKRtographed digitally by staff. Plaid is an award-winning member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association, the American Scholastic Press Association, and the National Council of Teachers of English.

mission statement.

Ari Schuman

thanks.

Rick Thompson

Noah Vito

Alex Zukoff

Plaid would like to thank everyone who submitted to the magazine and everyone who supports it. We would like to thank Mr. John Charney for his technical assistance. We would also like to thank Mr. Carl Jones for his creative insight and support of the magazine and its staff. We would especially like to thank our faculty advisor, Ms. Jill Kazmierczak. Her dedication, patience, and ideas help make this magazine what it is. $QG ÀQDOO\ ZH ZRXOG OLNH 0HUFXU\ 3ULQWLQJ IRU PDNLQJ WKH publication of this magazine a reality. Visit us online: www.issuu.com/PlaidMag

Plaid is meant to represent the rich creative capabilities of the students at Winchester Thurston School. It aims to celebrate student artistry in literature, visual arts, and everything in between. Plaid recieves many more submissions WKDQ ÀW ZLWKLQ LWV SDJHV EXW DWWHPSWV to feature as many pieces as possible. Plaid is a forum for personal expression, discourse, and communication. It is a celebration of artistic visions and the imaginations that produce them.

winchester thurston school 555 morewood avenue pittsburgh, pa 15213 phone: (412) 578- 7500 fax: (412) 578- 7504 www.winchesterthurston.org

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