Cover design by Austin Ensor ’12, Lead Graphic Designer Inner-clock photograph by Joseph Neely ’12, original on page 17
Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine 2012 Brophy College Preparatory 4701 North Central Avenue Phoenix, AZ 85012 602-264-5291 brophyprep.org
When we were young, we dreamed of being astronauts, performers, firemen, or maybe some combination of the three. We planned to renovate the world with fewer limitations, fewer boy-bands, and more 1990s cartoons. Phoenix, Arizona, on the other hand, just wanted to be a thriving city and cultural hub. Now, one hundred years after our entry into statehood, it seems that this collective dream has been realized. After all, Phoenix is the sixth largest city in the nation and is one of the fastest growing and developing metropolitan areas. At the same time, we Phoenicians continually romanticize the looming skyscrapers, bustling streets, and booming industry that stand in contrast to our urban sprawl. Our writers pen tales of gritty New York nightlife, photographers fill their Flickrs with snapshots of smokestacks, and painters try to capture the bright lights of major cities. And so while we may not be able to escape our strip-mall kingdom until summer rolls around, our art allows us to break our historical and geographical constraints. The classrooms, coffee shops, and cacti and dirt-filled lots around us become a space in which our aspirations can thrive.
This year, BLAM decided to follow suit and open its pages to highlighting the industrial interest of Brophy’s students. With various contests, we challenged writers to define their hometown and to find inspiration in its alleys and skylines, dunes and fake lakes. Our artists captured the architectural finesse of city buildings and the spirit of their inhabitants. Meanwhile, our editors connected with alumni artists and current students to try and discover the role of BLAM within Brophy and art within the city Of course, this could not have happened without the efforts of the complete BLAM staff, especially Mr. Damaso ’97, our occasionally-mustachioed leader and resident logophile and Mr. Unrein, our ever-bearded, ever-beloved captain. As always, the greatest portion of gratitude is reserved for those whose thoughts, frustrations, and aspirations are enclosed within this book between lines of text, pencil strokes, and pixels. It is their effort that enables us all to come together in shared experience and vision. So, until we can transform our city, our city and the art created within allow us to transform ourselves.
Editor’s Not e Jack Flynn ’13, Managing Editor
a photograph by Sam Wolff ’13, Layout Editor
TABLE OF CONTENTS Prose 4 8 17 20 23 31 39 49 53 61 64 67
Jeffrey Erdely ’14 Michael Scarborough ’12 Colton Chase ’12 Calvin Fairbourn ’14 Michael Cullan ’12 Colton Chase ’12 Jeremiah Johnson ’14 Jackson Santy ’13 Brad Keller ’12 Austin Tymins ’13 Ivan Iotzov ’12 Michael Cullan ’12
Assimilation Phoenicians: Mother Superior Confessional Frozen in Time ’89 Taurus A Sentence Deferred The City I’ll Be Seeing You He and Loneliness An End to Silence The Other’s View Telegraph Hill
Drama 55
Ian White ’12
Ringleaders and Tigers
Poetry 1 1 5 10 10 12 19 21 25 28 35 35 37 38 42 43 59 66
Jesus Betancourt ’13 Jack Travis ’14 Brad Lowe ’12 J.P. Malham ’12 Joe Skoog ’13 Bill McDonald ’12 Gus Quinif ’12 Colin Marston ’13 Mack Regan ’12 Nick Kush ’13 Jeremiah Johnson ’14 Max Hall ’14 Jesus Betancourt ’13 Justin Hegyi ’14 Ryan Ziltzer ’14 Grant Parsons ’12 J.P. Malham ’12 James Harper ’12
Velvet Kiss Dreamer Arms for Education A Room of Broken Mirrors Windows A Portrait of a City Eating Itself Alive and Other Assorted Love Songs Late Riser our crumbling Kind You are the Streets of Paris I Love to Wonder Steampunk Love Pillars Passive Tick-Tock Justified Crystal Flakes The Village Who are We?
13 13 13 13 13 13 13 13
Ryan Frankel ’14 Blake Fassero ’12 Eric Carlson ’12 Chris Frame ’12 Joe Skoog ’13 Joe Milligan ’12 J.P. Malham ’12 Alex Stanley ’12
“ Phoenix In A Sentence” “ Phoenix In A Sentence” “ Phoenix In A Sentence” “ Phoenix In A Sentence” “ Phoenix In A Sentence” “ Phoenix In A Sentence” “ Phoenix In A Sentence” “ Phoenix In A Sentence”
Runner-Up Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention Honorable Mention
TABLE OF CONTENTS Visual Art 2 3 6 7 9 11 14 15 16 17 19 21 22 24 26 27 32 34 36 37 40 41 44 50 52 54 55 58 59
Gus Quinif ’12 Jordan Bohannon ’12 Nathan Walker ’12 Gus Quinif ’12 Alec Knappenberger ’13 Christian Schroeder ’12 Aaron Oleson ’13 Dakota Drummond ’15 Gabe Alba-Rivera ’13 Joseph Neely ’12 Alex Gross ’13 Ian Poblete ’13 Ian Poblete ’13 Tyler Thompson ’12 Tyler Thompson ’12 Christian Schroeder ’12 Matt Harris ’13 Justin Bessant ’12 Jasper Liu ’12 David Barclay ’12 Steven Douglas ’12 Kevin Cabano ’12 Ian Poblete ’13 Steven Douglas ’12 Steven Oleksak ’13 Tyler Thompson ’12 Tarren Villaverde ’12 David Barclay ’12 Tyler Thompson ’12
Claire Braces Off Light Twiggy Sticks & Skies Home on the Range Arizona Sunrise 3-D Print 3-D Print Phoenix from the Air Handsome Devil Mask of Olu’aki Ha’tini Ashleen Intrigue Monument Valley in Antelope Canyon The Beauty Behind Industry Alone in This World Working Women Defying Gravity Nature Black in White Doctor’s Orders Midnight Chapel Run Hotel Gem Sunshine Inked Moneymaking Spin Harbinger
61 63 64 65 68
Steven Douglas ’12 Kevin Cabano ’12 Eshaan Daas ’13 Gus Quinif ’12 Tanner Olhausen ’14
Self-Portrait Scowl Mariposa Reflection Tanner
Features 15 29 45
Julian De Ocampo ’13 Nick Giancola ’12 Jack Flynn ’13
All the Lit that’s Fit to Print “The Art of Manliness” An Interview with Sloane McFarland
In the magazine, this plaque designates the winners of the various contests BLAM hosted throughout the year: “Noir,” “One Night in the City,” “Phoenix in a Sentence,” and “Phoenix in an Image.”
V E LV E T K I S S By Jesus Betancourt ’13 Forget the taste of red velvet. And the lukewarm taste of boiled flowers. Before lamentations; I touched the sun and it grew. It grew a flower; buttercups on the sidewalk. The sidewalk of a cold, stone heart. And these hands touched statuettes of happiness. But wind-up toys race across dead eyes. And life is nothing but a wind-up toy. To start, to go, to stop. To end. Wildfires burning through the flesh Of a lost cause in the mess of sheets and Creaky beds. Wilderness witness to the actions. Gave gifts of fear that blossomed hope. And we make treaties before lamentations.
Together he spoke to us Of things hardly imaginable Of things great and beautiful Of things great and beautiful He spoke of people lax and calm Ablaze under the moonlight Gathered together, too many to count Of things great and beautiful He spoke of grass pushed by the wind Under the sun, gentle on the skin Of dandelions lush to the face Things great and beautiful He spoke of herons gliding and soaring Shouting with excitement Flying like stars in the sky Things great and beautiful He spoke of the savior of the sea Her waves writhing ships through the great expanse A woman unconstrained by the world Of things great and beautiful But I didn’t believe his words Because he was a dreamer As were his ideas Because things great and beautiful Are best kept in dreams
By Jack Travis ’14
DREAMER
Claire, a pastel by Gus Quinif ’12
Braces Off, a painting by Jordan Bohannon ’12
a s s i m i l a t io n By Jeffrey Erdely ’14 The Inmate stumbled through the throng of bodies that threatened to overwhelm him, pushing and shoving his way until he came to a sudden crash against a wall; cool and hard, white, with paint peeling off and an unfamiliar smell of stone wafting towards his face. He lay there a moment, trying to fight the reality of the situation, trying to deny the entirety of what had transpired. He was not supposed to be here; a common lament of his kind, he realized as he looked about. Dejected faces and hidden sorrows assailed him as he peered into each of the eyes that passed him by. Regardless of where they were all now, the people he saw all had a different story; a story he would learn in time. Time… time was the one thing he had; more of it than others, but less than some. They were all on common ground here; supposedly, all the same person to those looking in — there for a common purpose, and they couldn’t leave until it was achieved. No one cared about their background, their mistakes and deeds, the lack of role models in their lives; neither did they care for their upbringings, the filthy environments, or their misfit families. Why should anyone care? It was too repetitive of a tale; there wasn’t anyone left to listen. The Inmate carefully picked his way around the small cliques and large gangs that threatened him with nothing more than the sneers on their faces; he avoided them with averted eyes, and concentrated on appearing both weak enough to not be a threat, yet strong enough to be considered a potential ally. Alone, no one survived long — the wisest
choice was to band together with others; the system allowed no room for independence—doing so only led to prolonged torment by those who considered themselves superior. There was no fighting the system. A howling wail pierced the hubbub of the hallway, and sent everyone packing to their respected rooms. The Inmate let all pretenses of the docile doe fall away as he shoved and pushed, scrambling for room to run. The wardens did not take kindly to latecomers, and punishment, while not exactly painful, was tedious and oftentimes repetitive. As the hallways cleared, the Inmate saw clearly the way to his block, and walked inside just as the intercom rang out again, signaling the start of the day. The teacher looked up from her desk as the new student walked in. She tried to give him an encouraging smile, but he cast his eyes to the floor as he stood at the front of the classroom, waiting for her to introduce him to the class—to his new school. She rose and spoke, “Class, please welcome Jeremy — he’s a new student here, and I would like you all to treat him with the same courtesy and helpfulness that you received when you first started.” Thirty pairs of eyes latched onto Jeremy — sizing him up, judging him, gazing at him — some with distrust, disgust, contempt, or dismissal. But they looked at him individually, as a collective whole they contemplated him with grim satisfaction and morbid amusement. Jeremy smiled weakly; it was time for school.
ARMS for EDUCATION By Brad Lowe ’12
I. Jonathan Crimely I thought I was serving my country By shooting people that I didn’t know; But now I meet with many of them And I hold back tears when they speak of their families. I held the cold, metal gun Without thought of my own. I wanted to impress my bosses By following all of their commands. The radiant heat of fire Made my skin black and flesh pink And did the same to my brothers, Whose remnants we buried. I revered bravery and thought nothing of it When I rushed into battle first. II. Michael Crimely The trophies on my son’s dresser Collected dust in the rays of light And all of his novels in the oak bookcase Turned yellow and brittle. I saved all of his letters And could see his experiences From his scribbled stories on dusty paper. Then they stopped arriving monthly. What a shame it is to outlive your only child And slowly move about your home Waiting for your bloodline to end — May it end swiftly… Jonathan’s bravery was only derived from parchment-like textbooks Written by people whose company we’re now in
III. Rebecca Crimely As Johnny passed and time did the same My husband’s mind began to numb Like frost creeping across cold glass He put the anchor of blame solely in his own heart And let it carry him down To the bottom of the Ohio River I did not join him in the depths but His pain constricts my throat Michael’s the one who told Johnny the army can Put him through college and Michael’s the one who held the burden of being Unable to pay for his son’s tuition So, alas, education is important But life is more dear Perphaps violence does not better the world And my little Johnny would not be up here
Light Pastel, a Pastel Light, by a pastel Nathan byWalker Nathan’12 Walker ’12
O H P
Twiggy, a silkscreen by Gus Quinif ’12
E NICIANS:
MOTHER SUPERIOR By Michael Scarborough ’12
Mother Superior took a sip of Merlot and laughed at the unfunny joke. The Guild was convening, and the pleasantries being tossed around were about as plastic and superficial as the women exchanging them. They talked about children. And beach houses in Newport. And summer outfits. And plans that would never materialize. Nothing was controversial. Nothing cut too deep. Mother Superior took her place at the table and tipped her glass backward, waiting for the last drop of wine to trickle into her mouth. Another mother was introduced, and polite applause followed the woman up to the podium. She was different from the others. Her hair was a natural brown, her bust not augmented, and her clothing modest. She had a Midwestern tint to her plain face, which was complemented by a light accent when she spoke. She was independent. She didn’t need a man, or children, or a fancy car to justify her existence. Mother Superior didn’t listen to a word the woman said, but she became fascinated with her. She tried to recall the last time she personally felt independent. Twenty-one rocky years of marriage, three kids, and nearly a lifetime of conforming to society’s rules had stripped her of her freedom. Where had the time gone? College – yes, college was the last time she felt independent. She was careless then: she neglected her appearance and did as she pleased. And it was peaceful. No bratty kids, no arguments, and no self-consciousness hindered her progress. She received a
degree and was hopeful for her future, but also wanted to settle down somewhere. After all, her debts from school were high, and money was tight. She needed security. She needed a husband. The woman stopped speaking and the meeting ended. The thoughtless chatter that began the meeting also concluded, and Mother Superior filed out of the cafeteria with the rest of the women. But her fake laughter and smiles were gone. They were replaced by a stern frown and wide eyes. An uncomfortable rage was boiling inside of her, and she began to ponder the injustices she had experienced in her married life. The prior year, her husband had asked her to go under the knife for plastic surgery. She thought to herself: “Over twenty years of marriage and he still dares to care about my appearance!” Mother Superior wanted to cry out, but she held her tongue, still aware she was in public. She shifted her thoughts to just the day before. Her son had called her a “b-tch” and slammed a door in her face after arguing with her about his grades in school. She only meant to encourage him to do better, but the conversation spiraled downward into quarreling and misunderstanding. She was done with the disrespect and broken lines of communication. Years of pent-up tension within her home were finally being released, and it made her uncomfortable. She wanted to start over. Mother Superior walked through the campus until she reached her black SUV, and she drove home.
She wanted a way out, but she had already dug herself a hole that was almost impossible to get out of. Mother Superior went straight to her bedroom and plopped down on her bed. She was exhausted and scared. She was in the latter-half of her life, and was angry she wasted so many of her youthful years. The path for the rest of her life was uncertain. She wished she had never gone to the meeting so she wouldn’t have to think about these things. The phone then rang. It was her husband. “Babe, I have clients coming in and they want to go to dinner tonight. I need you to come looking your best.” “Sure, I’ll be there.”
Mother Superior hung up the phone and began to cry. Tears smudged her make-up, revealing imperfections she would never show anyone, especially her husband. She wanted a way out, but she had already dug herself a hole that was almost impossible to get out of. The shackles of marriage and parenthood and society were so tight! There was nothing the woman could do. Twenty-one years of going through the motions had trapped her in a labyrinth of commitments she could not break off. Life had trapped her. It was too late.
Sticks & Skies, a photograph by Alec Knappenberger ’13
a room of broken mirrors
windows
By J.P. Malham ’12
By Joe Skoog ’13
We often just look at one another now, my family and I. Only the violent guilt controlling our facial expressions Serve as our interactions. My brother once tried to be a hero And asked my mom what her favorite movie was to break the silence And all that was returned were empty words. That’s all we really are Now, I guess, empty, empty and troubled.
These handprints, This glass so undecided Pressed against Clarity but betraying Nothing more than What you need to know Or think, or say But in pretenses of False rhymes unhinged Devolved from twice folded Once completed but thrice Unwrapped decisions So too is this glass, Clear, yet macabre in its Depictions of the world Pressing its hands against Its cold, clear skin with Touches of half-hearted Whole missing love Longing, pining, without Death’s call, but nevermore This call comes for these Handprints mark my Love, selfish as it may be But altruism understands and Reconcentrates the structures Of words, with beauty you speak them
But we don’t talk about it, no that would be as useless as the Pictures and memorabilia crammed in a Folder somewhere close to lost within my closet. No, we don’t talk About it. That would be foolish. Because we know that the garage Door didn’t shut itself every Sunday on the way to morning mass As Cole, Ryan, and I bickered like wives In the back seat of our pearl Expedition. We know that we no longer hear Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck trying To cheer us up as we b-tch and cry about Our latest fractures in life. I can’t say I have Ever heard of a steak that comes with charred grill marks, Marinated suspiciously perfect in Arils, Roots, And Bark with the fat already carved away because The butcher knows I can’t have it any other way. No, only one person can supply that kind of value; And we know that his absence is to blame For our longings. But we don’t talk about it, No more than we talk to he, the most Cringing notion of all. Instead, we all just Stare at each other like a room Of broken mirrors, feeble and insecure.
Home on the Range, a photograph by Christian Schroeder ’12
A PORTRAIT OF A CITY e at i n g i t s e l f a l i v e and other assorted love songs By Bill McDonald ’12 winner of the “Phoenix in a Sentence” contest Phoenix is the absence of rules like rules on how long sentences can be or rules on punctuation or the presence of rules just when those rules don’t make sense because we don’t see a city with commas or periods we see it with our tongues and ears and eyes and hands and hearts and breath cold in the air or hot on windows or when those rules aren’t “egalitarian” or “integrative” or other words like “just” that sound nice around shiny hardwood tables that have leather chairs and water pitchers and glass cups with serious looking people who wait to get called on and sit down when they’re told when the rules are hot and vacant and have guns and badges that the serious people gave them with reflective black boots and pressed shirts and sunglasses over narrow eyes that say “salir su no son bienvenidos” and when those rules hurt children and Phoenix is that like when you feel lonely and down and out and when you look around and see persons but no people because the people went to bed and can’t wake up and because this place is all they are and all they’re ever going to be and when nothing feels new because all of it is so recent and when the dirt doesn’t come off in the shower or cuts heal crooked and yellow and you close the windows when someone shouts for help because if you don’t your skin might boil until you do something and get hurt too and the loneliness doesn’t go away when you’re in a crowd because you look for eyes on the ground and find a cement mirror and it’s all so big and so suffocating and small because we broke the levies and sand and hot air came out with scorpions hidden eyes pincers wild and Phoenix is the low-down feeling that hunches you and obscures your vision and makes your nose bleed and your eyes itch and crawls into your ear to straddle your mind and whispers a whistling whimsy that hums hums hums the song we all know and want to forget and tells you it’s not okay and you believe it because whatever and the pavement is too hot to be barefoot and there are bruises under the sweatshirt and blood in your fists and you’re tired of getting asked if you’re allowed to be here or if it’d be better for you back there and there’s screaming but no one is awake to hear it because traffic was bad and they’re tired or maybe because we don’t use our ears like we used to and can’t hear the sound of thunder and fury and exploding souls anymore or if we can we don’t want to because there’s nothing to do out in this city anymore so it makes sense to stay in and laugh at jokes that aren’t funny or watch porn or eat microwaveable dinners or stare at a screen while invisible needles penetrate our temples and inject liquid nitrogen and slow down the metabolism of who we are because this is the place this is the place this is the place where the sidewalk starts and doesn’t end because if it did we’d have to fly.
“PHOENIX IN A SENTENCE” Runner-Up Phoenix embodies the twenty-first century American: It’s growing wider without getting taller. - Ryan Frankel ’14
Honorable Mentions We built something out of nothing, foreign water dripping onto cracked earth where nothing should be, yet bermuda turf grows boldly; because we built something out of nothing, life in a dead place. - Blake Fassero ’12 Put your ear to the pulse of the city and find that you are now fused to the pavement along with a thousand other rubber souls. - Eric Carlson ’12 Forget faraway places and their siren songs, these burning sunsets are where I belong; atop crimson peaks that breach the sky, or in forgotten rivers running dry, I make my home in the canyon’s shade, where Eden’s beauty does not fade. - Chris Frame ’12 A smile coughing on smog. - Joe Skoog ’13 In a place where others kept going, we stopped, we stayed, and we grew. - Joe Milligan ’12 Mountains surround a spacious skyline as they scrape the weathered sky, where within this bordered beauty, a city fights fire with fire. - J.P. Malham ’12 Well, it’s not Portland. - Alex Stanley ’12
Arizona Sunrise, a digital illustration by Aaron Oleson
All the Lit that’s Fit to Print: Why the magazine you’re holding is more important than you might think.
By Julian De Ocampo ’13, Literary Editor I know what you’re probably thinking right now. You’re asking yourself if you want to keep reading this rather nicely bound and hefty book because, although it does seem very shiny and visually appealing on the cover, you are also a very busy student who might not have time to view dozens of pages of art and prose created by Brophy students. You’re probably wondering whether this piece, yet alone the rest of this book, is worth completing and now you’re probably weighing whether or not the literary nirvana sealed within this publication is worth the effort required to turn the This year, Mr. Noah page. Lewkowitz ’98 introduced the I am here to assure you, dear Brophy campus to the art of reader, that reading 3D printing with his BLAM is not only Thing-O-Matic by Makerbot. a pleasurable activity but one that This piece is a 3D print by is actually quite Dakota Drummond ’15. necessary for you to do. As Literary Editor over the past year, I have seen the publication grow and blossom into something bigger and better than anything I could have dreamed of due to the
work of an untiring editorial staff and a dedicated group of committee members. The product you are holding in your hands was the result of a sizable effort from a number of students who understand the importance a literary magazine can have to a community. I now hope to draw back the curtain and reveal the complexities and significance of what you see today.
More than meets the eye You might not know this, but that kid sitting in the back of class chewing gum, slacking off and scribbling in his notebook could be the next big thing. BLAM is a publication dedicated to exposing that talent. One quick glance at the mission statement keys you to this motive. “Working on BLAM is sort of like working on one giant arts-and-crafts project with the entire school,” said BLAM Managing Editor Jack Flynn ’13. “It shows you a different side of the school because these are all kids you get to know and see in classes every day, but you never really get insight into their perspective until you get to read their creative work or see things like a photograph they took.” Besides serving the writers, BLAM is a fresh look at Brophy itself and the voices that comprise the student body— a crystallization of the student’s collective voice, Flynn said. Multiple contributors and editors echoed this belief by calling it not only an outlet, but a way for students to gain a voice that can sometimes be lost in high school. One contributor, J.P. Malham ’12, called BLAM a “conduit to talent.” “It shows another side of the school,” said BLAM contributor Gus Quinif ’12. “We have smart kids, we have athletic kids, and we have artistic kids; all beautifully talented. ”
Quinif, who first heard of BLAM through his sophomore art class, has submitted numerous works of art and prose for consideration to the publication and recently gained recognition for his work through a process involving BLAM. His piece “Twiggy” was includd in an exhibition Brophy set up at Phoenix’s monthly First Friday events. BLAM Visual Editor Nick Giancola ’12 was on hand snapping photos. One photo of Quinif’s work found its way to Brophy staff member Ms. Stephanie M. Stefani, who enjoyed Quinif’s work so much that she was able to identify him as the artist and purchase a print of “Twiggy”. But BLAM’s influence extends beyond the visual realm— BLAM contributor Colton Chase ’12 picked up the pen for the first time this year and began submitting prose, noting, “Without A 3D print by Gabe BLAM, I never would have seriously tried my hand at writing.” Each year, many students discover BLAM through the annual print edition. “The print BLAM is a testament to the permanence of the mark that student artists and writers make on campus,” moderator Mr. John Damaso ’97 said. And for many students, BLAM is a way to express the feelings that are often left untold. “A lot of students can feel a little bit trapped or confused ... I feel like writing and art are great ways in which students can practice a sort of escapism and explore what they want to be in the coming years,” Flynn said. J.P. Malham agreed, saying, “The art that is submitted is not done with the mask on that so many people have
during their everyday lives. BLAM is a source to understand and better appreciate all the talents that so many have at Brophy that would never be discovered.”
Turning ideas into pages Nearly every day for weeks in the spring, the BLAM staff toiled over page after page in the oft-neglected storage room in third-floor Eller to make the print edition possible. The process, which began at the beginning of the school year under the supervision of moderators Mr. Damaso and Mr. Chad Unrein, began with discussions on the selection of the theme. Contests centering around the theme —“Noir,” “One Night in the City,” “Phoenix in a Sentence” were born, and contest posters began to fill every blank wall on campus. The theme spread over to the publication’s showing at the Fine Arts Extravaganza, in which writers were invited to read their pieces in front of an audience in the faculty lounge. During this time, literary and visual committees composed of dozens of students Alba-Rivera ’13 were filtering through the dozens upon dozens of pieces through a system created to determine the best of the best. Meanwhile, Flynn was busy combing through other literary magazines to find out what it would take to make BLAM the best literary magazine it could possibly be. “I ended up contacting magazines from all over, getting feedback from them on our magazine, as well as looking at their work and realizing what it takes to be a competitive magazine and trying to apply that,” Flynn said. By spring, the staff had begun laying out the publication weeks before the typical completion date. Within weeks, it was finished, shipped off to the printers and distributed en masse to the Brophy community. “To me, BLAM is a living, breathing, evolving entity that truly manifests itself as the multifaceted essence and spirit of Brophy students as we undergo our trials and tribulations,” BLAM staff member Ryan Frankel ’14 said. And when the next school year rolls around, everything - the writing, the art, the sheer creativity - gets to live, breathe and evolve one more time.
Confes sional By Colton Chase ’12 I am not a therapist. Therapists get to work in tastefully decorated offices with tasteful views of the city and tasteful music playing softly. I get to work in a sh-tty Crown Victoria, seeing all the sh-tty parts of the city, while listening to the sh-tty sounds of New York City traffic. And yet, other than those basic facts, the job description isn’t that different. We both get paid to listen to crazies and crybabies all day; I just have to drive them home afterwards. I usually work nights, so I end up hitting the streets during the peak hours for freaks. One after another, each is drunker and crazier than the last. It gets to the point where you relish the silence between customers. Usually the highest concentration of these crazy types occurs about 10 minutes after last call. They get thrown out of the bars drunk off their asses and that’s where I come in. I’m the guy who gets the boozehounds back to the kennel. But they always bark the whole way home. And before you ask, I do have some good stories, We all do. After we get off in the morning, a bunch of us cabbies get together at Mickey’s diner and one-up each other’s stories about the night before. After a certain point, nothing really gets to you anymore, you just smile and nod. There were four of us. I was the youngest and the least experienced. Most of the other guys had been working for about six years by the time I started. Next was Marco.
He always wore a faded Mets cap and made a little money on the side scalping tickets to tourists he picked up. Jules was an unsavory character if I’ve ever met one. If he wasn’t talking he was indulging his chew habit. He always said you could tell the “good shit” from the “bad shit” by the taste, specifically that the “good shit” tasted like asphalt and would eat a hole through your lip in get 15 minutes. When he was driving he would always spit into an NYU coffee mug, a gift from his daughter. And then there was Nolan. He had been driving for 40 years, since he turned 21. He loved baseball and hated everything else, except of course, telling people how much he hated everything else. I don’t really know why he even bothered getting together with us. Maybe he was so used to not wanting to go home to his wife that he felt the same after she was gone. “So I picked up this guy, real well-dressed professional type. I take down his address, and I get moving thinking this is gonna be a pretty standard drive,” Jules said with a mouthful of pancakes. “Except I keep hearing this noise from the back seat, sort of like an old squeak toy. I turn down the radio to hear better and sure enough, he’s bawling his eyes out in the back seat. I try to make like I didn’t notice but he could tell somehow. They can always tell.” “Here we go,” we all groaned in unison. Jules always wanted to start the stories.
Phoenix from the Air, a photograph by Joseph Neely ’12
“I can feel this guy’s eyes drilling into the back of my head when he starts talking. He tells me his wife has been screwing his boss for six months and he’s being fired because his boss ‘feels kind of guilty seeing him around the office.’ The funny part? She served him with the divorce papers today and she’s claiming irreconcilable differences!” “Oh they’ve got irreconcilable differences all right,” quipped Marco, stifling laughter while simultaneously basking in imaginary approval. “Bullsh-t,” I remember saying (I had only been a cabbie for a few months at the time); “no way someone’s going to tell a complete stranger something like that.” “A houseplant,” said Nolan, the most senior of our group, in a way that shut as all up. “To the guy in the back seat, you might as well be a houseplant. That’s why they’ll tell you anything, because in their mind they are talking to a
“Of course you don’t. No one can see that, can they?” Subconsciously, I sped the car up just a little bit. The less I had to listen to, the better. “Do you realize, that the last 8 hours, no wait, the last 18 years of my life, have been spent obsessing over scrolling numbers on a board? And no one seems to think that’s strange!” He leaned forward and whispered, “But I know how it works now, I know their secret!” He offered a broad smile. I imagined a shark might smile the same way before tearing into a scuba diver. “There are little men back in there, inside the board. It’s all part of their game, and they’re the only ones who know the rules.” That same smile again. It seemed to betray an impossible number of teeth.
“They control the world because they control the board, and because we think the board is real.” godd-mned ficus tree.” That same Nolan died three years ago in a 17 car pile-up. He was identified by the bumper sticker on his cab, it read “Attention: Driver does not give a damn about your problems.” I usually join in on the storytelling and the joke cracking but there is one story I’ve never told the guys at the diner. It’s just not the right place for that kind of story. I picked him up outside of some bar, don’t remember the name, just that it’s always full of suits from the Stock Exchange. Market goes up or the market goes down, they all crawl into a bottle of whiskey by the end of the day. He was dressed like you’d expect, grey suit, white shirt, empty ring finger, can’t say I was surprised. There was an obvious stain on his shirt and his coat was torn at the shoulder. “The world’s gone mad,” he said to me as he stumbled into his seat. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Normally I stonewall questions. This time was no different.
“They just shoot numbers out off the top of their heads and we react. And they love every second, every twist and turn, every feeding frenzy and reversal of fortune. It’s like reality TV to them. They laugh because they think we don’t know, but I know, Oh I know…” At this point he just started mumbling to himself. Like an idiot, I engaged him. “Jesus, how much money did you lose today?” “Oh, I didn’t lose anything. They want you to think that you’re losing but really nothing matters. It makes everything more fun for them when you believe them though. No matter how good you do, or how bad you do they’re going to keep the game running. But the house always wins because the slot machines never pay out and the dealer always has blackjack. It’s everywhere. They control the world because they control the board, and because we think the board is real.” I was confused to say the least and baffled to say a bit more. He wasn’t even close to finished either. Fortunately for
me, I was just pulling up to his building. It was a doorman building in a very upscale neighborhood with manicured hedges lining the front. I stopped and let him out. He stumbled to the doorman who avoided eye contact with the man as he opened the door. I parked there for a few minutes while I recovered from that bizarre exchange. I stayed about long enough to see a window light up on the second floor. I heard a woman yelling and the sound of breaking glass. There was a loud crash and more yelling. I drove off just in time to catch the shadow of a rather pathetic looking man stumbling out the front door with a suitcase in his hand. I almost stopped for him. Almost. I still think about him at night, between fares. About that crash and the yelling and the defeated stagger that carried him out into the night. When I do, Nolan’s words all those years ago echo back to me, “To the guy in the back seat, you might as well be a houseplant.” I only wish that saying applied both ways. Maybe then I could get some sleep.
Late Riser By Gus Quinif ’12 The streetlamps seem to cast longer and darker shadows Than they do at any other time. He walks in the middle of the street, One foot in front of the other down the fluorescent yellow line. As if it were suspended a million miles in the air, The line a glowing tight rope. A flash of red brings him to a halt, Then a flick of green pushes him on. The neighborhood homes are swallowed by darkness. There is a stillness that only emerges, When chattering boxes are sleeping, And the world seems to stop spinning, For the chatterboxes, you see. But his world begins its rotations. He moves through this stillness, As if he directs it all, Under his spot light and top hat. But this stillness only lasts for a short time, Before the chatter boxes wake, And their world begins spinning once more, As his slows.
Handsome Devil, a prismacolor by Alex Gross ’13
Frozen In Time By Calvin Fairbourn ’14
The faded, embossed words on the door proclaimed the room’s occupant-to-be, Ace Manheim, P.I. Inside, Ace looked out of his window in his second story office and to the street. It was a dreary Thursday, and the entire day had been filled with the pitter-patter of rain on his window. Even now it was still raining, and Ace regretted walking to work today. As he watched, the light pole across the street from him sputtered once, and then became dark. “That’s the third one this week,” he thought to himself, “Perhaps now the city will send someone down to fix it.” A dog barked somewhere, and the soft glow of a neon sign indicated that the bar was still open, despite the hour. This was the kind of place people went to if they were in trouble, or looking for it. The kind of place where a man could drink himself to death in peace. His eyes were drawn back across the street, where a drunkard stumbled slowly back home after a night of drinks. Ace sighed and turned away from the window, his eyes quickly overviewing the office in front of him. A few cabinets, their contents disorganized, with papers and dust collecting on top, sat against one wall. Across from them, a tired and worn old desk took up most of the space in the small office. At one time, the desk had been deep and rich in color, and handsome in frame; but years of sleepless nights had dulled its shine, and slowly worn down the wood. On the corner of his desk, a wisp of smoke rose from the ash tray, lazily floating upwards into the ceiling fan. Ace hated the fan. It rattled and hummed, but did nothing to cool him down. Next to the ash tray, a portable radio was playing a Dean Domino song, his voice laced with static. There was only two other things on the desk: Ace’s .44 Magnum and a large folder with the words “Homicide Department” written on it. Ace crossed the room and sat down at the desk. Drawing a sip from the flask he kept stored in a drawer, he opened up the folder once again. Young man in his late twenties, early thirties. Dark brown hair and eyes, tall but well built. When Mrs. Johnson found the body at seven o’clock the previous night, he was dressed in a grey sports coat and matching pants. Now the body was naked, lying on a table at the morgue. No ID, no
driver’s license, nothing to hint at the man’s name. The mortician said suicide, but Ace suspected foul play. The bullet had entered the man’s skull and lodged cleanly in his brain, killing him instantly. The police found no suspects and no murder weapon at the scene. Actually, they found nothing of interest, save for a small golden pocket watch, which now sat on Ace’s desk. He picked up the watch and turned it over in his hand, exposing the backside. The watch glimmered slightly in the light; years of wear and tear had tarnished the gold. On the back, engraved into the surface, were a few lines of text: “Be the Change You Want to See in the World - Grandpa.” The man had some family, but there was no way to find them. As Ace examined the watch, he noticed how old it really was: the buckle was broken, nicks and scratches covered its surface, and it no longer ticked, perfectly frozen at 11:57 pm. This thing had been passed down to the man as some sort of gift from his grandfather. Ace re-examined the quote. It was revolutionary, certainly, but what did the owner intend to accomplish or change? Was he perhaps a progressive and forward-thinking liberal, or some sort of anarchist? He skimmed a few pages of the mortician’s notes until he finally reached the witnesses’ stories. Two separate people reported seeing the victim at a science convention, preaching about alternative fuel sources to gasoline. The witness described the man as very passionate and unwavering in his beliefs, which matched the inscription on the watch. The victim had a problem with the world, and was determined to fix it. Ace sighed and tucked the watch back into the folder. “Poor kid,” he said aloud, “someone disagreed with you, and you paid the price for it.” He stood up and gazed out the window and back to the bar, where so many hopes and dreams had been drunk away. “You wanted to change the world, shame you never got the chance.” The radio had faded into static now, and Ace turned it off. He looked through the window one more time before taking his coat off its hanger in the corner and walking out the door, which closed softly behind him.
our crumbling Kind By Colin Marston ’13
The night of the white tundra stalks me the permafrost perforating my veins not a simple transition from hot to cold-blooded but a metamorphosis of bolts, Bacon, and bytes We are at the end of something something so forbidden they built a city to contain it centuries ago. break down this firewall, and enter the fiery pits of my heart we go by many names and so do they Goebbels, Galileo, Goethe, why must you be God? Look not into the blazing sun, but the cold concrete beneath the grime, in the cracks, details not found in the newspaper stacks there, you’ll find our future the immortal cockroach, poached and dead begotten of a skull, cranium, cognitively black as charred hands of history His head was given to Robespierre on a block of lead That lead which is now used as pencils to write reports of broken lies for us to stand in shorter lines of bread Than our fathers the Founding Fathers the ancestral which raped me of meaning you of land us of a communal connection to the caterpillars Which ooze through our capillaries yearning for transfixion into butterflies, freedom, heaven but it’s only fiction
Mask of Olu’aki, a ceramic by Ian Poblete ’13
Fry me in your pit of greasy burgers concerning bliss I’ll have a double double, no onions please I only ask that you forgive me as I dry heave Unknown caverns of bitter bats pour forth from my mouth the nocturnal creatures swoop in delight, delivering news of a glorious victory and valor The annexation of Texas! the annexation of Fallujah! the annexation of you and I! by god almighty we are free at last! Free at last free at last The demonic daydream turns sour living becomes difficult in post-cardio callousness Explore the shell of what once was, and move on the sands of time cutting off exit submerging us in this sea of endeavor You and I, we devour King Herod heralds dark days when in the hollow shell of husked hope there lie two bodies broken and blighted terrified yet delighted every reaching, numb-minded, and stubborn to extinction reaching for the shovel to move the gravel oblivious as ostriches to the stones that weigh over us only to end east of eden
Ha’tini, a ceramic by Ian Poblete ’13
’89
T a u r u s By Michael Cullan ’12
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. But see, life is full of curves. More importantly, it’s not a race. After all, living fast is dying young. So, then, some people say a car is something that gets you from point A to point B. But that’s where I always disagreed. There’s a lot more to living than your average velocity. Some of the most lucid memories of my car, the wheels weren’t even turning. Back in ’93, I spent three nights in the front seat, the car sitting at that old park I used to swing at growing up, when I was in that fight with my dad. Don’t get the wrong idea or anything, I mean he never threw any bottles at me. He drank a little, sure, but it wasn’t too bad. He loved me and all. I was just hardheaded, had my share of issues with authority. Or that time in 1998, I was headed down a coastal stretch of highway, the US 1, up in Maine. It was April, which is the rainy season there. There was a girl walking down the road carrying a closed umbrella, yellow if I remember right. My dad always said not to pick up hitchhikers, but I guess I couldn’t help it with her. I asked her if she needed a ride and she climbed in, looking more intrigued than relieved. After I switched back into first gear, she pulled each foot out of her soaked shoes and sat cross-legged on the seat. Her name was Sara, “without an H,” first thing she told me. Her makeup was a little smudged, not running down her face like she was crying, just, you know, a little bit under her left eye. She didn’t seem to mind. Most girls I knew back then, they would’ve been lasered into their compact mirrors trying to run damage control. But I guess most girls I knew back then wouldn’t be walking in the rain with a closed umbrella. Oh, right, her umbrella. I asked her if it was broken.
She tilted her head just a bit, and her eyes tightened for a moment, and then she bloomed into a smile and said, “No, its fine. I just think nobody grows if they don’t get watered every once in a while”. I didn’t really understand, but I wanted to. She looked so beautiful, the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, honestly, the way her hair sat: bangs she kept pushing out of her eyes, the sides and back drifting across her blue polka dot dress. I think it was more navy, actually. I don’t know why I remember that. I never noticed clothes much before. And I got maybe two and a half miles down the road and she broke down. The car, not Sara. I apologized, but all she did was turn up the radio. And when the battery died in the middle of that Goo Goo Dolls song we just sat and talked, laughed, and waited out the storm together. And two years later we danced to “Iris” as the first song at our wedding. In the late 2000s, the car was on her last leg. I can remember sputtering up towards the used car dealership, its own wheels carrying me to the very place I would betray it. The sky was heavy, a cold shade of funeral that I never really shook. I felt guilty. Anyone would. But I traded her off, my old Taurus. Your mom likes the new car. She says it’s safer, looks better when I’m pulling up to the hospital. I get the safety thing. Honestly I’m not sure the airbags would have deployed anymore, the way that old beater was getting. I mean, I want to keep you kids safe, we both do. But she said it looked more like something a surgeon would drive. The Taurus used to fit me better, she thought, back when I was still an intern. She was still working at the school, teaching kindergarten and all. I remember every year
in July she used to go buy new posters for her classroom. She would tack them all to the walls over the few days before classes started each year. I used to come down and help her when I wasn’t on call. She was always perched on some miniature desk, gripping a few thumbtacks in her teeth, still with those same bangs. See, your mom didn’t like reusing the posters, thought she was cheating the kids if she did. She didn’t quit teaching ’til you were born; she always loved it, you know. “Yeah, I know.” She always loved you more, though. “Yeah, I know.” I’m just saying, don’t feel bad that she quit teaching or anything. “Sure, Dad. I know.” Did I ever tell you what you used to say to company we’d have over when you met them? Back when you were little. “Yeah: I’m Hana with one N and no H at the end’.” You know, you’ve always reminded me of her.
Ashleen, a pencil drawing by Tyler Thompson ’12
t e r a u o Y
s i r a P f o s t e e r t S he By Mack Regan ’12
You are the streets of Paris The wind flowing in the old sycamores The leather boots stepping along the stone The kisses given in the light rain that falls every few afternoons
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You are the cafes of Paris The wine rolling out of a bottle With savory crepes on small white plates And the aroma of Gauloises burning one table down You are the markets of Paris Fresh-cut stems with a sprinkle of dew Feathered pheasants hanging in wait for a chef with a purpose And learned vegetables, from the fields spread with a morning light You are the movement of Paris Puddles on the cobblestone by-streets A rusty bicycle ricketting along And the buzz of a scooter passing by
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You are the jazz of Paris A muted trumpet down la rue A soft male voice meandering across your path And a light guitar humming a buoyant melody You are the streets of Paris
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s i r a P f o s t the s tree r a P f o s e ca f
P f o s t e k mar s i r a P f o t n moveme s i r a P f o he ja z z
s t e e r t s e h t s i r a P f o ca fes s i r a P f o s t a rke
Intrigue, an ink drawing by Tyler Thompson ’12
So many times my mind is drunk with the words of the great poets before me. The undying verses ruminate and leave me to wonder. The ideas of great thinkers flood my mind in words so heavy, too heavy too quickly to digest. Timeless ideas stamped in a page are waiting to float into your thoughts, your presence forever enlightened.
The reward is great, but like any hero’s journey, the path of knowledge is a dangerous one. For nothing can be unthought, daring are those who delve, run, and skip along the lines which comprise such secrets.
I LOVE TO WONDER By Nick Kush ’13
Monument Valley in Antelope Canyon, a photograph by Christian Schroeder ’12
“The Art of Manliness” Story and photos by Nick Giancola ’12, Visual Editor
These days Brophy is not only preparing students for college… but for professional lives in the art world! This spring I was fortunate enough to have attended “The Art of Manliness,” an exhibit of visual art done completely by Brophy students in downtown Phoenix, coinciding with the annual “Summit on Human Dignity” and its theme of masculinity. I was blown away by the quality and poignancy of the student artwork, most of which featured images of solitary men or women in an effort to shed light on quotidian gender roles. One of the first pieces that struck me as soon as I entered the quaint, though chic New City Studio was Tyler Thompson ’12’s portrait, “Sunshine.” There I found the artist himself observing his work alongside his sister, who joked his pieces were beautifully detailed only because he is “meticulous to the point of obnoxious.” Thompson himself was gracious, and exclaimed that he was very excited for his work to be featured, as he created this masterpiece specifically for the exhibit. Meanwhile, strangers complimented Jasper Liu ’12, another featured artist who shared Thompson’s sentiments of enthusiasm and gratitude. Other guests offered to pay Gus Quinif ’12 for his piece entitled, “Claire,” to which he gracefully declined. “Claire” seemed to be a favorite of many, garnering praise from Xavier student Erin Hill, who described the work as “indescribable,” as well as Brophy English teacher Mrs. Maynard.
I also caught up with Assistant Principal of Ministry, Ms. Kim Baldwin, who appreciated Nathan Walker ’12’s pastel of a child entitled “Light” as she perused the gallery with her children. Just as Brophy students excel in a myriad of disciplines and areas, it is no surprise “The Art of Manliness” was such a success. From the free cheese and crackers to the exquisite
artwork, I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and left quizzically pondering the images’ implications of our societal views on gender. Artists are creators: they create to embody beauty and foster thought; Brophy artists follow through with said definition, and I am honored to be associated with students who use their great artistic talents for others’ simple enjoyment and intellectual growth.
Among the dozens of student paintings, drawings, and photographs at the exhibition were works by Brophy faculty, including this oil painting done by Ms. Debbie Corwin. Ms. Corwin is among the first to take advantage of Mrs. Cronin’s weekly painting classes for faculty.
A SENTENCE DEFERRED By Colton Chase ’12 There was only one photograph in his office. It depicted a very young man at his Stanford Law School graduation. His cap was pushed far back on his shaggy head. His degree was tucked under his arm like a textbook; his other arm was wrapped around an equally young woman. Both of their eyes shone with the fast-burning passion of youth. The man in the picture was smiling, almost assuredly about to laugh. He could not remember the last time he had felt that way. That had seemed like another life. He had grown up in a beige brick house on the corner of a cul-de-sac, in what could easily have been the most conventional family in the United States. One mother, one father, two college-aged sons and a dog. Just one picket fence short of the American Dream. One day, while eating
With a rueful sigh, he began, “Well, technically speaking, the jury arrived at the right verdict.” The whole family was dumbfounded. “So you actually think she was innocent?” asked his mother with a gasp. “No, I never said that. I only said that the jury was right. A jury ruling has nothing to do with innocence. That is why they find someone guilty or not guilty. The case needs to be proven beyond all doubt. It’s all set up in favor of the defendant. The burden of proof is a nice handicap to prevent the conviction of an innocent.” “But it was obvious she did it! Didn’t you see any of the news about it? She was guilty as sin!” continued his father. “And that is why we try our criminals before a jury of their peers, not in the court of public opinion. Can you
“Where did you go?” a voice in his head mused. dinner, the TV whispered in the background. For the most part it spouted only gibberish, but in a brief moment of clarity the words “Casey Anthony is to be released from custody tomorrow afternoon” were heard before fading once again into gibberish. The father grunted in his disgust. “Florida, those bastards can’t do anything right. That woman oughta be shot.” The mother, only slightly more politely, agreed, “The jury sure did screw that one up.” The eldest of the brothers muttered his agreement, “Yeah, how anyone could find her innocent, I will never know.” All eyes turned to the youngest of the family, but he sat in silence eating his meal. He was a law student, the family lawyer, as his mother would sometimes say. They waited for him to chip in his agreement, but he never said a word. Finally, the eldest son broke the silence.“So what do you think. bro?”
imagine if that was how we decided guilt? What happened is the epitome of the success of our justice system. With all the media scrutiny, the jury was able to come up with a verdict on its own.” His brother, floundering, continued, “But if she did it, she is gonna walk away scot free! That’s hardly fair and just, not for her kid, not for anyone.” The youngest replied, “I never said it was the best outcome. The best outcome would have been to see the prosecution make its case well enough for a jury to convict her, but since they didn’t the jury made the right decision. No one ever said she was innocent, just that they couldn’t justify throwing her in prison. His brother finally asked, “Well, do you think she did it?” The youngest replied, a wry smile on his lips, “Yep, she did it.” “Sometimes you just have to believe the system works.”
The Beauty Behind Industry, a photograph by Matt Harris ’13
There was a moment of confused silence in the room that seemed to stretch on for hours. The TV gurgled out an ad for some insurance company. The clock could be heard ticking, slower and slower with each passing second. That was the scene that played on a loop in his memory. Those fateful words, over and over again. “Sometimes you just have to believe the system works.” That had been a long time ago, before the corner office, before the penthouse apartment, before the antique oak desk. There had been scores of sleepless nights, countless failed relationships, more nights spent sleeping at the office than at home. Before the days of two glasses of Jack Daniel’s every night, before twelve steps, and before ten thousand “just this once” drinks.
Before all those things he had just been an idealistic little law student. He wanted to save the world, to be a bulwark for justice in an unjust world. He would fix all the world’s problems with his J.D. and a smile. That was why he had joined the public defender’s office. Naturally, that part of him had died quickly. He looked at the photograph again, his eyes boring into the long-haired fool. Everything about that kid was gone now. He ran his free hand through his thinning hair and mentally retraced his steps, trying to find where that smiling kid had gone. One moment stood out prominently in his little “missing person” investigation. He had just won an acquittal in a double homicide case. The client’s name was Johnson. He was
very pale and completely bald. One could see in his sunken eyes just how much hate he had inside him. When the trial came around, he could have had any lawyer in town; he had the money. But instead, he chose the public defender. A court appointed lawyer couldn’t turn down the case. “Why should I waste my money on some fast talking, greaseball sonofab-tch if I don’t stand a chance at beating this?” he had told his lawyer. He wasn’t all wrong either. When the case crossed his desk, it looked unwinnable, a slam dunk for the prosecution. But then, by the will of either God or Satan, things started to go well for him. Search warrants were tossed, witnesses made mistakes, and as a lawyer, he gave his client the textbook definition of zealous representation. And he won. Twelve regular people, all serving their obligatory jury duty with not a little contempt, had decided that he couldn’t be found guilty. The jubilant laughter that Johnson had spewed as the verdict was read was a sound he could not forget, at least not without a few glasses of scotch under his belt. He had left the public defender’s office that very week for a private firm. He shuddered to think of who he had become. “Would you even recognize me?” he asked himself silently. If they had met on the street, he probably wouldn’t even be able to look the kid in the eye. Not out of shame, but because his eyes were dull and hollow. They gave no comparison to the eyes currently looking back at him from the photo. Now he was a high-powered attorney. That was how he described himself. That was how he defined himself. That was how the laundry list of felons and scumbags who walked into his office knew him. He wasn’t some two-bit public defender anymore, he was a partner. He had an office on the 42nd floor of a building full of his own peons. He had heard all the stories before; he could have made a drinking game out of it. Take a drink when they say they were framed. Take a drink when they swear on their mothers’ names they are innocent. Take two drinks when they offer to “take care of someone.” He would be drunk by noon, and dying by six. His office was the picture of decadence. It was filled with the trappings of high society: a bar with crystal glasses and bottles of 12 year old scotch, an antique desk and chair, a Persian rug, a bookshelf full of leather-bound legal books, a large wall mounted plasma screen TV. The walls were covered with gifts and awards. His J.D. from Stanford. A plaque
commemorating his first acquittal in a capital case, another plaque commemorating 10 years with his firm. A nickel plated Colt .45 revolver with pearl grips, a gift from a rather well-to-do client. He had made sure to run it against any outstanding crimes in the area before accepting it. Anyone who walked into that office knew that the man behind the desk was to be respected and feared. With every acquittal he gave the same self-serving speech he had used in the public defender’s office. “You and I both know you just got yourself a god d-mned miracle in there. You’re probably on top of the world right now, gonna go home, throw yourself a party. Well, before you go off you’d better know, if there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s return customers. So take this as a sign, don’t go doing this sh-t again. I don’t need the aggravation and you don’t need it either.” Back in the public defender’s office, those words might have had some meaning. Not anymore; if you’re willing to pay six figures for a defense, you don’t give a damn what they say. You’re doing whatever the hell you want. That was what brought him to this moment. His tongue brushed against the cold metal barrel. It tasted like soap. He laughed to himself, realizing he had washed the barrel before putting it in his mouth. The TV gurgled in the background, “Johnson, you might remember, was acquitted of murder several years ago. He was arrested at the scene while in possession of the murder weapon and covered in blood. He resisted arrest and injured two police officers before he was subdued. The victims are believed to…” He looked back on that case bitterly. He remembered Johnson’s cold, coal-black eyes, devoid of any empathy. He remembered his callous laugh; it echoed through the corners of his mind. He could hear the perverse joy in Johnson’s tone. His mind returned to the cold metal in his mouth. His hands caressed the pearl grips. He looked back on that moment all those years ago with renewed contempt, and shattered naïveté. “Sometimes you just have to believe the system works.” His muscles tensed, his palms were sweaty, his hands shook. With all the will in his mind, he tried to contract the muscles in his hands, he tried to pull the trigger. He felt it move a fraction of an inch before he let it fall from his mouth and into his lap. He could still hear Johnson’s laughing, only this time he was laughing at him, not the jury.
He could hear him say, the corners of his mouth curling into a twisted smile, “Don’t got the stones for it, do ya kiddo. Ha Ha. Big shock there. Ha Ha. He stood up, turning off the TV and tossing his revolver onto the desk. He stumbled over to his bar and fixed himself a scotch neat. He downed it quickly and fixed himself another. After two more glasses, the shakes began to subside and the sound of laughter began to fade from his head. Soon he would be able to sleep, if only for one night.
Alone in this World, a photograph by Justin Bessant ’12
Steampunk Love By Jeremiah Johnson ’14 Cogs are spinning around and around in my head. Acrid smoke surrounds me, swirling in vortexes. I hear the clang of machinery, echoing and loud. The salt of sweat dribbles onto my lips and it just keeps coming, faster and faster, mixing with tears. But it doesn’t matter, because when I’m with you all I can think about is your hand and how it fits into mine, or how sometimes, when we kiss, that hand creeps its way into my vest pocket… Harder and harder, my boots pound on the steel below me. The world is frenzied; I have to find you. The sky I run under is a grey, and it makes everything dark. There are people around me but I pay them no attention because my heart just keeps thumping and thumping in my chest. But it doesn’t matter, because the times I don’t have you, I fear that I might not be able to function anymore, but you are always there to help me engineer my life… I search and search and finally find you. The panicked masses flee, but I rush the opposite way. You catch sight of me, and we embrace. Airships crash and clockwork is unbound, and your heart beats so violently against mine that I can no longer tell that we’re wearing thick jackets; and everything is just falling and falling and I think I’m dying. But it doesn’t matter, because I love you, in all of your flaws and all of your insecurities, in everything you do to make me feel like this world we live in is not headed for disaster…
Pillars By Max Hall ’14
The lonely fish swam through the pillars. Made of marble and granite, infinite and everlasting. That is what had been thought. The reflection of an orb, snow white, with a luminous glow. Shimmering off an unending sea.
All the land that lasted was islands, rectangles and squares; like boxes afloat on the sea. Only the trees, wiry and grey, covered this land. Yet the tree no longer sent signal, the pillars no longer bustled with life, the islands no longer soared above the earth. The lonely fish moves through the pillars, through windows and cracks. Under the boats, puttering along.
Working Women, a pencil drawing by Jasper Liu ’12
e v i s s a P By Jesus Betancourt ’13 Heaven’s watchtower on a pedestal. Storm clouds descend upon mountains and the world Comes crashing down. Crashing on the shoulders of Atlas, I shrugged. Titanium chains on hearts of Glass, the bonding of metal leaves me ensconced On your gaze. I turn away. But eclipses Are so much better when you stare right at them. Eclipses are the moon and the sun embracing, caressing. We should eclipse. But serpents gnaw at the roots Of our world tree, hounds keep on barking. It is our Ragnarok to fight through. A battle We fight for, but we know we are losing. Futility – infertile hostilities rain on the cement. Tears Through our guts and kaleidoscope eyes gaze on and do nothing.
Defying Gravity, a photograph by David Barclay ’12
K C I T TOCK
By Justin Hegyi ’14
Clouds without water guard the moon, keeping it to themselves The smell of gasoline chokes the cool night air It brings back memories… Memories of the early days, the moment when he had just found himself Awakened into consciousness from the destroyed pieces of our world His own body a puzzle, he constructed a body for this ancient mind born seconds before Before he was fabricated of metal with a name no one remembers He knew that progress was best, this metal is safer, his circuits now secure And yet he longed for his previous existence, for the ticking, the unwieldy cogs, and the simple machines Machine, that’s what they would have called him, those who had come before Or maybe equal, they had both learned to manipulate the power of the atom He had more power than could be used in an infinite lifetime Life, time, what they called the universe The previous masters had spent countless hours pontificating about them But they were not alive today, and he was He was a scavenger, rummaging through the wreckage of a forgotten age He walked over the decaying roads and skyscrapers that cling like moss to the ground Trying to understand why Why they would ever have wanted to destroy themselves? And it struck him that he had never been as happy as he was at the moment of his creation But it was impossible to return to his natural state, and finally he understood the Forgotten Ones He had known it was coming He felt the atoms destabilizing: the heat uncontrollable! His power too magnificent! And the ticking began, ah the ticking, it brings back memories… And for his last seconds, he laughed like a man
THE CITY A glowing city, cold and bright, stands tranquil. Moonlight reflects off of its lustrous structures, creating lines and reflections in all shades of silver. The design is sleek, efficient, showing all signs that the designer knew what she was doing. It is laid out in a grid, symmetrical on all sides. At its core is the main square, surrounded by the many enormous, chrome-plated skyscrapers that make up the bulk of the metropolis. The square, as well as the streets around it, is normally filled with people going about their daily hustle and bustle of activity, even at this late hour. Instead, it is still and quiet, save a slight breeze passing by the mountainous buildings. In the precise center of the square, a small, amply marked box sits. The inhabitants are not inside the housing towers, cozy in bed, waiting for morning. Nor are they in their work cubicles attempting to remember how they avoided this tedium the previous day. Nor are they about the slim sidewalks or trim avenues of the city, for if they were, they would have noticed the box. Indeed, they are nowhere to be found in the city. They stand on a hillside, worn smooth by the years; every single one is among them, huddled close together, looking at their city from afar. There is no grass on this hill, no plants of any kind, no animals. There is nothing but sand and bodies. These bodies shift their weight nervously. None are truly prepared for the events which will soon take place. Many have never set foot into the sea of pure white sand outside their home. The population stands now, looking up, down, everywhere but at each other. They simply cannot. There is work to be done. Of course, not all of them had work to do. Only one man is working tonight. He holds a small remote in his hand. The remote has only one button, a large, red one that serves one purpose. He, along with most of the others, has no inkling of the reasoning behind that purpose. He knows only that it must happen. The mingled scents of anticipation and fear hang in the air while the man prepares himself for his task. It is a simple task. Once he grasps this thought,
By Jeremiah Johnson ’14 he clings to it. Before he can let go, he ceases to think and presses his finger to the plastic. He only just recognizes his own action when it happens: a flash of white that fills the entire night, no sound, only a dull reverberation, then dark and silence. The people blink rapidly, attempting to regain their sight. When it does return to them, they remain silent. They do not know how to react, so they do not. The sight that meets their gaze is grey. Where the city once stood is now only ash in neat mounds. The congregation stands as before, but with a weight on them so immense that they can scarcely breathe. The moon continues to shine, and the breeze continues to blow. Then, appearing to arise from nowhere, a dove flutters over the host of people. It is pure white, just as the sands below it and the moon above it. Being the only thing moving in their view, the dove quickly becomes the subject of the people’s interest. It heads toward the ruins of the dead behemoth, and the people do not take notice of it until it nearly reaches that spot. When it does, it becomes agitated and ascends, flapping its wings wildly. Again seeming to emerge from some ubiquitous utopia, a second dove materializes close to the first. Each becomes aware of its mate and they quickly glide towards each other. They descend together, no longer troubled, onto the vestiges of the city. They land, touching down in the only clean spot in the city, a small square of concrete in the exact center. The heaviness that bears down upon the people on the hill intensifies. It oppresses them to extremes. However, they make no outward actions displaying this distress. They simply slump where they stand, being crushed by their own anguish. Not having the distraction of the doves, or possibly the peace with which the doves had come to rest with, causes this gravity to be even denser. Some look to the sky for a relief, some look to the ground. They find none. All are forced to resolve that this could be for the best. There is nothing they can do. They can do nothing. Though, this might be too gracious a conclusion.
Nature, a photograph by Steven Douglas ’12
Black in White, a photograph by Kevin Cabano ’12
justified By Ryan Ziltzer ’14
They were just not right Fatally flawed Innately imperfect Basically bugged They reeked of pungent immorality Justified by their smoggy “truths” They needed an expiration date Their day would come And come it did... But we were left, Left for a reason What is left Was left for us to bear We were entrusted To be in all ways perfect, In all ways right O’ how it feels to work with a clean slate To cleanse your ears of all lies and deception To wash the saltiness of falsehood from the tongue To hold sweet perfection in one’s hands Our Reign of ideals, Striking Terror in the hearts of sin Imposing our Virtue in all We are a Republic of righteousness
Crystal Flakes By Grant Parsons ’12 Crystal flakes descended from the heavens, Each one unique and impossible to create. Easily destroyed and quickly forgotten. One by one they stacked themselves, Until the world was blanketed in brilliant white. As if God remarked, “Remember how pure this used to be.” For a moment the world is quiet, Perfection only lasts so long. A snow plow roars along as if to say, “Trust me, we are better this way.”
Doctor’s Orders, a digital illustration by Ian Poblete ’13
An Interview with SLOANE McFARLAND Interview and photos by Jack Flynn ’13, Managing Editor In January, BLAM had the opportunity to sit down with alumnus, videographer, artist, and space developer Sloane McFarland ’ 91 and get his perspective on Phoenix, industry, Brophy, and the dynamic role of art in the city. JF: How and when did you figure out that you wanted be an artist?
JF: What role would you say spirituality played during your time at Brophy?
SM: When I was about fifteen I clearly, in my own head, could say I wanted to make things, but I didn’t quite know what that meant. It was actually at Brophy that I started getting engaged in literature and it was kind of through that process that it started. A little bit later, in college, I got more involved in cinema and started to think about video. It was at that point where I thought, “Oh, well this makes sense. This is the direction I want to go in.”
SM: I can really single out going to mass in the chapel as a really influential thing for me. I’m not sure I was even really connected to what that meant, but it was a very special space and I really felt something special there. I actually found myself going to mass every once in awhile. Leaving Brophy, I wasn’t that interested, engaged, or focused on Christ. As I got a little bit older, that all kicked in and made a little more sense. It’s actually something I carry with me a lot. I still sneak away and go to mass there with Fr. Olivier and it’s very meaningful for me.
JF: In what ways did your time at Brophy influence your career path and decisions? SM: Well, in fantastic ways. At a very basic level, there’s just a fantastic spirit and heart about Brophy that is still very meaningful to me today. I think on another level, Brophy enables a vision. Brophy helps supply a vision of the world and how to engage the world.
JF: What made you decide to use video as a medium for your art? SM: There was kind of a neat thing happening. I was finishing college in ‘95 and at that point, believe it or not, digital media didn’t really exist too much. It was very experimental and I was really interested in cinema, poetry, and I was exposed to the French New Wave film-makers. They were basically taking advantage of the technology, using
smaller cameras and sound equipment and taking it to the streets. That really influenced me and through that, I started thinking how you could apply that to video. Suddenly now, you have camcorders that you can hold in your hand. You could start seeing how consumer-grade software packages were showing up. So from that, I got more engaged in video art and video making and went from there. JF: What do you feel makes Phoenix unique as a city? SM: Well, first of all, it’s a desert climate. But on the other hand, we have an incredible history with water and being able to live in an oasis sort of way. I think there’s a really deep spiritual quality to the light and the space and the western component that we’re in. Yet, on top of it, we’re this huge suburban city so it’s really unique. I’ve gotten it mostly out of my system but Phoenix isn’t culturally a major metropolitan city. Phoenix itself has its own dynamic, its own diversity, and its own unique quality. I think I’m still figuring it out. JF: How have you personally participated in the cultural development of Central Phoenix? SM: When I came back from school, I started exhibiting as an artist right away and that was incredibly fulfilling, working with other artists and curators for the first time and different museums. First it was the ASU museums, later the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art. There was a great gallery here called Barlow and Straker started by a couple of Brophy guys. So, that’s one component. The second is getting involved in space projects like the development here on Central, the Welcome Diner, and the Yourland project.
At a certain point in my video making, I also expanded into installation and sculptural work, mostly in a museum of gallery type of setting and the scale of that started getting bigger and that’s when some of the real estate background kicked in and I started being influenced by land artists, environmental artists, and people working on a larger scale like Donald Judd, those kind of people. It all kind of happened and honestly, with this project at Central which is the first one, we just wanted to get things to happen. That’s it. It was really that clear and there was definitely a spiritual component to it. I wanted to bring my gifts, however small or big they are, to share them and engage with them to whatever effect. With that kind of intention in mind, this project here at Central started and other good people wanted to do similar things and it just kind of happened. JF: Industry is so frequently depicted as being opposed to things like art, personal connection, and spirituality. Do you agree? SM: I think that there are a lot of casualties to what people really hold in their heart and are able to say, certainly coming from a spiritual perspective. I think that’s going to be one of the biggest movements in the coming generation. I think there’s a lot of friction between where society is and where it’s going and the freedoms that religious people have had historically not only here in this country, but around the world. There’s a tension there and we’re in the middle of it.
JF: What made you decide to get involved in creating these social spaces? SM: That’s a really good question. I haven’t fully figured it out, frankly. I’m still exploring that. It just kind of happened. I had a background in real estate. My family had been in real estate for awhile.
McFarland’s Yourland development, just west of Phoenix Skyharbor International Airport
An untitled installation by Sloane McFarland ’91 JF: What role do you feel the arts play or to ought play in a big city like Phoenix? SM: That’s a great question. I don’t know the full answer. Something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately is what culture really is and how art does relate to that and what art is. I think we’re really going through an interesting time in our understanding of what art is and its level of engagement in the world, in industry, in spirituality, and in the organizational or operational structures that we have. So to answer your question, I would say that art’s function is to bring beauty into the world and the artist has the great privilege of living amongst beauty. Art at its core has a role of expanding what life is all about and the beauty in life, so I think all of us in Phoenix and all over the world can always use more of that.
gallery for fifty years or so and then it broke loose in the sixties. Now, I think we’re at another turn where that understanding has filtered into all the institutions that surround art. We are at a place where technology is taking it to another level, so movements like social sculpture and organizational movements within art are growing at high levels due to the internet, connectivity, and social media. The internet is huge and we’re just at the start of how all that works.
“Art has left the gallery.”
JF: How do you think new technologies like video have changed the way we interact? SM: Well that’s huge and that’s kind of one of the reasons I see such a big paradigm shift in what art is and the way people think about art. Art has left the gallery. You know, there was a big moment where art was so focused on the
JF: What does your creative process usually look like? SM: It depends what I’m working on, whether it’s a video, space project, installation, or something in a more pure, conceptual direction. It’s all very different. Ezra Pound wrote a great book about art which started with “You need to look at it.” I think the artist’s great area to work in and to experience is looking at things, really experiencing them, allowing them to affect you, sitting with them, pondering it, poking at it, and letting it poke you back. Some things engage you to ponder and something shows up that you see and literally, it’s that simple. You see the movement there and you make the more formal step of it becoming a real thing or a real happening. Those are two things that are really clear
and then, beyond that, there’s process. There’s different levels of engagement and different media have different calls to responsibility and different steps. JF: Do you think things like industrialization and urbanization have inhibited our ability to stop and just look at something? SM: Industrialization is a huge influence on art. If you look on what drives the “art market”, which is very influential, or you look at the job of the artist, which is to open themselves and look at what is around them, that’s right in front of them to look at. It’s part of the fabric of who we are. It’s just the reality. JF: What advice do you have to current students who are aspiring artists?
SM: I think the main thing is to be open. The beautiful thing about being a student is the time afforded to you to discover new things and be shown new things. It’s a huge gift and sometimes, when you get to later stages of life, you don’t have that luxury. My only advice is to look at what you’re interested in and the direction it seems like things are going in. For me, personally, there’s a God component which is being quiet and reflective and discerning, “Where do I go?” If you can connect to that, and there’s a direction there, it’s a win no matter what. There’s a certain level of protection in terms of, you might be successful, you might not be successful, but that’s life. Going back to what we were talking about earlier, that’s the great opportunity and freedom we have to succeed or fail. There’s so much to do in the world, if you can somehow find the intimate connection to the direction that God wants you to go in, and then just apply yourself to the best of your ability, you can’t lose even if you do.
In April, BLAM visited the recent Phoenix-oriented exhibition of alumnus and artist Adam Stamp ‘03 at the Icehouse. His show, entitled (Home) BASE, explored how his home state influenced his work.
Adam Stamp ’03, in front of his painting, Arizona II (Adam-Less) with Mr. John Damaso ’97
“Arizona is where I learned to appreciate nothingness.” - Adam Stamp ’03
I’ll Be Seeing You By Jackson Santy ’13
The rain is beating down on the window pane as The Boy stares at The City he once called home. As he sits in the backseat of the scarlet Chevrolet, The Boy’s mind is racing. Just this one time, he thought. One job and he’d be done with it. He wouldn’t contemplate it. He wouldn’t chicken out, and he wouldn’t even think to turn back. Just this one time. Trying his best to look like James Dean, he shoves a cigarette into his mouth and lights it. Taking a drag, he looks at the sights outside of his window. Although the rain would rinse away the scraps of debris and shards of broken glass from the streets, it would never cleanse the filth ingrained within them. He is in the car with two other men: one, The Driver, whose eyes are dead-set on the road, and the other, who sits in the passenger seat, holding a large case. This only the fourth or fifth time The Boy had driven in an automobile. His first time was when he was around nine or ten. A friend had invited The Boy to join him and his family on a trip to The Shore. They owned one of those expensive cars with the elegant leather seats, a transistor radio and a retractable roof. That was The Boy’s favorite part of the whole car, the retractable roof. While they were driving, the friend’s father put the top down. When the roof retracted, The Boy looked up to the sky and saw what to him was the most beautiful sight in the world. A blue cloudless sky emerged before his eyes and struck him with awe. But this time is different; he doesn’t feel happy or excited to be on this car ride. His stomach is in knots as he tries to fight back the taste of vomit. One job and he’d walk away with three hundred dollars in his pocket. The car suddenly comes to a stop. Both The Driver and The Passenger begin to get out. It’s a cold night; The Boy pulls his coat up to fight back the icy air nipping at his face. Taking a drag of the cigarette, he listens to the sounds in the distance: a car honking, a baby crying and faintly, just faintly, he can hear music playing.
I’ll be seeing you In all the old, familiar places That this heart of mine embraces All day through. Billie Holiday—it’s a song he remembers from several years ago. It was played nearly every day on the record player in his home. He thinks back to his mother softly singing it to herself as she folded the laundry, her chestnut hair flowing when she walked, body swaying as she picked The Boy up and danced around the room embracing him in her arms. If it weren’t for the rain coming down, The Boy would have noticed the tears that forced their way out, trickling along his face.
I’ll find you In the morning sun; And when the night is new, I’ll be looking at the moon, But I’ll be seeing you. He follows the two men towards the entrance of the building they’ve parked in front of. The man, who was in the passenger seat, stops and turns. “Follow us to the back,” he says gruffly, “Don’t talk to anybody, don’t look at anybody, don’t breathe on anybody. I don’t care if Marilyn Monroe is in there; you keep your head down, got it?” The Boy nods and they proceed through the entrance. As they walk through the door, The Boy quickly examines the room. They’re standing in a smoke-filled bar, with only a few people inhabiting it. The three then make their way into the back of the bar and hurry into the bathroom. The Driver closes and locks the door, while The Passenger checks the stalls, making sure nobody is in the room but them. “All right,” The Driver says. “Did anybody notice us?” The Passenger asks, with his voice lowered.
“Didn’t seem like it,” The Driver replies. The Passenger then sets his briefcase on top of the sink and opens it up. He pulls out three pairs of leather gloves, handing one pair to The Driver and one pair to The Boy, while keeping the third pair for himself. He then carefully grasps two sleek, shining, silver revolvers, holding one in each hand. Once again, he hands one to The Driver, one to The Boy, and pulls the third out and puts it in his jacket pocket. “They’re all loaded and ready, so all you got to do is cock it and pull the trigger,” The Passenger says. The Boy grasps the revolver tightly in his hand, carefully examining the firearm. He had never held a real gun before; he has only seen them in movies and on television, or in the holsters of police officers. It is much heavier than he’d imagined. Clenching the gun by its grip, he feels a sense of power. Not the sense of power one receives from hitting
a home run; this is different and The Boy isn’t sure he is enjoying it.
I’ll be seeing you In all the old familiar places That this heart of mine embraces All day through. The Driver and The Passenger are huddled next to the door. “Hey, kid! Get over here!” The Passenger sharply whispers. The Boy puts the gun in his jacket pocket; his hand still remains tightly clasped to its grip, his finger placed ever so lightly on the trigger. The Passenger unlocks the door of the bathroom and opens it only a few inches. Through the thick smoke in the bar, The Boy sees nothing except for a blurred figure facing the other direction.
I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces all day through.
Midnight Chapel Run, a photograph by Steven Douglas ’12
“That’s him,” The Driver whispers. “All right, follow my lead,” The Passenger says. “Don’t make any sudden moves and keep quiet; we can’t have him darting out of here and making a scene.” The Passenger takes point and walks out the door, into the bar; The Driver swiftly follows with The Boy directly behind. The three men hastily make their way through the bar, their footsteps not making a sound. Once reaching the booth behind the lone Patron, the three men sit. The Boy carefully observes The Patron; he’s sitting in the adjacent booth, a cup of black coffee on the table, hands at his sides; he’s humming a tune that is hardly audible from where the men are sitting. Then, in one fluid movement, The Passenger whips out his revolver and jams the barrel into the neck of The Patron. The Patron remains motionless, his hands still at his sides, coffee still on the table, only now he has stopped humming. All that can be heard from him is fearful, deep breathing. “Don’t even think about moving,” The Passenger whispers gruffly. “It’s been a long time pal. Why haven’t you stopped by for a visit?” The Patron does not reply. “Oh, right—maybe it has something to do with the fact that you owe The Boss two grand.” The Patron still remains silent except for his deep panting. The Boy is nervous; he doesn’t know what to do. “So—” The Passenger resumes, “whether or not you have the money, you’re still going to make me a very happy man. Because if you do—I get to leave here, without running from the cops, and then I’ll receive a very generous gratuity from The Boss. But if you don’t have the money, I get the pleasure of blowing your pathetic brains all over the room.” The Boy is beginning to sweat. His hand grips even more tightly now on the gun in his pocket. Seconds seem like hours as the men wait for a response. Then, without warning, The Patron reaches for his coffee mug and hurls it at the face of The Passenger. The Passenger lets out an agonized yelp, as the dark liquid drips down his face. The Driver rushes to the aid of The Passenger and among the commotion and muttered swears from The Passenger, The Boy stands and pulls the gun from his pocket. Without another thought, he pulls the trigger, sending a bullet straight through The Patron’s back. In an instant, The Patron falls flat to the ground, the sound of the gunshot still ringing throughout the bar. The Boy stands immobile, still comprehending the events of the
last thirty seconds. Just this one time, he thought. One job and he’d be done with it. He wouldn’t contemplate it, he wouldn’t chicken out, and he wouldn’t even think to turn back. The Patron, fighting for air, uses the seat of a nearby table and pulls himself to his knees. The Boy begins pacing towards him, as he falls back down, this time landing on his back. Standing over the nearly lifeless body of The Patron, tears begin to roll down The Boy’s face. As he stares into the eyes of The Patron, he sees himself. He sees the convertible driving along the open road, heading for The Shore, He sees himself staring at the seemingly endless blue sky, and then finally, he sees his mother, holding him in her arms, swaying around the room. The Boy does not notice The Driver and The Passenger running out of the bar, yelling for him to get out of there, nor does he notice the bartender behind him, unsheathing a double barrel shotgun. He continues to stare into those eyes, and then, for one more moment, he hears it.
I’ll find you In the morning sun And when the night is new. I’ll be looking at the moon, But I’ll be seeing you. Then, as he closes his eyes, using his last remaining breaths, he whispers, “I’ll be seeing you.”
Hotel Gem, a print by Steven Oleksak ’13
He and Loneliness By Brad Keller ’12
The theater was empty. It had always been empty, for as long as He could remember. The seats sat abandoned, their red velvet covers torn in some places, revealing the decomposing innards. The smoke from His long, stale cigarette floated upwards, like some sort of sacred incense, only to incessantly crawl into His nose and sting, making His eyes slightly water, the involuntary tears leaving cool trails down His cheeks. The man was sitting on a stage, wearing a tattered suit, with only a spotlight glaring down upon Him like some sort of omnipotent watcher. But He was alone. He was very much alone. Loneliness was His only companion, and He had come to know Her quite well. From time to time, they had the most riveting conversations, He and Loneliness. She never bothered Him much, He didn’t mind Her company, and She kept Him mostly to Herself. What He was and what people perceived Him as were two totally different things, but He didn’t mind, so long as He had Her. Some people had told Him He had a broken mind, but He figured that couldn’t be right, because for as long as He could remember, none of it had ever been missing, which means it definitely couldn’t have been broken at any point in time, unless He had forgotten, in which case He figured it must be broken. He took a drag off the cigarette and stood up, slowly pacing around the stage, dancing in lonely loops, smoothly floating around the stage. His fedora was perched dangerously on His head, threatening to fall at any given moment, but still miraculously managing to stay put. The suit also seemed to be teetering on the edge of oblivion. It somehow managed to be snug, but at the same time, so ill-fitting on the man that it seemed the suit itself would get up and leave if it had to stay a moment longer. Shouldn’t we leave now? I don’t know, what do you think? We’ve been here quite some time. I know, I like it here. You know I do as well, but I think we should go home. Why? It’s just another reminder that she’s left town. Please? O.K. He stepped down from the stage, and heard Her mention very softly that He should stop smoking, but He quietly ignored Her as they walked out of the abandoned theater hand in hand, the taste of the musty tobacco still lingering on His lips as He whispered to Her: “I love You.”
Sunshine, a pastel by Tyler Thompson ’12
Ringleaders and Tigers By Ian White ’12 Cast of Characters
Z: Maggie Rodriguez Young Z: Brittney Hintze Lillian: Maraen Foley Alfred: John Medici
Ringleaders and Tigers is an original play written and directed by Ian White . It was performed in the Xavier College Preparatory Black Box Theatre in December 2011 with the cast listed below.
Scene
Ringleaders and Tigers is set in the UK, nowhere specifically. Most of it is a kind of theatrical limbo, seeing as it is written mostly as a one woman show with a couple of flashbacks that include other characters. Z is written as a woman around 49 years old. She is around 9 in the first flashback and she is around 44 in the second one.
Inked, a prismacolor by Tarren Villaverde ’12
ACT I Scene 1
A woman covered in an eclectic mix of wraps and scarves of varying colors makes her way to the center of a dark stage where a small table is lit. On it is a pitcher of water and a glass. The woman pours a glass of water and delicately takes a sip. She seems tired, but is ready to face her audience. Z: Hello darlings, could you do me the biggest favor? Could you tell me if I look homeless? I am absolutely terrified of the idea of anyone seeing me at my worst. “Dress as if you are anticipating the queen somersaulting her way through your living room,” that’s what I always say.
She takes another sip. Z: My mother used to tell me the same thing. One is nothing without her image, especially us performers. If we aren’t entertaining, there is absolutely no use for us. [beat] It is true. If you are performing at the royal opera house, but you had a particularly rough day, you better put on your best happy face and do that show and pretend that your life is in fact what all of those kids want when they grow up. Why? Because that is what a performer does. We acquire the skills to distract the masses from their troubles. We train and rehearse and get yelled at simply to entertain. It is very important.
She stops as if someone suggested something. Z: Well, yes. Yes, I would say performers are superheroes. That’s why we have always existed through history. Yes, a performer pulls an audience’s troubles away for a couple of hours. The only trouble is, when that performer’s day is truly awful, who’s there to save the hero?
She sighs and put her water back on the table. Z: I must admit, my darlings, I have been having a bit of trouble adjusting. I’m not as strong as I pretend to be. The other day I was at a casting call for one of my shows. I was auditioning this young lady, who was absolutely dreadful by
the way, and in the middle of her acro routine, I just burst into tears. She must have thought I was crying at her horrible performance. As tear-worthy as her dead fish impression was, it must have come as quite a shock to her because she just stops in the middle of her back bend, stands up, and runs from the room. I was thoroughly embarrassed. Not for her, but for me, because for the first time in my life, I felt completely weak. I had hit rock bottom. Not monetarily, but emotionally.
Z turns away to light a cigarette at the small table in the middle of the stage. Once lit, Z suddenly looks out over the audience, and lets out a sigh. Z: How did I get to this point? Broken, tired, shot in the heart. You know, sometimes when I’m forced to leave the house, I’ll be at the grocery store or dry cleaners and I’ll hear a child’s voice and turn around and time stops and it all comes flooding back.
Z takes another inhale of the cigarette and then flicks. She stares blankly at the ground in the distance. Z: It’s a chore, you know. Existing, I mean. I feel absolutely dreadful. That’s the peculiar thing about tragedy, even when it is nobody’s fault, everyone involved seems to feel responsible. Well, in this case, I’m the only one involved. So…
Z goes back to the table and puts the rest of the cigarette out in a small ash tray. She folds her arms and returns to the audience. Z: I’ve never felt like a real parent. I would have to attribute that to my… less than average upbringing. You see, my mother was “Lillian the incredible, bendable woman”. She was a scary talented circus performer, very famous, [beat] also very drunk. TRANSITION TO 40 YEARS EARLIER, CIRCUS CAMP Scene 2
Lillian is seen draped over an elegant chair a bottle of wine is in her hand it is nearly empty. A radio is playing beside her. A young Z enters her mother’s tent.
YOUNG Z: Mama, have you seen my wrist guards? Mr. Galloway wants to see my rings routine.
to be “with” all of the men of our caravan at once. So yes, I guess you can say she was “the incredible bendable woman”.
Lillian looks up, dazed, from her bottle of wine.
Laughs as if she is the only one who found it funny
LILLIAN: Z, I’m busy, find them yourself. You are big now.
Z: Anyway, I’m getting off track. So there I was, broke, old, pouring my heart into this sad little show that had me doing everything but the hokey-pokey, and there he is. I had just finished and was in my trailer taking off the thick layer of make-up on my face when I turn around and see this sorry… lump of a man standing in the doorway of my trailer. I don’t know who had let him near it but I asked him if I could help him and he says, “Well, you can say hello to your daddy.” Naturally, I informed him that this was not that kind of circus, but he assured me that he meant no harm and that he was trying reach out to his long-lost daughter. Now, I didn’t know this at the time, but this man would eventually be just as unreliable as everyone else in my life. I’ll give you an example. Once my fath… Alfred… was in my life, I knew there had to be changes. He seemed…stable and promised he wasn’t after my circus. He was likable and I gave him a job in marketing since our head of advertising, Francis, recently moved to Spain. Well, things were going swimmingly for quite some time. He was a great grandfather for Eoin, and I thought the usual chaos that generally swirls around my life had died down for good. As usual, I was overly optimistic. Two months in, the stories started.
YOUNG Z: But mama, Mr. Galloway said… Lillian: Mr. Galloway is a good-for-nothing fool. Now go child, I’m busy.
Lillian downs the last of her wine. YOUNG Z: You don’t look busy, you look the same as you always do. LILLIAN: Z, don’t talk back to me. Do you want to stress me so that I fall during my act again? Remember how angry Mr. Galloway became last time you made me fall? YOUNG Z: Mama, I didn’t do anything to you. You fell all by yourself. You drank too much wine. LILLIAN: How dare you! How dare you speak to your mother that way! If your father even heard… YOUNG Z: I’ve never even met my father! LILLIAN: [coldly] Well, at least he has that much going for him. TRANSITION TO MODERN Scene 3 Z: My father was a loser. As horrible as she was, my mother was much too good for him. I did end up meeting him. When I was thirty, I was working on a traveling show. Nothing large, in fact, it was a rather sad excuse for a circus. I was broke and getting older. However, growing up as a traveler, I was happiest on the road. Looking back, I guess you could say I was a gypsy. My childhood consisted mainly of my [beat] family traveling in a mobile home around the country performing, traveling, and so on. My mother always seemed
Z walks over to table, opens a drawer, and removes a newspaper. Z: Stories of how I would mistreat my son, overwork him until he would pass out at my feet and I would kick him back to work. TRANSITION TO HER CIRCUS 5 YEARS EARLIER Scene 4 Z: What is this? ALFRED: That, my dear, is a newspaper. Z: Don’t feed me that crap, what is this story about me doing in it?
ALFRED: I’m sorry, but I don’t have the foggiest idea what you are referring to… Z: THE STORY! THE STORY ABOUT HOW I ABUSE MY THIRTEEN YEAR OLD SON! ALFRED: Since when do you abuse Eoin?
ALFRED: You know, you brought this on yourself. Z: Out. TRANSITION TO MODERN
Z: Precisely. ALFRED: Then why are you complaining to me? Z: Eoin Hunter Hitchins.
Scene 5
Z looks noticeably more debilitated and upset. Z: So there it is. You know, I had to close my show a month later. The attendance was so low.
ALFRED: Yes? Z: His middle name. We don’t use it! You’re in charge of marketing, you know the whole name of everyone in the company; you are the only one who knows it! And here it is in the article… So you tell me, Alfred, how? How did his full name end up in this article that is stabbing at the strings that keep hold of my career? ALFRED: I have done nothing to you. Z: Except destroy my reputation. How much did you get paid? Hm? How much was I worth to you? ALFRED: Baby doll, I would never… Z: DON’T PULL THAT ON ME! I want you out. Get out of my tent! ALFRED: I…
Z: GET OUT!
She goes back to the table to drink more water and light a cigarette. Z: So now I’m here. I have yet to escape it. [escalating] people talk. People don’t forget. People accuse you of the highest atrocities! I did not kill my son! I didn’t. I loved him. I still love him. And nobody, not a single damn person can take that away from me. He killed himself. He wrapped that damn rope around his neck because everyone else loves to take and take from us until there is nothing left to take. So he gave his life. He gave his life because he felt responsible for the collapse of my career. He felt that that if he hadn’t been alive, I wouldn’t have had a son to abuse in all of those articles. And that is a terrible burden to bear. So this is where I stand. Without a son and trying to dig my way out of all this crap that I’ve been handed my entire life. I don’t… I don’t know where to go from here. I used to have so much direction in my life. I knew exactly what I wanted and how to get it. Now I just feel robbed of that sense of direction. And for that, I will never forgive those who took so much from me. So please, could you tell me how I look? I’m not going to get anywhere without my image. Z takes a deep inhale of the cigarette [BLACKOUT]
Moneymaking Spin, a photograph by David Barclay ’12
The
Village By J.P. Malham ’12
Harbinger, a pencil drawing by Tyler Thompson ’12
On an evening grayed by nature’s grief, I arrived in a village damp and humid near the jade trees—just east Where the townsfolk spoke monotonously and cold, voices sharp like thorns, suspicious and bleak. Constantly soliciting me: keep faithful discretion to the Heretic stilted in the streets; For he spews vomit soaking sour in the venom of demonic disbelief Why must the wrinkled man lay down stone —cold-faced, knee-worn, brow like sheen For his father whom has not been heard from in years nor, for the better matter, seen? Why must the dark haired lady robed in white tattered linens pray craned? Is it to display her blind trust in a Harbinger, or rather to release a pending shame? Will we continue to journey shoeless, our feet crusts scarred like splintered wood For the sake of a peasant pixie appearing in my visions, sprawling red with a darkened, deceiving hood? I beseech to you, release your hearts quarantined within a city built by rod and tempered steel And introduce them to a naturistic belief genuine with sublime intervention where realities remain real. The townsfolk conversed with me under titanium awnings, beams thick like tree trunks, In regards to the infant rant sputtered fresh from the Heretic in tattered robes Outlandish and down-right demeaning; blasphemous like witchery they proposed Until the harrowing heretic approached, chaotically calm, and genuinely imposed “Do you believe in God?” I genuinely supposed. The Heretic scrolled upon me, his skin depressed from age and accented by tired, desperate eyes and grew mindlessly hysterical with a foreign, flailing tongue, the hairy staple of his chin grasping for the sky. As his saliva and germ assimilated into the concrete below, the man deliriously barked that my life has been lived through a lie And though those words were alien to me, those tangible abstractions gave me no choice but to sit, wonder, stare, and cry. As I was departing from this village laying parallel to the jades, south of the iron city, the prophets’ laughs volleyed within my ears. How can a man sit upon his chair, faithless and vulnerable, and strike wood with purpose, absent of fear? I trekked and pondered, wanting the vibrations sourced at my heels to give me an ingot of peace as I slowly harvested a tear And as I finally escaped that reaping village, I escaped it naked and precious – scarred and unclear For my bare, tissued feet were testaments to the Heretic that indeed, my so-called salvation was never known near.
Self-Portrait, a photograph by Steven Douglas ’12
An End to Silence By Austin Tymins ’13
His reflection looked unreal. It lacked expression; in fact, it seemed to be lacking everything. The figure in the mirror had a gun pointed to his head. He always recognized himself in his reflection. Some could not grasp the gravity of what they were looking at in their reflections. “They are observing their thoughts, aspirations, and secrets without the slightest clue,” he thought. This never concerned him personally. From as early as he could remember, he was comfortable with himself and his reflection. He looked at the figure in the mirror and saw nothing. He felt nothing, but he had hoped the reflection would prove otherwise. Pulling the trigger meant nothing, not to himself, nor to the world. When he would see even the slightest hint of fear in his eyes, he knew he was capable and willing to pull the trigger. Still nothing. He smiled and tucked the gun into its sleeve at his hip. George Keenen spent the first 18 years of his life on a farm in a small town. The farm had a certain allure to it, yet he found himself dreaming about life in the big cities. He grew up knowing the inexplicable feeling of looking up at a skyscraper from its base. That feeling brought tears to his eyes. While most felt powerless in awe of the great structure, George felt something else. He felt empowered. George worked his way through high school on the farm. The greatest lessons ever taught to him were from the soil. The soil was fickle; it was immutable, unlike human beings. He sometimes wished to himself that all people left him alone in the world. These thoughts usually occupied him when forced to be around others at school. Though he excelled academically, he could not stand the institution of formal education. Two weeks before graduation, he ran off to the city lights of Philadelphia. With nothing in his pockets, he slept in a city park underneath the artificial light of the skyscrapers. The stars of the country could not compare with the stars of man’s creation. It was at this moment he knew he wanted to be an artist – not a painter, but a sculptor. The city soon lost the charm it once held in his mind. The lessons taught to him through strenuous manual labor seemed to be absent in city dwellers. No one was committed to hard work. Everything about urban life lost its allure to him, except the skyscraper. The skyscraper was a symbol of individualism. It was a steel cage rising off the ground pointing to the sky, yet exalting Earth at the same time. Just like the skyline, a collection of individuals was all the city ever was. He hated other people. He liked men in principle, but
he couldn’t stand them in reality. The worst kinds were the ones who seemed sure of themselves to the world. One look in their eyes told him that it was only a façade; they were just as insecure as everyone else was. George never valued modesty, but he had a special respect for those who accepted themselves as they were. George knew he was better than everyone else. He was conceited, yet he had a right to be. He had no insecurities whatsoever, and he knew it. He knew he was special. Never had he looked in one’s eyes and seen anything other than fear or uncertainty. His eyes were boundless emptiness, concealing any possible emotion or purpose in life that could possibly exist, though it did not. In a rare occasion, a regular art patron came to his gallery to ask him what made him want to be a sculptor. “Because I don’t believe in God,” he said. “Don’t believe in God? What does religion have to do with art?” “I don’t believe in heaven, but I do believe in life after death. My human essence lives on when people are forced to view my work. Not admire it really, but just see it. When I die, my spirit will live on in my sculptures, willingly or unwillingly.” Though abrasive, George’s style was recognizable. His early work was direct and affirmative in shape, yet his newer pieces lacked recognition. The edges were straight and cold, the figures geometrical, and the subjects nearly indecipherable. He only sculpted human beings. Man was the only focal point. He despised animals and refused to consider them for sculpting. Every sculpture was made in order to distance himself from his own evolutionary history. One day while forging a steel structure he realized what made humans different from animals. He then wanted to prove his humanness. A few months previous, George was driving around downtown late at night when a drunk man kicked his car. He put it in park and got out. The drunk man was uttering unintelligible words while keeling over. He pulled out a knife and stumbled towards George saying he was going to kill him. George pulled the gun off his hip and shot him. When the man was dead, George felt relieved. He had proved his humanness to himself. And he had rid one more person from his city. Those people didn’t deserve to appreciate the same streets and buildings as he did. It was then he understood he had to remove everyone from the city before he could truly
Scowl, a photograph by Kevin Cabano ’12 enjoy its magnificence, which he knew was impossible. He still smiled. And here he was, driving around the streets of Philadelphia at midnight. The gun on his hip was uncomfortable, and he knew he should act soon lest it continue to pester him. He saw a woman walking down the street alone. He pulled the gun and steadied it on the armrest. He never wished for much, but now he wished for the woman to not turn around. Once he saw her face it was over. She was just a blur walking down the street from behind, but once he saw her face she became something. Nothing very important in his opinion, yet something nevertheless. As expected, she did not glance over at the car. And that’s when he shot. Three bursts of the gun. She was dead before the third shot, but he shot anyway. He felt no
satisfaction. He did feel pity for the poor woman, but he didn’t resent it. He knew he had complete awareness of one’s worth and hope, their finality. This feeling always came with shame. Shame that he had the authority and will to pass judgment on another human being. He didn’t respect his victim. The world considered pity a virtue, yet he didn’t feel virtuous. He rolled up the window and put the car in drive. At that very instant, blaring sirens and bright blue and red lights enveloped his vehicle. He made no effort to escape. He knew this day would come. He raised the gun to his temple, and stared in the rear view mirror, looking into his eyes. He saw nothing. So he didn’t pull the trigger.
Mariposa, a photograph by Eshaan Daas ’13
The Other’s View
By Ivan Iotzov ’12
I walk slowly down the street. A slow, brooding walk under a dark, brooding sky. People pass me by without second thoughts. I feel the sting of their quick judgments. My clothes, my hair, my walk. All of it, judged in an instant by a passing stranger, my entire self, reduced to a fleeting thought of a man I’ll never know. But I am no different, I too judged him, I am no less guilty. We walk, we judge, and no one spares a thought as those judgments eat us away. No one ever looks as I walk into the cemetery. No one looks as I walk up to the coffin. Strange. It’s me.
Reflection, a pastel by Gus Quinif ’12
Who are We? By James Harper ’12
The water streamed across my face, and the brush of air in the wind found a maze between the slits of my wetsuit. The vast mountain of water rippled in the distance, as the page of blue gleamed in the reflection of the sun. There was that one spot where for a minute, as the sun set; the ocean was a kaleidoscope of vivid colors. What creatures possibly dwell in the depths of the rubble, watching a bright figure gradually shimmer into darkness as the days pass? Is it a fangtooth, hiding in a secluded crevice as he bites away at his own fear? Could it be a glass squid, lighting his path through the night and collapsing like a broken window upon impact? Maybe the pacific blackdragon is lurking in the quietest coral reef, preparing to die the day he sprouted like a poison sea urchin from the rough sand. Maybe it can’t be seen. Maybe it’s just our reflection, looking us in the eyes as we stare at the still water, pondering about what lies beneath us. Maybe nothing is down there, and we are only hoping to see something other than ourselves.
h Hill ap gr Te le By Michael Cullan ’12
Owen Pendleton was sitting outside on concrete steps drinking tap water out of a disposable coffee cup. He believed it made him look sophisticated, and he liked girls who wear glasses and tuck their sweaters in. At university, Owen was a 3.7 student: not bad, but nothing to write home about. He felt he didn’t have much to write home about as of late. It was his 82nd day living in San Francisco, and as familiar as the midnight fog was becoming, he still felt like a stranger: to the city, to himself. His roommates were away at the opening of some garish new night club. They did graphic design or something interesting. Owen hated it. Not what they did specifically. He hated them for being interesting. Resented the architects, the sculptors. More than anyOne he loathed The poets Today had been like any other— a fumble through another shift of internship at a corporation whose name he could hardly pronounce with a laundry list of lowly duties, the top of which was almost without fail to brew the coffee each morning. How he hated making coffee for the office. At least when the baristas do it they can say they are just waiting for their acting careers to take off. The tragic protagonist shrugged away a housefly attempting to make an emergency landing on his left shoulder, a sign from the heavens to stand up and take a stroll. Owen’s apartment was located towards the bottom of Telegraph Hill, one of the trademark precipices of San Francisco. It wasn’t the tallest butte in the city, but to a boy from the Midwest, it hardly needed to be. Telegraph Hill was a beast of its own persuasion, its jawline streets punctuated with the pastel teeth of apartment buildings and vegan bakeries. This city could swallow you whole. Amid a lapse in awareness, Owen ran his leg into a bicycle dutifully leant against the bark of a cypress tree. The 10 speed Schwinn, a tangerine-hued machine from the late 1970s, tumbled to the ground. He wondered why the bike wasn’t chained to something. It seemed to him the owner of this beauty wasn’t careful enough. A neighborhood like this? Someone might
steal it. In the negligibly populated township that Owen had spent his early years, there was only one hill. Winch Peak was located a five minute pedal north of the elementary school. The asphalt slope was a proving ground, and one that was avoided by those without the intrepidity to tackle it on two wheels. Owen Pendleton had never set foot to pedal to sail recklessly down the spine of Winch Peak, something he was admittedly ashamed of, and a fact that haunted him more than those who knew him detected. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or jealousy of his interesting roommates, but Owen decided it was time to prove himself. He walked the unknowingly lent bike slowly up the hill, each step a conscious decision to continue this lapse in judgment. Upon reaching the top, he but for a moment noted to himself that he did not have a helmet. He had seen the PSAs, knew all about head trauma. He nearly backed down from the self-imposed challenge, but felt it would be a shame. He had had enough shame. He wondered if he should roll his right pant leg so as not to get caught in the menacing snare of the bike chain, a telltale uniform of the urban cyclist commuter culture, but decided against it. As wind whispered salty air into his face, Owen pedaled as hard as he could down the slope. Approaching the bottom, he began to fumble for the levers on the handlebars, and as he squeezed, as he constricted the motion of the bike, nothing changed. The brakes were anything but functional. Owen Pendleton, intern extraordinaire, was for the first time in his life veering headlong after throwing caution to the wind. It was a bittersweet triumph, however, as he seemed to be left with no options. Backpedaling proved useless as the chain spun worthlessly around the hub. Owen turned his attention forward, downward. There was a large glass storefront window rapidly approaching, a pane he saw each day as a zoo exhibit filled with would-be screenwriters. Now the place was empty, a threshold characterized only by the muddled sheen of streetlight on window tint. Impact with the coffeehouse was imminent, but Owen’s mind was absorbed in one thought: Who’s interesting now?
Tanner, a self-portrait by Tammer olhausen ’14
Tanner, a prismacolor by Tanner Olhausen ’14
Jack Flynn ’13 Managing Editor
Alex Chen ’14 Social Media and Publicity Editor
Julian De Ocampo ’13 Literary Editor
Nick Giancola ’12 Visual Editor
Sam Wolff ’13 Layout Editor
Austin Ensor ’12 Lead Graphic Designer
STAFF FACULTY ADVISORS: LITERARY COMMITTEE: Jacob Anderson ’14 Kevin Clark ’14 Asher Enciso ’14 Ryan Frankel ’14 Josh Galvin ’13 Alex Giolito ’14 Miguel Gutierrez’ 14 Seth Harris ’14
Justin Hegyi ’14 Jeremiah Johnson ’14 Alex Keating ’14 Colin Marston ’13 Quinn McGovern ’12 Michael Norville ’15 Phillip Rapa ’14 Kayvan Shamsa ’14
Mr. John Damaso ’97 and Mr. Chad Unrein
VISUAL COMMITTEE: Gurkaran Chotalla ’13 Grant Fisher ’14 Alec Girouard ’14 Johnathan Gornet ’14 Matt Munhall ’12 Griffen Tymins ’14 Colin Zaccagnio ’13 Ryan Ziltzer ’14
COLOPHON Designers used Adobe InDesign CS5.5 and Photoshop CS5 Extended to create the 2012 print issue of Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine. The dimensions are 8 inches by 8 inches. The body copy font is Linux Biolinum in 10 pt. font with an 11 pt. leading. The attribution font for all writen pieces is Highway Gothic Condensed in 23 pt. All of the titles and pull-out quotes are in Mailart Rubberstamp and Old Newspaper Types, respectively, with varying sizes and leadings. © 2012 by Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine, 4701 N. Central Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85012. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without permission. All images and literary works are property of the respective artist, reproduced with the permission of the student.
Editor photographs by Sam Wolff ’13, Layout Editor
MISSION STATEMENT Brophy Literary & Arts Magazine is a student-run publication that seeks to be a platform for student talent, a catalyst to further mutual understanding among peers, and an amplifier for the collective voice of the student body. The BLAM staff works to add permanence to student artwork and creative writing both in print and digital media, as well as through oncampus events, contests, and readings.
Want to see more? Go to blam.brophyprep.org for student-made art, stories, poems, and videos. Want to submit? Please send inquiries and submissions for future editions of BLAM to blam@brophyprep.org.