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The Pendulum St. Luke’s School 2010

377 North Wilton Road New Canaan, CT flachsbarts@stlukesct.org (203) 966-5612


Editor’s Introduction Here it is: our annual attempt to create a cross-section of the creative world at St. Luke’s, conceived during a weekly lunch hour (which to an onlooker might look more like an erudite shoutfest than a reasonable literary discussion). Collectively, we pored over countless pieces of literary and visual art, and chose a selection of works that we feel are not only worthy of appreciation, but also mutually complimentary, working together to produce our unifying theme for this year: Elevation. Elevation is a constant theme in our lives, so it felt fitting that it should be expressed as this year’s theme. Every day, we attempt to elevate ourselves: morally, financially, academically, and socially. As well, elevation is ever-present in the world of art: it is the process and the result. The artist must elevate him or herself to a level of creativity above that of the everyday, and capture a significance to present to his audience. In turn, the audience will (hopefully) be elevated by the work, and see in the everyday the same significance that the author did. The works presented here explore the idea of elevation. From comical prose, to profound verse, to striking photography, to masterful paintings, we’ve collected an assortment of literature and art for your enjoyment. So take it all in and allow yourself to be elevated. We think we’ve got something here.


Table of Contents Poetry Meditation at Midnight How Shall I Murder Her, Iago? How Shall I Murder Her, Iago? I Already Ate BlueWalledWoman The Dinner From Hell Color Eternity Lullaby A Concert Fairest Adored Soliloquy Where the Past Becomes the Future Confessions Watch Out! !"#$%#$&"'()*+#,-./( You Could Be My Unintended Sighs the Mallard to the Saintly Criers Hoboken Lake Powel Tourist Trap Being There Gil Doesn’t Like Tea July Facebook MessengerVomit Apologies The Black Tide

Alex Polyakov Samantha Fomon Anna Van Munching Emily Bergmann Jessup Daniel Cameron Wilson Inna Fetissova Maggie Van Munching & Ana Graczyk Kevin Mahoney Samantha Fomon Alex Polyakov Brittany Hankins Alie Smith Charlotte Lyons Angela Zhou Gabrielle Levion Samantha Fomon Samantha Fomon Gabrielle Levion Alie Smith Carla Nicasio Alex Polyakov Samantha Fomon Doug Walker Conor Swanberg Daniel Chung

9 10 10 12 15 16 23 25 26 27 28 32 34 37 37 38 42 45 48 50 53 54 55 56 57 60


Table of Contents Fiction The LadyWith the Hot Pink Shorts “Dinner!” Letter to a Fifth Grader Ketchup The Barnhouse My Grandfather’s Closet Grendel the Tenor Tasty

Brittany Hankins Jacob Parker-Burgard Chandler Rae Henry Clayton Theo Trampe Lily Holland Adam Connolly Anna Van Munching

13 13 20 30-31 35-36 40-41 44-45 49

Zach Lupica Jacob Parker-Burgard Naomi Dubissette

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Non-Fiction What Has TheWorld Come To? That’s Not HowYou Use ThatWord! Suspicion


Table of Contents Artwork “Deep Thought” -- Ink “Animal Skull” -- Graphite “Alleyway” -- Photograph “Welcome to the Circus” -- Oil Paint “BlueWalledWoman” -- Photograph “Motion” -- Photograph “Mom’s Makeup” -- Photograph “Tested by Fire” -- Collage “Blue Flower” -- Photo Illustration “How Far” -- Photograph “Kara Clark” -- Graphite “Wild Stare” -- Photograph “Self-Portrait” -- Watercolor “Eggs” -- Charcoal “Self-Portrait” -- Oil Paint “The Playground” -- Oil Paint “Road Signs” -- Watercolor & Pastel “Road to the South” -- Photograph “Charlotte” -- Photograph “The Power of Spending” -- Collage “Old Woman” -- Oil Paint “Street Lights” -- Photograph “Shayling” -- Digital Illustration “From the Street” -- Photograph “Radial” -- Photograph “Ping Pong in Hong Kong” -- Photograph “Creek” -- Photograph “Bottles” -- Collage “Pedestrians” -- Photograph

Alie Smith Catherine Bradley Alie Smith Lena Parker-Duncan Emily Bergmann Cole Bishop Julianne Wilson Alie Smith Angela Zhou Caroline Price Anna Van Munching Alie Smith Jack Henson Anna Van Munching Maggie Goldstone Catherine Simonson Egle Vasiliauskaite Joanna Bornstein Emily Bergmann Chandler Rae Anna Van Munching Cole Bishop Jacob Parker-Burgard Alie Smith Matt Muney Cole Bishop Andrew Veidenheimer Egle Vasiliauskaite Caroline Price

9 11 11 14 15 18-19 20 22 23 24 24 27 29 31 33 34 34 35 36 39 41 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 51


Table of Contents Artwork “Girl Reading -- Photograph “Beams Up High” -- Photograph “Shell” -- Graphite “Grace” -- Photograph “David” -- Graphite “Early Morning” -- Photograph

Alie Smith Joanna Bornstein Anna Van Munching Caroline Price Anna Van Munching Gabrielle Levion

Cover Art -- Alie Smith -- “Tall Enough” (Marker) Inside Cover Art -- Joanna Bornstein -- “Clock” (Photograph) Editor’s Introduction Art -- Egle Vasiliauskaite -- “Waste of Time” (Ink) Back Cover Art -- Maggie Goldstone -- “From Above” (Graphite)

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Alie Smith -- “Deep Thought”

Ink

Meditation at Midnight Alex Polyakov

The world called out to me today I let it go to the machine This is to make it plain I never heard the message The night outside is frigid And I won’t brave its doubts In here, a warming light burns And in my intimate solitude Momentary constancy is easily seen The clock reads one-oh-nine And a familiar fog fills the air Everything used to be real clear And now it’s not so clear.

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How Shall I Murder Her, Iago? With ropes and chains While wearing latex gloves And hide your face Well By knitted cotton Behind her bare back Or maybe drown her There are no fingerprints underwater Watch her while her lips part and bubble White and damp and ghastly Grip her neck for the sadistic pleasure Though she asphyxiates anyway All the better to sever her Whips and chains Skewer her Then stab And dress her all too drab Or bate She appears as if sleeping Pleasured, perhaps.

~ Samantha Fomon Just poison her dish If it’s her death that you wish Or, you could strangle Her throat you might mangle But a knife would be nice If your wife you must dice Or try poison gas, But cover your ass Unless you want to end up with the fish.

~ Anna Van Munching 10


Catherine Bradley -- “Animal Skull”

Alie Smith -- “Alleyway”

Graphite

Photograph

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I Already Ate Emily Bergmann

We approach the starting gate Wish that we could sleep late Court a certain classmate Install a beat-up license plate Scramble for a prom date Deliberate where to matriculate Finally culminate. We celebrate and congratulate, Dedicate the date to commemorate. They educate, we extrapolate, contemplate, and innovate Calculate exchange rate, form ethyl acetate Inebriate, hallucinate, and for a moment, levitate Attempt to annunciate, ultimately designate Encore graduate Hesitate to migrate, eventually domesticate Acclimate to our new cellmate Fabricate a happy state Lubricate, impregnate, procreate. Hate to lactate. Drive on the interstate Radios interrogate, exaggerate the death rate. We invest in real estate Congregate and consecrate Become irate Castigate those who deviate, berate those who gyrate Isolate and meditate Hope to lose weight Subtract carbohydrate, push away the dessert plate “Thanks, but I already ate� Over exfoliate, suddenly lacerate Enter marriage stalemate. Eyes dilate, we gasp at new jailbait Realize we’re out of date.

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We eventually palpitate, they try to defibrillate Touched by the fickle finger of fate They cremate us, we dissipate, disintegrate It’s too late. I self-deprecate Debate, create, commiserate Over communicate, somehow correlate Open my floodgate Get told to mitigate, try to ameliorate But let me get this straight: Is it my fate to just salivate, masticate, expectorate?

The Lady With the Hot Pink Shorts Brittany Hankins

She pulled, tugged, and wrestled on the floor until she got them on. She shamelessly strutted through the park. She swung that hot pink atrocity left and right as she pushed her child in the stroller. Rip! People gasped at the tragic sight.

“Dinner!”

Jacob Parker-Burgard

The young man led his dog through the treacherous mountains to his home. He had protected the animal from various predators, and would continue to protect him until the end. Finally, they arrived at his house. “What did you bring for us?” called his father in Korean.

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Lena Parker-Duncan -- “Welcome to the Circus”

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Oil Paint


BlueWalledWoman Jessup Daniel

Hello there woman against the blue wall, What are you waiting for? A bus? A man? A miracle? How’s that cigarette? Are you smoking that for solace? Or do you get a minor buzz? I want to meet you— Maybe bring you out to dinner, Show you how a real man should treat you. Let me take you out. We can go dancing or just look at the stars What’s your number?

Emily Bergmann -- “Blue Walled Woman”

Photograph

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The Dinner from Hell Cameron Wilson

I sit down, eager to leave, Grandpas filter into the room. They gladly take their seats, Unable to stand much longer. Our president covers grim details, Reports, reports, reports. After an eternity of speaking and applause, it’s over. Now we are herded into another room, Time for cocktail hour! The grandpas mumble and growl at each other, While sipping gin and munching on crackers. They come up to me, always full of enthusiasm. Handshakes follow, they mention a mutual friend. They have questions about my golf game, their golf game, Maybe even a friend’s golf game. After this near death experience, the lights flicker. It’s time for dinner. Wine replaces the gin, but the mumbling and growling remain More speeches are made and more applause follows. The grandpas struggle to stand up, but finally they make it! This long and harrowing supper is over, At the hour of half past eight.

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What Has TheWorld Come To? Zach Lupica

I thought this was going to be a quick trip; the flight was only 80 minutes. There is a line to check your bags that seems as though it will last for the rest of eternity. I get to the line, put my bag down and begin to wait. Let the grind begin. After reaching the end of the baggage line, I looked up and saw that the same immigration line was even longer, maybe double or triple the size. At this point it’s official, this is going to be my hell. Once we get to the man checking passports, he decides, after thoroughly questioning my parents and me, to question my 10-year-old sister. Whoever knew that a girl that isn’t much more than four feet was such a great threat to national security? She is not even allowed to sit in the front seat of a car. Baffled by the absurdity of what I had just witnessed, I continue on with the rest of the people being herded like mules towards the flight when I hear, “Miss, I’m going to need to take that water bottle.” Yes, the woman at security is talking to my 10-year-old sister who is holding a child-size water bottle. I almost lost it. What could they possibly find “threatening” about my little sister’s mini Poland Spring water bottle? Is this what it has come to? That the world is such a bad place that they have to confiscate water bottles from 10-year-olds? Finally, we are through baggage check, through security, through customs, through…hell, when there is an announcement on the loudspeaker: “The flight from Jamaica to Miami International has been delayed 90 minutes.”

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Cole Bishop -- “Motion”

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Photograph

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Letter to a Fifth Grader Chandler Rae

Dear young stud at the ping-pong table, I gaze at you as you play ping-pong during 5th/6th grade lunch but have never introduced myself.You wear the same tight fitting Khakis and soft, suede Merrells every day; it’s such a hot look. I wish every guy knew how to dress like you. Today, your insect tie looks saucy with your brown eyes and shabby, hot surfer-dude hair.Your mastery of ping-pong makes me feel so comfortable and watching you play amazes me.You’re so great at the pong.You see me watching, but coyly walk away. I’m done staring at you and wishing for more. Goodbye my ping-pong, grossly-overgrown-haired boy. XOXO, Chandler

Julianne Wilson -- “Mom’s Makeup”

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Photograph


That’s Not How You Use That Word! Jacob Parker-Burgard

“I literally failed that test.” What does that statement mean? To a lot of people, at least at St. Luke’s, it translates to, “I feel like I did poorly on the test that I just took.” But that’s not what it really means. It really means, “I got a failing grade (below 60) on that test.” And why is that? The key lies in the second word of the statement, a word whose definition has been changed for casual use. “Literally” is a word that means “actually” or “without exaggerating.” It is not a word meant to be used to emphasize something. Unfortunately, the secondary definition (the incorrect one) seems to be becoming more commonly used in our society. I hear people use it frequently, and I know that they don’t literally mean it. It’s even worse when people say, “like, literally.” It’s a paradox. “Like” means “about,” and “literally” means “exactly.” It’s a complete waste of five syllables. As long as I’m criticizing word use, I’ll move on to the misuse of the phrase “OCD,” which stands for “obsessive-compulsive disorder.” My problem is when it is used as an adjective, as in the phrase “to be OCD.” It is impossible to be obsessive-compulsive disorder! You either have OCD or you are obsessive-compulsive. And yet, when people are particular about certain things, little details on a board, for instance, they are often jokingly accused of “being OCD.” It makes no sense whatsoever. One more example before I end my rant: misuse of mathematical terms, namely “plus,” “minus,” and “times.” These are often used as verbs, for instance, adding two numbers becomes “plusing” them. I want to block my ears and writhe in agony every time I hear these. They are not verbs! They are…well, I don’t know exactly what part of speech they are, but they are not verbs! I think. But even if they are verbs, they cannot be done by a person. They apply to numbers and equations only. The verbs are “add,” “subtract,” and “multiply,” respectively.You learn them when you are in elementary school. Can people not remember the basics of elementary math? And the people in question are high school students! Do they forget how to correctly use what they learned ten years ago? I am going to end with some humor: a reference to one of my favorite comic strips, called “Pearls Before Swine.” In one particular strip, a man is sitting next to one of the main characters, a rat named Rat, at the counter of a diner. He complains about another man who won’t stop talking and says “I literally think my ears are going to fall off.” Rat, who is not the nicest of characters, turns to him and says, “I’m so sick of idiots like you misusing the word ‘literally’…It means it will actually happen…It’s not a synonym for ‘really.’” Then the guy’s ears actually do fall off and he says, “Come again?” So unless you literally mean it, stick with “really.”

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Alie Smith -- “Tested by Fire”

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Collage


Angela Zhou -- “Blue Flower�

Photo Illustration

Color Eternity Inna Fetissova

First there was morning and all of the white Came streaming from windows in colorless light. Reflections and highlights and radiant streaks Turned brighter and glimmered from mountainous peaks. The yellow that followed sizzled like butter And melted from ceilings and flowed from the gutter. The leaves glazed over with yellows and reds Now all of the world was holding its breath. At last came the darkness in savory blues It whispered and wandered in darkening hues. Casting its shadow on shivering night And then came eternity bursting with white.

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Caroline Price -- “How Far”

Anna Van Munching -- “Kara Clark”

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Photograph

Graphite


Lullaby

Maggie Van Munching & Ana Graczyk

Out, out on the sea Will you sail with me? Where the Blue waves flow, Say yes and we’ll go. Together, we could stay all day, And listen as the whales sing. We’ll watch the dolphins play. What a magnificent thing. Maybe on a summer’s night The fish will jump high towards the sky Watch with me as they pass by. Out, out on the sea, Will you sail with me?

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A Concert Kevin Mahoney

Blaring music filled the stadium. The entire crowd was clapping to the rhythm as one. The lead guitarist was in the zone, And the strobe lights were blinking to the sound of the beat. The entire crowd was clapping to the rhythm. A hint of alcohol and sweat filled the venue. The strobe lights were blinking to the sound of the beat, As the drummer continued to tear it up. A hint of alcohol and sweat filled the venue. Ushers encouraged the crowd to stay seated, But the entire crowd remained standing. The sound of the band was glorious. The lead guitarist was in the zone, And the blaring music filled the stadium. Ushers were desperate to keep the crowd seated. The sound of the band was glorious.

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Alie Smith -- “Wild Stare�

Photograph

Fairest Adored

Samantha Fomon

It is strange to think that these cold waters Were once filled with swimming children. Autumn is nature’s vandal, And this world is a phantasm Hermetically sealed in summer sunshine. The wind walks decrepit streets Littered with festive wastepaper basket fillings that Were once virgin and verdant and graced Branches that, now bare, reach heavenward with reckless abandon. I am acquainted with the ephemeral, And fairest adored is past.

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Soliloquy Alex Polyakov

ALEX: This sleepless nightmare exhausts me. Its torments dispose of my dearest ally, reality, As that silent assassin who stabs his victim Coldly, unseen from behind; And then, steals me away as a prisoner of war. I, Sisyphus in my own mind’s Tartarus, Feebly attempt to make my escape, Grasping at straws of reality, my lost lover. They fall through my weakened hands, as this hellish Remedy leaves that which was my domain (but not happily). I lay here, withdrawn from that realm About which, otherwise, I move with Comfortable fluidity, weaving to and fro. Oh! How jealous I am of the turtle now, who Has a shell into which he retreats With the first pang of fear that he feels. Now, I am thrust back into the world, (Ill-equipped as I am to inhabit it) And am frightened by it to the point of paralysis. No, not frightened by the world But by what the world may be. That courtly herald, tomorrow’s tomorrow, What news may he cry, but it is foul and tainted By rumors of strife, distress, and misery? And yet – in this microcosm of mine, Such news is a state of normalcy! (Beat) Perhaps escape will come soon.

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Jack Henson -- “Self-Portrait”

Watercolor

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Ketchup

Henry Clayton I woke up this morning craving ketchup and when I searched the refrigerator I could not find it anywhere. Here is what I did find during my search for the condiment: First to catch my eye was milk. I found four cartons of organic skim milk, one carton of whole milk, a smaller carton of chocolate milk, and some holiday Eggnog. Next to the milk were assorted juices: apple cider, orange juice, V8 Splash (Berry Blend), and cranberry juice cocktail. Two absurdly large Tupperware buckets filled with my mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce and chicken noodle soup stood aside the beverages. Just south of the liquid compartment were three drawers, one of them filled with fruits (honey crisp apples, naval oranges, and grapes with seeds). The center drawer was filled with vegetables, the majority of them on the green (baby spinach, romaine lettuce, celery, a bunch of scallions, and about threequarters of a cucumber). The drawer on the right consisted of baby carrots, more celery, a bag of cranberries, and some potatoes. North of the drink compartment, there is a smaller drawer that contains assorted deli meats such as Boar’s Head ham, turkey, Muenster cheese, and Vermont cheddar cheese, goat cheese, blue cheese, American cheese, string cheese and about an eighth of a block of Monterey Jack. My mother is a fan of cheese. The shelf above this drawer includes even more dairy products: Greek yogurt, light cream, heavy cream, half & half, sour cream, and cream cheese. Also on this shelf are two jars of pickles (one dill and one bread n’ butter), two jars of jam (strawberry and orange marmalade), a bag of whole-wheat pasta, some cranberry sauce left over from Thanksgiving, and some other obscure jars of unknown contents. The shelf above this one was right at eye-level where I could see a few dinner leftovers, some chicken salad, Jell-O, apricots, and raisons. Gradually and aimlessly my eyes moved upwards toward the near-empty top shelf. All that really caught my eye was half a jar of pizza sauce, some leftover Chinese food, a six-pack of Mott’s Apple Sauce with one missing, and a pack of

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Juicy-Juice boxes that would be finished by my brother and his friends before the day was through. Suddenly I remembered what it was I was searching for, so I moved on to the door of the fridge, in which I found a plethora of condiments and sauces: Italian dressing, Thousand Island dressing, two different kinds of ranch dressing, and two bottles of Caesar dressing, both of the same kind. I also saw multiple kinds of exotic chutneys involving mango, cranberry, and ginger. Above the dressings and chutneys were salted and unsalted butter, and about 8, maybe 9, eggs. Below the dressings were condiments of all sorts: Frank’s Red Hot Sauce, Teriyaki, 4 different kinds of mustard, pickle relish, Worcestershire Sauce, Chipotle BBQ sauce, lime juice, and “I can’t believe it’s not butter” spray. Still no ketchup, though. On the bottom shelf, the final one of my search, there was some Aunt Jemima Maple Syrup, Soy Sauce, raspberry vinaigrette dressing, Stew Leonard’s Original BBQ Sauce, shrimp cocktail sauce, Tai Green Curry Paste, and Alas! Lo and Behold, Heinz Tomato Ketchup! 36 oz. Bottle, since 1869. Overwhelmed and exhausted by my search I decided I actually didn’t want ketchup any more, and instead went to the cupboard to get some cereal.

Anna Van Munching -- “Eggs”

Charcoal

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Where the Past Becomes the Future Brittany Hankins

They forbade the truth and anything else that wasn’t nonsense The windows were boarded up to prevent distraction Wandering the full, but empty halls They rooted out being an individual as an option The windows were boarded up to prevent distraction Days ran together and life tasted bitter They rooted out being an individual as an option The strong didn’t make it and the absent minded became the majority Days ran together and life tasted bitter Only one way in, and one unpleasant way out The strong didn’t make it, and the weak were dragged along The outsiders said it was only temporary, but they weren’t there They forbade the truth and anything else that wasn’t nonsense Wondering the full, but empty halls Only one way in, and one unpleasant way out The outsiders said it was only temporary, but they weren’t there

Curiosity

Amy Fox

She didn’t know what great secret her parents were keeping in the closet, but she had to find out. She dragged in the tallest chair she could find and climbed up to the top shelf. She found a box, wrapped in pastel-colored paper and tied up with a silver ribbon. She reached for the package and lost her balance, falling off of the edge and breaking her arm.

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Maggie Goldstone -- “Self-Portrait”

Oil Paint

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Confessions Alie Smith

I was the one Who replaced the flag On the flagpole With fifth graders. Looking back, I guess I can understand How it could be considered cruel Or unkind, But my intentions were pure. I saw it as a simple solution To our cluttered hallways, And the pastel tones Of their oxford shirts Against the clear blue sky Perfected the aesthetics Of this fine school.

Catherine Simonson -- “The Playground”

Oil Paint

And what visitor’s heart Would not be set aflutter At the sight of a cluster Of adorable children Waving to them With furious excitement?

Egle Vasiliauskaite -- “Road Signs”

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Watercolor & Pastel


The Barnhouse Theo Trampe

About two months ago, I was visiting my grandfather at his nursing home in upstate New York. He looks well and his body has aged gracefully; however, his age has taken its toll on his mental capacity. He fails to recognize any of his grandchildren and even his own wife. While I was visiting him, he began to talk to himself about there being something buried underneath an oak tree. He cried. I regarded the situation as simply another one of his bouts of mental derangement. One month ago it dawned on me. He was referring to the old oak tree behind his house. He had lived in that house as a child. His parents sold the house while he was Joanna Bornstein -- “The Road South” Photograph in college and he bought it when he married my grandmother. I visited the house and something drew me to dig a hole at the base of the tree. Less than a foot down, my shovel hit something and made a muffled clinking sound. I dropped to my knees and dug through the loose dirt. I pulled out a small child’s lunchbox. The lunchbox was red, but the vibrancy of the paint had long since dissipated. The box was designed in such a way that it resembled a barn with windows, and it even had farm animals painted on. After admiring the box, I unlatched it, and this is what I found inside: The first thing I saw was a small stack of baseball cards. One card in particular was extremely worn. On this card was a depiction of a man with a red baseball cap. “Frank Demaree” was the only thing written on the car. Moving

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these cards revealed a single domino. The domino had three dots on one side and two dots on the other. To the right of this domino was a metal whistle. The metal whistle was tied to a lengthy black shoelace. The small copper aglet at one end of the shoelace had been chewed extensively. Digging further through the box, I found quite a few other small items. These included a pencil eraser, which was missing an attached pencil, two Life Savers, one red and one blue, a stick of Doublemint gum, a black and white photo of two adults and a young boy, a Swiss Army knife, an extraordinarily small metal thimble, one that could not even fit a baby’s thumb, and one crumpled-up Archie comic book page. At the bottom of the lunchbox I found one filled envelope. Inside the envelope were five neatly folded letters. Each of these letters were signed in the same way by “Shirley May”, who in her writing constantly lavished praise on a person named “Dickey”. The pages smelled faintly of perfume and the letters were written in a very stylized cursive. The womanly scent reminded me of my girlfriend, and I realized I was late for the date we had that evening. I packed up the lunchbox and hurried along so that I could make it to the movies in time.

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Emily Bergmann -- “Charlotte”

Photograph


Watch Out! Charlotte Lyons

I’ve had a good run The highlights of my life flash before my eyes The first time I rode a bike My seventh birthday The day I got my license The war is not over It won’t be for a while What are my parents going to do when they get the news? Never will they see my face again I look to the sky and see flashing lights Bombs are flying exploding left and right I know this is the end.

!"#$%#$&"'()*+#,-./( Angela Zhou

At my mother’s office I was an adult. Working really hard for a living Pretending to be busy in front of the boss. The office was not tidy. Papers everywhere, Filling up the limited space Small mountains in a modern office. What I remember most Is the smell of crisp bills, At seven, a temporary millionaire.

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You Could Be My Unintended Gabrielle Levion

The sun forgives the clouds You don’t know how lovely you are The stars lie in my eternal shroud Forgive me, you burn like the sun You don’t know how lovely you are My friction,You’re a beautiful contradiction You burn like the sun I am confused and undone Wanted friction, a beautiful contradiction I’m losing at my own game Confused and undone, I shall not surrender Who will listen to my deepest inquisitions? I’m losing at my own game The stars lie in my eternal shroud The clouds unforgivable to the sun Entrapped listening to my deepest inquisitions

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Chandler Rae -- “The Power of Spending”

Collage

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My Grandfather’s Closet Lily Holland

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I walk across the bare, thick, sea-foam carpet and see the sun streaming through the windowpane. I pass by the twin beds, canopied with thick lace that was starting to wear thin, and reach my grandfather’s closet. I grab the smooth brass knob, worn by the touches of many before me, and slowly open the white painted door. The ceiling peels from the day that frigid Albany received six feet of snow. The ice melted upon the roof and slowly dripped down into the house, staining the ceiling and causing the white paint to chip away, falling in a pile on the floor. Hanging are the two identical red velvet dresses with crisp white collars, made for my mother and her twin when they were seven. It’s hard to imagine that your mother was ever so small or so young. She was the youngest, a full twenty years younger than her eldest brother. Next to the dresses are the shoes my mother wore to her wedding, white with pearls and lace sewed onto a pointed toe. The heel was smudged with dirt. The shoes are on a rack filled with about ten other pairs of shoes from various occasions. These shoes are not neatly stacked, but lying easily in their spots as if they were lounging on the couch downstairs. The navy blue, sling back high heels are the ones my aunt wore on the day of her high school graduation. The black flats are the ones my mother wore to her brother’s funeral. They never fit me. Underneath the rack of shoes lies a large turquoise box, about five feet in length with a busted corner. The surface is bumpy, as if the box was made in order to contrast with the sleek jewels inside. It was my grandmother’s. The jewelry lay strewn across the surface, elegant in its disrepair. She had died. And so her golden seashell earrings lay unused in the jewelry box, only a reminder of the woman who had once wore them – a woman I never knew. Her clothes were still there. I tried them on once because I wanted to know her, but old clothes won’t bring a dead woman back. I saw the white sequined outfit she wore to my mother’s wedding, carefully folded by my grandfather’s wrinkled hands. His hands were crippled from a farming accident, his right hand a perpetual claw. Next to the silk dresses and fur coats lay the vodka. Grey Goose. The bottles stood in a perfect line, interrupted only by the occasional tonic bottle


or Polar soda. My grandfather did not drink water; he drank vodka. Its strong smell lingered in his orange juice at breakfast. The glass angels lay next to the liquor and those angel eyes had seen more Christmases than I. The wing of one had broken off and it lay crumbled on the floor. Why didn’t anyone fix it? The muzzle of my grandfather’s gun touched the very tip of the wing at the very corner of the closet. I wasn’t allowed back there. My mom was afraid I’d accidentally shoot something. My grandfather shot squirrels in the yard with that gun. He almost hit the neighbor once. The gun scared me; the weight of the shiny cold metal felt wrong in my small hands. Sometimes the closet made me sad. But other times, I was joyful, and I ran my fingers up and down the faded white walls.

Anna Van Munching -- “Old Woman”

Oil Paint

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Sighs the Mallard to the Saintly Criers Samantha Fomon

is a feeling, temperature, forgotten? (others were we) know the looks, the words spoken, unplanned, orating, or whispered circle-side, WHAT IS A CIRCLE as if not happening (short grassy days) when we are all screaming “THIS CANNOT BE IT.” And then there’s that tree among others unique (together are we) play those who may be giants (mighty titans were) and YOU WATCH AS PEOPLE realize (those who are one two no- never more) /WE/ ARE ALL PEOPLE WHO will never tour again. 4 (years are all we have) at the end, to know where the passionfruit juice goes is to drink holds more than conversation: pour forth down faces the strawberry kiwi and caffeine-laced straits, on, on, on shoulders as WE MADE OF ALL PEOPLE embrace those whose eyes in which each resides, alas, upon the other side of this Lancasterian looking glass, shall, has, is, will be crossed by every THE HOLY GROUND HERE OF ALL PLACES nevermore.

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Cole Bishop -- “Street Lights”

Photograph

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Grendel the Tenor Adam Connolly

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Grendel is my name and singing is my game. I like to sing a lot; it’s a passion that I have had for a long time and it keeps me relaxed. Ever since I was a little boy, my mom tried to teach me to sing. And now, I consider myself a master. So, I try to share my gift with as many people as I can. Usually, though, the Danes mistake me for a bad person - an enemy, if you will. But all that I’m trying to do is help them improve their singing! But, on some nights, I am asleep in Mom’s cave and all of a sudden, I start hearing loud noises coming from Herot. I listen closer and realize that it’s the Danes trying to sing. I hear a bunch of the mistakes that they make, and I take the liberty of trying to correct them. So, on most nights, I head down to the castle, staying quiet as I approach Herot. As soon as I arrive, I politely knock on the door, and they open it. I start to explain that they’re flat on the “A minor” and that they need more staccato. But, out of nowhere, they just start screaming and acting weirdly. Many of them try to stab me with their swords, and some even throw shields at me! Jacob Parker-Burgard -- “Shayling” Digital Illustration You see, I have this little nerve in my body, and whenever it gets hit, I unleash rage and start destroying everything. It’s actually pretty scary. This is when that nerve of mine gets set off, and I just go crazy. I start to wreck everything and I even eat a few people. It’s a little messed up, I will admit. I know it’s not really the civil thing to do, but I really can’t help myself. I have learned everything I know from my mom, including this. So, I blame her. After I’ve had my fill of carnage, I head home and realize that I have


accomplished nothing but the killing of a few people and the destruction of some upholstery. I feel bad, because my original plan to help them work on their singing didn’t pan out. It happens all the time. But, maybe one day, someone can come along and meet me down in Herot and teach those boys how to really sing. I am sure the hero that comes along will be very easy to work with.

Hoboken

Samantha Fomon So this is what a house looks like. New Jersey is a land of promise and opportunity ‘Cause L.A. sucks. So does New Jersey. But being bridge and tunnel ain’t half bad. At least New Jersey’s got trains. Who are you calling a suburb? Yes, you. The Garden State is A pseudo suburb Green, loud, and homely. New Jersey is a land of promise and opportunity, Populated by old car models and rusted ironwork porch railings. Half truth’s better than Hollywood whole truth. I’d rather drive into a city than across one. ‘Cause L.A. sucks. So does New Jersey.

Alie Smith -- “From the Street”

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Matt Muney -- “Radial”

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Cole Bishop -- “Ping Pong in Hong Kong”

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Andrew Veidenheimer -- “Creek”

Lake Powel Gabrielle Levion

Tainted by liquid freshness Cool as a velvet night Azure water pacifies Cutting through the earth’s timeless rock Sharper than a lover’s betrayal Creating massive giant walls Sellouts of shadows, golds, and reds A losing battle in this labyrinth The silence, broken by whispering wind A canyon of huge proportions That merely fades to star speckled blackness The dusty heat no longer a smell The rough sand soft on the tongue Smooth the stone burns my climbing hands Red, blood red is the dawn to come The rocks blush at Her golden stand Fairy dust dies on the glassy air A place of awe, a place that’s mine.

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Tasty

Anna Van Munching Do you know what its like to be desired? To be tenderly doted on? For someone so skilled in the art of seduction, I feel cheap at only $2.50 a pop. People call me sweet; some even say I’m rich with flavor. Oh, to be a slice of cake.

Egle Vasiliauskaite -- “Bottles”

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Tourist Trap Alie Smith

A tourist trap by day Is transformed by the night. There are no traces Of the huddled hordes of tour groups Or the fanny pack-wearing families That once shuffled down the sidewalks All that remains In the empty expanse of cobblestone Is the gentle sigh of a warm breeze And tessellations Of iron and glass Reflected on the surface of unmoving water The city is still In fact, almost silent. Nothing but the faint sounds Of passing cars, The echoing footsteps Of a lone pedestrian, And the occasional click Of a camera.

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Caroline Price -- “Pedestrians”

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Alie Smith -- “Girl in the Street”

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Joanna Bornstein -- “Beams Up High”

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Being There Carla Nicasio

Lines of tables fill the room Overconfident girls sit In phony conversation It hides gluttonous thoughts Lined like dominos The shake of a stranger A misspelled trophy Small applause Three hours Of fun Like a shot from a doctor Blanketed with excessive food Tables anticipate your return Again More lines More strangers More misspelled trophies More applause

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Gil Doesn’t Like Tea Alex Polyakov

The Revolution will not be televised And patriotism doesn’t come on a bumper sticker Made in China, priced at three-ninety-nine. The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat Patriotism doesn’t come on a bumper sticker And since when was a T-shirt a manifesto? The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat But Jesus will not be your co-pilot. Since when was a T-shirt a manifesto? Since they started to come in size triple-X-L. But Jesus will not be your co-pilot. He’s skipped out to get beer. He’s skipped out to get beer Since they started to come in size triple-X-L. Made in China, priced at three-ninety-nine, The Revolution will not be televised

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July

Samantha Fomon Of the young summer, I wish to be but her mistress, To run my fingers through the sound of final schoolbells Silky strands hanging in the sultry air To be replaced by windchimes A seabird call A lover’s voice in the night; So my lady calls to me Through the thick walls of my wintry cell. Yet as the months turn the coals in the furnaces of time, These winter walls melt When finally the sun-kissed sea rushes in to fill the vacuum of winter Her voice becomes clearer, and young summer Acknowledges my persistence. Ah, to be but her mistress. Let not the lusty spring overshadow the splendid summer, For as long as flowers bloom, She will burn, outshine any flower, eradicate all shadow Voice that of a maiden mocking all those in distress Ah, to be but her mistress.

Anna Van Munching -- “Shell”

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Facebook MessengerVomit Doug Walker

Tangible awkwardness lingered in that conversation. She was in the shop, while my mind was on Vacation. Too much said. Not much done for the better. (Unspoken words: “Damn, I said too much. Damn, I said too little.”) Indecision permeated.Yet, and hooray for this! I was able to come to a couple conclusions. Was that the point? I just wanted to let her know things were okay and that I still cared. 8:42pm Doug eh im out 8:46pm Austin hey sorry 8:46pm Doug Hey An obvious attempt at getting her to respond and not a great way of letting her know I cared. The more I puked the more it became Mission Impossible. Was I Jim Phelps or Ethan Hunt? I ended: “I hope I didn’t put too many questions on you it wasn’t my intent to make you uncomfortable haha.” “Haha.” I feel uncomfortable just thinking about that. I wonder what she felt like? Cheers to me. Mom would always say, “at least you tried.” Me and my indefatigable ability to blow chunks and wreck everything. I wonder what Mom would say about that. “Great word, indefatigable!”

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Apologies

Conor Swanberg I’m sorry I took your calculator That you use for calculus I had a statistics test And I lost my TI-83 So I grabbed yours from the cafeteria You probably failed your test That you told me about this morning Woops. My bad I hope you aren’t too mad But I think I forgot where I put it Or someone stole it I’m not exactly sure You might be able to find it If you try hard enough But chances are You won’t.

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Suspicion

Naomi Dubissette

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I am suspicious of women who wear makeup. There is something very stealthy and deceiving about a woman who paints her face. What is she disguising underneath that mask of richly textured creams? Although it may appear that the skin is velvety soft, underneath that “regenerated” skin are wrinkles, dark spots, scars, and skeletons in the closet that are not so luminous. It is pure deviousness to hide one’s age with powder and conceal those fine lines and rough textures with a single stroke of a brush. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? Well, how would we know… makeup covers up everything! Women in this world can manipulate the minds of men by replacing their faces. Men are being tormented by the temptation of these flawless looking creatures and marry them.Yet, on the wedding night, when all that makeup comes off… the truth emerges. With the wave of a lipstick wand, women can blind a man into spending thousands of dollars. The duplicity of makeup is that it fools men with the delusion of a “perfect” woman. She’s beautiful, sexy, and completely unrealistic. Men so desperately want to buy wholeheartedly into the concept of having a Barbie doll woman, that they are willing to empty their pockets for the first plastic-looking thing that walks by. After all, how can they tell she’s wearing a mask? Those red pomegranate lips and rosy cheeks are presumably her natural face. Because she looks so appealing, she has to be pure, innocent, and good… right? That is exactly the problem. Makeup makes women exist more as a concept than as a complex character. It embodies an image rather than an ideal woman. It is no different from the Greek goddess, Aphrodite, whose great beauty allowed her to operate from higher standards. This glamorously bewitching creature got away with starting the Trojan War! With make up, every woman can become an Aphrodite and the blame is placed on the artificialness of Cover Girl, Maybelline, and MAC. Today, we have millions of beguiling yet aesthetically appealing individuals running around. What has the world come to? And if you didn’t realize makeup has this impact, then please take a walk outside to your local coffee shop, mall, or park. Cosmetic companies make millions every year because more and more women want to fulfill the role of a seductress. All is fair in love and war and women are aware that their irresistible allure like bait that leads fish astray. Makeup is part of those feminine wiles


that conceal the ruse of flaws. So men, be afraid… be very afraid. Makeup is a superpower of sexual charm and men are ultimately subject to the craze, forced to chase after these goddesses. Makeup not only deceives, but pressures women to compete with one another. Today, the idea of going au naturale with no makeup is now the new “naked.” It’s too exposed and even boring. If every woman showed her true face, it would eliminate society’s plastic standard of beauty. Makeup skews the natural look of a woman and instead of glorifying the unique diversity of beauty, it confines it in a box, forcing society to believe that there is one type of goddess. It is no wonder that young girls are running to cosmetics in hopes of chasing after their Barbie doll fantasy image. Lured in by the song of sirens, men begin to believe that the gleaming sparkles of eye shadow and blush are what they should be attracted to. Behind that lipstick are lips that remain mute. Makeup is a shackle, forever subjugating womankind into a superficial understanding of beauty. Indeed, true beauty comes from the soul and cannot be washed off at night.

Caroline Price -- “Grace”

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The Black Tide Daniel Chung

Sounds resound through the halls -An introduction: the chaos beginsThe Doors open and the buzzer shrills But the Sixth Man says Hello Make your way to the Black Tide Hurry before you miss another Join the Blackout The frenzy has begun Until only a hoarse whisper and exhaustion remain Wait in apprehension for the next Time Sixth Man says Hello But for now, say good bye To the Sixth Man, Goodbye

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Anna Van Munching -- “David”

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Gabrielle Levion -- “Early Morning�

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About the Author Alex Polyakov

You have to imagine meeting the poor guy For the first time at a party. He shakes your hand meekly, and says to you “Hi. I’m the author of a number of novels, As well as a collection of short stories. I’ve won numerous awards including A Pulitzer Prize in nineteen-ninety-four. I live on Long Island with my wife and three children And my dog, Spark.” And you stand there, dumbfounded, Because clearly, whoever taught him To introduce himself, Didn’t do the job properly. Meanwhile, he hopes you’re impressed By this list of accomplishments But he wishes that he could tell you about his Passion for water skiing, why his favorite color is purple (did you know the senators of ancient Rome wore purple togas?) And that he’s been scared of dogs since he was five. But more than anything He wishes he could let you borrow his shoes So you could walk around in them. Of course, if you’ve read his book, You already have And all this is moot.

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The Pendulum Staff Editors In Chief

Alex Polyakov Anna Van Munching

Layout Design

Art Editor

Jon Salamon

Anna Van Munching

Faculty Adviser Mr. Flachsbart

Emily Bergmann Sam Fomon Emmy Goettler

Staff Lilla Goettler Alex Robertson McKenzie Wilson


About the Magazine This magazine was made in Adobe InDesign CS5, exported as a PDF and published by Impression Point Inc. The magazine is set in Perpetua, a font designed by the English sculptor, stonecutter, and printmaker Eric Gill in 1929. It is a traditional font of original conception, not a derivative of an older font. It is inspired by the techniques of stonecutting. The classical simplicity of the font produces an elegant series of letters.

Pendulum 2010  

In 2010, a group of St. Luke's students produced this award-winning edition of the Pendulum, the St. Luke's literary magazine.

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