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Volume 4: May 2005. Coral Reef Senior High 10101 S.W. 152 St. Miami, Fl 33157 Tel: 305-232-2044 Fax: 305-252-3454 http://coralreef.dadeschools.net/elysium
8UEDQ /DQGVFDSHV We float through the days, adrift in urban sprawl. We are displaced in all places. In the midst of eddies, of swirling waters, we have emotions, introspections, dreams; we are lonely. We wind our way through the sunny skies, the colors that populate our world. We skip through dance steps, through battles, through flickering flux and fluctuation. We listen to the music of joy; we find companions to avoid loneliness. We try to fly. We step from sunlight to darkness, from joy to sadness. The city dreams, through our deceptions and our triumphs. It finds its own accomplishments, its artists, its knowers. It transforms itself, lines sweeping around the tessellation of life. Labyrinthine journeys, fiery self-discovery. The city watches us – its poets, its dreamers. We come from the corners of the earth and build our havens within this city. We find our Elysium.
(O\VLXP 6WDII Back Row: Martine Powers, Patricia Arty, Joseph Burchell, Thomas Ilic, Emily de Armas, Justin Dainer-Best, Kristine Chien, Stephen Palahach, Susan Cohen, Klara Scharnagl, Javier Ortega, Ashley Gallagher, Sarah Youbi, Rafael Rivero Middle Row: Bettina Hodapp, Natalie Tejero Front Row: Bianca Fernandez, Megan O’Connor, Erica Fabry, Whitney Arostegui, Carmella Guiol, Greta Martinez, Katherine Holmes, Anjalee Khemlani Not pictured: Beverly Acha, Nicole Chipi
(GLWRULDO 6WDII Editor: Justin Dainer-Best Layout Editors: Kristine Chien, Emily de Armas Artistic Director: Beverly Acha Technical Advisor: Megan O’Connor Webmaster: Rafael Rivero Sponsors: Mrs. Amy Scott and Mrs. Susan O’Connor
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Lost Jay Parekh
22
Opposites Kerri Lopez
42/43
Color Coded Bianca Fernandez
3
Nocturnal City Emily de Armas
23
Color Blind Corey Berman
44
Drive Me Away Sunshine Bianca Fernandez
4/5
Solid Rafael Rivero
24
Soma Theano Stavrinos
45
The Shadows Cast by Beauty Ana Pena
6
One-Winged Butterfly Thomas Ilic
25
She Wanted to Fly Susan Cohen
47
Sisterly Love Allyson Jones
7
The Weight Rafael Rivero
26
Metro Riding Justin Dainer-Best
48
Culture Nick Kallergis
8/9
Sunrise in Haiti Valerie Bellande
27
Still Frame Nicole Chipi
48
Ballerinas Christie Delagandara
11
Tears for Expression Valerie Bellande
29
I am What I Eat Amanda Martino
50
Catzilla Amber Williams
12/13
Animal Politics Steven Palahach
31
Lost up There Nicole Chipi
51
A Ghost’s End, Day’s Glee Yaeyoon (Yuna) Park
14
In Flux Lillian Marquez
32
The Unseen Canvas Luis Ocampo
52/53
I Do Not Hear My Song Bernardo Garcia
15
Revolution Carmella Guiol
33
One Earth Luis Ocampo
54
Finally the Boy Understands Nick Bernal
16
The Frozen Sea Elie Picault
35
My Hero Rides Again Elise Chazyn
55
Together We Sing Alfred V. Nicoletti
17
Cigaro Sonia Miranda
37
Misery Yaeyoon (Yuna) Park
56
Water Brothers Steven Palahach
18/19
Lost Railroad to China Reshma Ramachandran
39
Labyrinth Thomas Ilic
21
Assumptions Adam Kressel
40
His Lips are Windows Justin Dainer-Best
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Front Cover Illustration: Sarah Schloss and Morgan Tinney
Back Cover Illustration: Sarah Youbi (image) and Mrs. Scott (word art)
3
Typhoon Christina Jay
26
5
Self Portrait Joseph Burchell Cat in the Hat Brandon Wilson Give my All Michael Suarez Truth Eileen Rodriguez Three Images of Haiti Amanda Martino Untitled Beverly Acha Revolution Francisco Gonzales Portrait of Hope Brandon Wilson Smokey Andres Suarez Lonely Path Ginelle Boyer Introspection Joshua Roth The Soft Side Darnell Johnson Oh Hush Sarah Schloss
27
6 7 8 10/11 13 14/15 16 17 18 20 22/23 24
28 30 32 33 34 36 38 41 42 44 45 46
Untitled Whitney Arostegui Metro Kristie Conserve You Are What You Eat Darnell Johnson There There Nicole Chipi Rainbow Tree Theano Stavrinos Is You or Is You Ain’t? Alina Balaguero Whisper Courtney Askins Girlfriends Paloma Guilamo Leslie II Christina Jay Untitled Carmen Guillen-Casal Glance Adrianna Arintok Self Portrait Kristie Conserve Teen Beauty Allyson Jones Sisterly Love Allyson Jones
48 49 50 51 53 54 55 56
Culture Nick Kallergis Explore Your Imagination Christie Suarez Catzilla Amber Williams Kid with the Chemicals Alina Balaguero I Do Not Hear My Song Bernardo Garcia Feeling Kinda Blue Brandon Wilson In the Face of Music Julianne Richardson Mouvement de Perles Beverly Acha
Contents Page Montage: Beverly Acha Chicagoband and Carta Pics; photo by Jose Pazos-Perez, Black-White Urban Landscape logo: Sarah Youbi Inside back cover: Courtyard Scene Sean Gayle
7KHPHV 3-19 20-29 30-37 38-47 48-56
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We are but a seed, lost in a torrent of enormity but a leaf burning in the ames of complacency but a face smothered in a blanket of conformity but a number hidden in the charts of mediocrity but a soul damned to the depths of transience So with tired eyes, tired minds, and tired souls, we wept
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evening was the time for wine, night was the time for drinks. and as they waltzed down glowing streets the days turned, either proper or indiscreet. the streets stared, tread on, beaten, and stabbed by stiletto shoes with shiny buckles and classy straps. they searched the city and their stockings for snags and landed in places fargone. nuances and rhythms.
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This is my new favorite place. I write from atop a hill made of dirt and boulders. This hill was once part of a golf course. Many men have swung powerfully from its crest, waging their luck with a proud grip. A hurricane stripped away its grandeur. The failed enterprise has been replaced by luxury condominiums. All that remains is this hill and the rusty overturned shopping carts that litter it. Nature has reclaimed it, covering it with an array of weeds and shrubbery. It stands deďŹ ant before the bulldozers at a distance. As the sun recedes, I know that this lonely hill will reign supreme over the forces of mankind that plot to erode its mystique and replace it with “progress.â€? I used to play here long ago, before it was even a golf course.
I played here before the day when I cried because I glimpsed the horrors of our age and felt a terrible and solitary impotence.
I don’t play here anymore. During the past few years I have been bent on discovering the world beyond the golf course. I have devoured books with an insatiable appetite. Nikos Kazantzakis taught me to tread carefully between Buddha and the Overman. Ayn
I’ve returned to this place at the onset of adulthood looking for inspiration. The creeping darkness is minutes away from putting an end to my writing. The only light left is the one guiding the machines in the
distance as they lift the remaining scraps of the wild and dump them into a large steel container. As this venture to a simpler time nears conclusion, I am enveloped by a sense of infiniteness. The shapeless mechanical animals that raze our fields and seed indifference will not destroy my sense of self. I will seek to contract mankind’s reach and focus it on nobler goals—not just to expand, expand, and expand. I will seek to preserve a delicate balance between man and nature, man and society, and man and himself, a balance struck by my Mexican ancestors. I will escape unscathed from the calculated havoc of the twenty-first century. Call it faith or call it folly, but tonight I am optimistic that, like this hill, I will not be dismantled.
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I played here before twenty men with box cutters jolted me into awareness. I played here before Iraq, Madrid, Beslan, and Abu Ghraib. I played here before that day last month when I fervently wished that God, any God, would materialize before us and decisively part the gray sea of ethics, separating the relative and the absolute.
Rand showed me the weaknesses in my political beliefs and forced me to reassert my positions with renewed vigor. Camus armed me with the guidelines for becoming a Saint without God. Márquez gifted me with a greater empathy for man—defects and all. The great literary masters of our time with their mighty pens provided me with a strong defense against the threats of our times, sharpened my mind, and hardened my resolve to fight humanity’s plagues whenever I encounter them. Still, I alone will face the bulldozers.
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It’s just another continuation of my paradise. Let’s clap; let’s clap some more, and admire, and pretend. He throws a piece of green paper in my hand. Another one of those damn jobs. Your hate is like a hard cocoon, a hibernating detonation of fireworks flying in our supposedly-shameful faces.
guilt and shame. It is hard to be critical of ourselves. Still, there is no nobler a quality than the ability to feel remorse for others. The innocent child in East Asia is not being forced into the sex trade in regions far removed from my sphere of interest. To me, it is happening right next door, and I am partly responsible for it. The displaced cotton grower in Chad is not the victim of a vague enemy like “free trade” or “supply-side economics”. He is my victim. Some will say that I am fighting an uphill battle. If that is so, I accept my quixotic burden and carry it willingly. I only wish that all of our leaders and politicians would share the sense of responsibility that I feel for the plight of all others, regardless of their status or location. I am optimistic about the future of the global society. The vast majority of the world’s citizens want peace and security - the driving forces behind all sociopolitical structures. This can be achieved only if this communal desire can transcend its limitations and be expressed fully through the individuals who lead and represent us. It all begins with our own person. I invite you to take a leap.
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It would seem to an unfamiliar onlooker that we as a race are playing out the last stages of a cat-and-mouse game between our best intentions and our worst instincts. Weary billions are mired in poverty, increasingly resisting our apologetic words of condolence. We are like the cannibal who weeps as he satisfies his hunger, shocked at the necessary depravity of it all. In times when it has become difficult to discern the good guys from the bad guys, perhaps it is prudent to ask that we reflect on the very nature of our own personal politics. How would you, the reader, rule us all, were you chosen to be the leader of the world? I would rule with the same unwavering social conscience that regulates all aspects of my private life. Freedom is nothing if I apply it selectively. Prosperity is nothing if I don’t ensure that it is obtained at the expense of no one and at the betterment of all. Peace is nothing if it is wrought in war. My good intentions are nothing. It is certain that at times they will lead me to err on the side of caution. I am human - all too human. While I share this inherent flaw with all others, there is one thing I do not have: the capacity for
Truth Eileen Rodriguez [8 ]
Sunrise in Haiti
I
was in Haiti, handicapped by my love for the people, the culture, and its history. I was this young girl who hated to love a place where my friends could disappear into a mass of kidnappings, where every aspect of my life seemed to be covered by the dust of political corruption. Every night, the black box would speak the promises of politicians, both Haitian and foreign: an effortless ďŹ&#x201A;ow of words, a river of hope, and a call for unconditional support. But then the morning came; under the harsh sun, the river of hope became a river
of lies in which I could not drown.
This then is the story of my second armed robbery. At least this time I had remembered to take my pillow. I could feel the fear escalating, up, like a kite caught in a storm. This was not the first time. My mom
was holding my hand so tightly under the bed I wondered why it did not snap. They had come for us again. They were the hunters and we were their prey. I could hear windows shattering as the gunshots went through. All the bottles on the honeycolored wooden shelf broke: medication, perfume, nail polish. The smell of spilled liquids invaded my senses: nauseating, acidic, a fire in my throat. The smell of death I remember thinking, the smell of death. It is true that only prey can understand the act of being circled. It crawls under your
skin and makes you see beyond the dark. You don’t breathe; you don’t move, but in that awful moment you love so much it makes you tremble. After what seemed like hours, the stars gave way to morning. They got tired, I guess, or maybe a little afraid of our resistance.
T
oday the light in Haiti seems so harsh, yet it can warm you with a tender appreciation of life. Years have passed since the armed robberies, but still I wake early to watch the sunrise. It chases away my nightly fears and paints the sky with a radiant fan of warm colors.
[ 9 ] Sunrise in Haiti Valerie Bellande
Looking, and really seeing the social landscape, was like sliding a finely sharpened blade into the surface of my eye. I felt as if life itself were being forced from me; every violent act withered my heart. The gunshots rendered me deaf. The ashes blinded me, and I could taste nothing but pasty dirt. Strangely, the cruelty of this violence startled me back into caring, into seeing.
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remember his voice now, the voice of a true journalist. He was not always objective, but he stood strong behind his beliefs. I remember him shouting, emotional, so many times angered when faced with the incomprehensible violence that shadows Haiti.
He experienced the dreaded punishment twice: that of exile. As can be detected from his radio announcements at his return, this separation profoundly affected him; however, he remained strongly opinioned until his death in April of 2000. Another voice silenced.
It hardly matters whether one agrees with him or not. The broader landscape must be looked at; the countryside smells of the sweat of overworked farmers and clerin – a flavored alcohol – in which these farmers immerse their sorrows. The city is alive with gunshots and not even the clouds of dust can hide the poverty, the corruption. Yet, the voices of protest are muffled; the arguments that should lead to progress are discouraged. If I could, I would bring back more than Jean Dominique, the man: I would bring back Jean Dominique, the symbol. He embodied a precious liberty within Haitian society — that of freedom of expression.
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In the afternoons, as the sun melted into the sea, the countryside was characterized by the gathering of families around the black box. His drawling voice informed and qualified his strong opinions on current events. He was their connection to a complex political situation in this country in the throes of permanent revolution. He was a spokesperson for so many, a voice that reflected the mindset of this
rural community, a community often unheard and unrepresented. The people listened to Jean Dominique. He inspired respect from his supporters and fear from his opponents. Not surprisingly, as the owner and operator of the nation’s oldest radio station, he was often at odds with the government during much of the 1980’s and 1990’s.
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Everyone is cut from a different fabric sewn by generations before them. Some humans will spend their lives sitting, pecking. Maybe they’ll have good ideas. Maybe no one will know about them. Some might be passionate and others, uninterested. They’ll have different priorities and different views about life. They’ll clash; they’ll acquiesce. They’ll rebel; they’ll remain neutral. In another universe, people won’t be content with sitting. They’ll be the ones standing. And talking. Loudly. They’ll have good ideas with the passion to back them up. They’ll be too fiery to be uninterested. The generations before them have sewn their fabric with revolution. They’re keeping the spirit alive.
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Somewhere off in Italy, Neruda is dancing to an old love song with his wife. In exile, the nation’s voice rises from a single record player; the beat remains in place. Left, right, left. Izquierda, derecha, izquierda to the sounds of the crashing ocean waves. It is a place well known to me—the storybook grandmother, the father figure, the nurturing mother, the frightened and confused children; they are all here. Their eyes gleam; they raise their brows and clench their fists. Sweat profusely runs down their backs. What stirs in them, stirs in me, too, thousands of miles away. Perhaps in this ancient land born of a single continent, I, too, feel the rumblings of tension and strife. That, too, was my brother who was taken away. That, too, was my childhood. Was not that my life? In the mines, in the factories, and in the fields, our voices rise in a deafening chant.
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The sclera of their eyes bulge at me. Their porcelain faces turn pale. I hear the merciless whispers held heavily Under their breath. Everyone moves aside, They point, they poke, they stare. I am leaking grease Staining their snowy road. Into the abyss I go Drowning in an icy sea. Their insults and threats, Fill my lungs . . . And stop my breath.
&LJDUR The silver smoke whirls In and out of him, circling above his head. His emotions are locked Only the “key” of care Can loosen them: A cup of whiskey A cut in pay, An accident on the road.
The smoke reminds him of his past. The years passed quickly. The luscious fragrance of his cigar Takes him to the beach The sand The happiness he once knew. The air he breathes is filled With fire, something that Lights his memory and ignites him When his embers are dying.
It vanishes in the thick air of reality But will come again soon. The smell of hard work, reality, and memory Dance a dangerous tango on his lips, And curl upon his fingertips, While in the background, the sound of Sledgehammers, motors, and radios scream. It is his manner to be silent, To be tough, but humbly fight for what is right. He has seen many things And many more will he know Before his fire is extinguished: A red breath, a silver cloud, And the stump under his blackened feet.
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After so many years of silence From fear From pain From struggling He has given up the longing to speak, To pour on the rocks His terrible anxieties.
In his eyes you know There is love. It’s in the smoke he exhales The passion he secretly tries to pass to you. It is silver and dances before your eyes. Catch it!
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An opportunity washed me here, without a knock. Back in the place, the home, where I should belong, action is lost yet I could not remain motionless.
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with able hand and mind, ready to join the others before and alongside. Strip, they said laughingly, your name we cannot understand or your pallor or your stare.
The silent man is the most honorable. There are days where I pull and tear
at my braid startled to see it ďŹ&#x201A;owing still Tied together with its silk ribbons. The pickax is tucked, resting, against my shoulders, weary and burdened. my hands are ridged.
The plank is heaved, metal clangs, backs arch. A yell, a shout, another leer,
That is our thanksâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the opportunity that has
stranded us here.
I see no end And the beginning has been long forgotten.
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We speak of the land where action is dying but now with want, Actionless we become wandering and tossed into old memories. Yet our task has yet to be complete, and may forever so. Another plank is placed while the nail stations it there.
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Some turn their backs on the idea, Saying, “It’s impossible to escape The reality of what you have become.” Others, oblivious, stare off, Lost in a dream From which they’ll never return. Yet others look on with contempt and pride Wishing they too could be a part Of this moment in time. I, however, stand motionless, Capturing my color-filled soul On a gray canvas.
Will I always be a dreamer? Regretting my past decisions, Wishing for a utopia that will never come. Or will I be the one To witness other people’s accomplishments, My only joy the work of their hands? I do not know, nor do I wish to know. I enjoy the present and the uncertainties I find here. For now I am satisfied, Both with who I am And with the chaos That surrounds me.
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My self-image is doubled, Reflected in the curved surface Before me.
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2SSRVLWHV Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strange, the adverse effect of opposites. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the coldest hands that possess the most searing hot touch and the driest comments that make us bleed. The smallest words leave the most gaping holes, and the absence of feeling causes the deepest pain. It makes sense then that the minutest oversight leads to the hugest change, and a second of hesitation leads to a life of indifference.
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In time, however, your opinions change. . . And the positives you’ll lack, When restraining walls around me Begin to crumble down and crack, When you’re finally forced to see That I am . . . truly black!
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You are to disappear. You are not to be seen, heard, tasted or touched. You are to assimilate--swallow choke and drown with a smile on your face and in absolute silence. Those who fail to conform That rip seams of the perfect uniform homologous rigid shard of monotony, That shroud which tucks us in at night Only to suffocate us, Jerk us awake at 4 a.m. Blue in the face from no air Red in the face from no air Ultra Ultra Ultraviolet and ultraviolet from no air [And because dreams are the one place That cannot be invaded, You are not to sleep for long Enough to dream] â&#x20AC;&#x153;Those who fail to conform will be punished by their brothers.â&#x20AC;?
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he would lie in her bed at night and would dream of it. She would feel the air passing through her fingers, her toes, her hair, surrounding and supporting her body. She saw herself soaring beyond everything she knew. And when she woke up, she would smile and know she was one day closer. She told her parents and they reassured her. “Of course you will, darling. Anything you can imagine, you can do.” That night they whispered in their bedroom. “It’s just a childhood fantasy. She will learn. She will realize the impossibilities.”
She told the other children one day in class and they laughed. “People don’t fly. Birds fly. Are you a bird?” She played by herself at recess that day.
One day she was at the park. When her mother became absorbed in a book, completely ignorant to her surroundings, she saw her chance. She started up the tree, the tallest one she could find, up and up, higher and higher, higher than ever before. She reached the farthest branch and filled her lungs with the sweet air, reached her hands to the sky around her. With a smile on her lips she leapt from it, into the heavens. And it was exactly like her dream. Jci^a h]Z ]^i i]Z \gdjcY#
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She told her brother and he didn’t understand. “What do you mean? You’ve been on an airplane before.” They each left the conversation thinking the other was foolish.
6WLOO )UDPH “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that,” she thought to herself, and smiled knowingly. A bittersweet grin of familiarity parting her lips ever so slightly. Somehow it seemed to her that this metro-cart, this
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trolley car, this curious boy, a makeshift knight in shining armor . . . it was all the same. An inevitable solution to some invisible dilemma. The details that we lose in the background all become a part of the same Technicolor mass of moving memories, interrupted only by shapeless bursts of emotion. “Seriously though,” he continued, peering invasively over her shoulder, “I could walk you home.” And he began to stutter, not realizing his proposition was wasted on her. She was far away and dreaming, lost in the still-frames of some shadowy existence.
0HWUR5LGLQJ Digging in his ear with a finger, nail shoveling dirtgrime glowing in the unlight. She watches the clock, her watch, as second-hands slip quarters out of picked pockets. She’s afraid they’re going nowhere
sitting next to her – his hair’s the color of the legal pad she holds in her hand— he talks fake-British with his technocrat friend. The drag queen behind him, her wrinkled hair frames a clockwork face. She’s the one reminds our heroine that there’s more to riding than sitting and staring. Girl has got to get up and get off.
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as windows fly past fallacious trees. The boy
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, DP :KDW , (DW It's speaking to me Lifeless words that nobody can hear A constant reminder of the past, the present, And the future This is my fate, my life's obsession Grown from nature, chemically processed, Concocted, tormenting me with one goal
Watch the numbers rise And not cringe.
Powerless, such a strong calling, You can't ignore it.
Beckoning you
Until you relent And then you've lost.
It's true You are what you eat.
[ 29 ] I Am What I Eat Amanda Martino Ndj 6gZ L]Vi Ndj :Vi 9VgcZaa ?d]chdc
To step on that cold piece of metal
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stars, the wishes that you wasted on the things
you’ll never need.
any higher, you reach a resting place and breathe. Feeling what’s not really there, you’re gone until another month pulls you away and
underneath your dreams.
[ 31 ] Lost Up There Nicole Chipi
the trees you
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Followed by six speckled fawns, Her fur in the sunset gleams, As it did so many dawns. The leaves around her rustle, Stirring the stillness of a world Awaiting night. Now the evening wind makes the pine trees creak. And the pale clouds glide across the dark sky Below, the grasses hum, or do they speak? While every flaming star glitters so high. Here, there is meaning of the moon’s existence. Beyond Man’s floundering footsteps into space. Here, there is the freedom That encompasses life’s beginning and gathers up its endings, On the never-changing, always-moving canvas That stretches beyond the universe And fits in the eye Of a little frog.
2QH (DUWK Earth is ocean and sky, A circle with no beginning or end. The sky is an ocean for some, The ocean a sky for others.
The pelican flies with fins through the sea The fish swims with wings through the air. Like the ocean and the sky, No life is separate. Because all eyes meet. Yet, still we tread on earth, Below the sky. Can we take up wings or fins Like other life?
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For the pelican can take flight And then dip down to return to the sea To follow a fish that soon leaps up, All within one sphere of life.
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here were thistles stirring, muttering Good morning to the birds, waking, shaking Ruffled feathers, boasting, gloating, I knocked over Kelly-Mae Louise and she pushed me backI skinned my knees pretty bloody that day.
Heather was tripping, falling
slipping, globbing
Into the mud,
All over the front of her pants,
I remember, later, treading tiredly in brown waters, Half-drowning in lulling rivers, Flats of sparse grass shot with wild blackberries. I think somewhere they took a picture of it all and called it Wilderness. Privately, I dubbed it Home. There was, further off, a small cluster of trees, riddled with poison oak, Ivy, It caused red spots and for you to have to rub some drippy pink stuff All over your itchy bumps and blemishes. But there we found the greatest things. Glorious robin’s eggs, hard-skinned
blueberries, clovers with minty stems, Scrappy yellow pebbles, old aquarium gravel, Little green ‘helicopter’ seeds, green wings whirring to the ground, suicide. We’d peel them open, Stack them, pile them, Pretend to be mother such-and-such and soand-so. I remember cold nights and glassy stars Distant now, though once they were
brilliant.
[ 37 ] Misery Yaeyoon (Yuna) Park Girlfriends Paloma Guilamo
That day was memorable, if nothing else. The sprinklers were turned on that hot, August afternoon, whirring, sputtering Nasty hose water while we went running, shouting Mild obscenities and an occasional “I LOVE JACK!” (For at that time, the Titanic was quite the hit, and my friend Wendy was a diehard fan.)
And the backs of mine. We walked rather ashamedly indoors.
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Fairy tales seldom occurred outside the largest suite. “It shall not be as lively in here,” she warned, “not within the corridors.” He cried out for her. She was holding a glass of red wine, especially imported from France and was wearing a silky blue dress. She had just seen the painters out, paying them without comment. “I love you,” he said to fill the silence.
She said, “My, Apollo must have knocked those men on their heads. I can already sense the yellow washing off into that morbid color of decay.” He looked up and observed the surrounding suite. “Thank goodness they ran out of paint,” she said as she lit up her last cigarette. “They had to leave the maid’s chamber white,” and she stepped back into the hotel, finding it a relief to have lost him.
[ 39 ] AVWng^ci] I]dbVh >a^X
She smiled, looked at the old dying palm tree in the courtyard and started toward it. There, she poured the remaining wine in the soil and diplomatically asked him to leave. He did so reluctantly but not without first asking if she shared his feelings.
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-XVWLQ 'DLQHU %HVW It’s kind of the same way he talks, the way his lips bounce and gesticulate. They’ve got more than just lines; they’ve got faces of their own. It’s the same way he always tries to know about the latest bands before anyone else, the same way he’s quick to tell you about his incipient career as a music journalist. “I’m thinking about doing an internship with Spin over the summer. I just have to get out of high school.” His hair flips to the side over his ear, a clear pathway for raindrops. It’s the same unearthly black as his high-top converse, pristine under black socks. You know him when you see him. You know he’s not going to be just
plain Alexander, but something original – it’s Jig, but you won’t hear why. He’s mysterious in that calculated way. You see him in a club, in your mind’s eye, dancing with abandon under a straight-edge stupor of music and bliss. You know that if you asked his age, he’d lie and say nineteen. He’s the kind of guy who’s got an entire back-story. A birth date, an art school he’s attending. You can see it rolling off of his tongue and into the air between you, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie. You see him at a show, listening to men with violent guitars playing havoc with the air, and
But you see him there, in the half-light, humming with the wash of pure noise, mouthing the words of the song, there with his camera and his smile, there with his pen in his pinencrusted messenger bag, the pad of paper. And you don’t speak to him, but if you did, if you could hear him over the over flowing, pounding bass, he’d tell you about the band that’s playing.
He’d tell you about the one time he met them and what their cat’s name is. And he’d be serious, and he’d be passionate. He always is. You can see it in the way he takes his finger and flips his hair over his ear, and smiles at you now. You can see it in the way he pouts his lips and grins.
[ 41 ] =^h A^eh 6gZ L^cYdlh >cid =^h I]gdVi ?jhi^c 9V^cZg"7Zhi
he’s watching the boys throw themselves at each other. He’s pouting in the corner; his lips are windows into his throat, foreshadowing his slanted words. He doesn’t dance at shows, doesn’t toss himself amidst sweat and black-shoes too small. There’s an inherent misogyny, there, and he’s been known to write scathing denouncements of it.
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<aVcXZ 6Yg^VccV 6g^cid` [ 42 ]
He says to take a chance hit the floor dance some more He says to keep my rhymes step through time smile, a smile like mine for lack of better words I’d like to close the store this keeper has lost his touch
flower arrangements, canopy settings prettified and relaxed this color coded world of mine he’s lost his touch, just like mine He says to leap for joy Ask for more Take what’s mine And take what’s yours
Adrianna Arintok Glance
that’s the chance I seemed to miss that’s the chance, a simple kiss caped escape damned through time always set it place “you have to feel them with your touch you have to know who you are, burn it in you and that’s your show” display relay: a race through time
color coded tiled masses hammered bases He says to restore it I restored it.
[ 43 ] Color Coded Bianca Fernandez
buy me a pot to fill in with sand this sand is shattered through pricks pricks of my own scars and silent flowers dancing tulips, paper machete poisoned roses, a blood stain forgotten sunflowers, stinging eyes
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9g^kZ BZ 6lVn Hjch]^cZ 7^VcXV ;ZgcVcYZo [ 44 ] HZa[ EdgigV^i @g^hi^Z 8dchZgkZ
drive me away sunshine like the kicking streams of yesterday so I never hear tomorrow but to find myself today found by the thumping against nature found through your tears your smile etches away my once caressed shine you are not my tomorrow repeat: you are not my tomorrow I peel away the sound of laughter sketch over the ringing in my ears fallen, I kneel over you I see you now I breathe you the same way you did yesterday the same way you will tomorrow the same way it’s always been I hate the way you stare at me every morning, every night I walk through fallen skies and every moment shades a piece of “good-bye” always there, but never here never where I need you to be never in the right place who’s to say our hearts are ever in the right place? so poison my skin with fluorescent whites bleach my hair with blonde brights spill my eyes with dark coffee and there you are beating within me for tomorrow, today and my yesterdays take me away sunshine throw me the sheets to cover this purple shade cover me with blankets to soften my being kill me now but let me breathe drive me away. Sunshine.
7KH 6KDGRZV &DVW %\ %HDXW\ She looks down, Her lashes cast long shadows on her cheeks. There isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t much to be done now. Time has come and gone And the memories of the past are bittersweet. The moments of pure joy Help hold the tears that Threaten to pour downwards. [ 45 ] I]Z H]VYdlh 8Vhi 7n 7ZVjin 6cV EZcV IZZc 7ZVjin 6aanhdc ?dcZh
The warmth of the sun Brings out her inner radiance; A beauty that is both A blessing and a curse. Her vain attempts to ďŹ nd truth Are never understood. She stands alone Amidst a sea of admirers. All she can do is wait. Wait for the moment when Someone will be her light, For when she will no longer feel the need To shine. And when her beauty is no longer A burden.
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H^hiZgan AdkZ 6aanhdc ?dcZh [ 46 ]
6 L V W H U O \ / R Y H I’ve always been the type of person who hates memories. Some people adore the feeling Of holding on to an old scent Or a familiar face . . .
All I can do is cry, Remembering the day you died.
But I despise them.
The memories of you Replay in my head. I can’t laugh at our old jokes Or smile at the times we spent together. I can’t even get mad at the times You left me alone in times of need.
Spending the rest of our lives together. Helping each other through dark days. I’ll never see you again, So I sit here . . . My eyes red and My cheeks drenched. The memories replaying And the darkness consuming me.
[ 47 ] Sisterly Love Allyson Jones
I despise memories Because memories keep my eyes red And my cheeks Drenched with tears.
I wish you were still here, Not only as my sister But as my friend
H U X W O X &
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Culture Nick Kallergis [ 48 ] Photo and Poem
DeV EVhh^dc fj^X`an _d^ch eVhh^dc Vgb [daYh ^cid Vgb "gZY! WaVX`! \daY! VcY WajZÄ 6 e^cl]ZZa >i ^h i]Z bdidg i]Vi gjch djg ]ZVgih#
Even with their backs to me I see their innocence. The discreet giggling Makes me smirk, Remembering a time when I too Wore the same leotard and slippers. It’s been years and I still pick up my hair In a neat bun. There they stand bow-legged and Leaning toward each other, With an air of childlike shyness.
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It’s been years and I still pick up my hair In a neat bun. There they stand bow-legged and toward eachLittle other,Princess ThenLeaning they were Daddy’s an hand air of with childlike And With held his everyshyness. step, A stage in life when imagination and the impossible I seevivid them, and I see a world Became realities. Of princes and magic . . . classic story they of “Once In theThe years to come, will seeupon a time.” And “Happily A different world Ever After.” Devoid of tu tu’s and lights. they were Daddy’s Little Princess TheyThen will become independent, And held his hand Facing front and center,with every step, stage in life when imagination and the impos imposWithAtheir heads held high. sible realities. TheyBecame will see vivid a sensual beauty, That wasn’t there before In the yearsthat to come, they will see The innocence protects purity A different world Doesn’t last for long. Hold on, little ballerinas, Don’t twirl with haste And bow in a hurry Because only when the music stops And the lights go out, Will you realize how precious Childhood truly is.
[ 49 ] 7VaaZg^cVh 8]g^hi^Z 9ZaV\VcYVgV :meadgZ Ndjg >bV\^cVi^dc 8]g^hi^Z HjVgZo
I see them, and I see a world Of princes and magic . . . The classic story of “Once upon a time.” And “Happily Ever After.”
Even with their backs to me I see their inno innocence. The discreet giggling Makes me smirk, Remembering a time when I too Wore the same leotard and slippers.
It all happened so fast, not long ago A cat grew 50 feet tall from the floor No one knew what caused this chaos to occur Except for one, his name was Catour. Catour was the head chef at the master’s house He cooked concoctions With his main ingredient, a mouse Today he added something special A type of miracle grow It had abilities to change all From head . . . to toe
[ 50 ]
“Catour!” Someone yelled from the top of the stairs “I need my breakfast right away . . . I cannot wait till the end of the day!” So Catour rushed up there in a hurry Not paying attention to the mix he had spilled It dripped and dropped into the cat chow Little by little the bottle emptied out The cat took a humongous bite And within minutes grew to an enormous size Unable to finish its meal And an appetite so much larger It went out on the town to find a satisfying supper Into his view came his ideal snack
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So he put his paw in the air and gave it a whack No one knows what happened to the plane that day, But one thing’s for sure: He was never hungry again.
$ *KRVW V (QG 'D\ V *OHH Such a curse; accursed accused accruement. The moment we spoke there was hidden mirth in the inďŹ&#x201A;ection of your words. The shy bow of your mouth split open, Unraveled zipper. Stars hung from your ears, I found you to be blinding. Piercing rhetoric beneath the long vines of netted black, Two heavy pupils suspended in two gold eyes.
What a loss! Lost losers losing losses. Red jacket, hands in your pockets, Chalk on your nose, Dark shelf eyebrows, furrowed in a frown. You looked almost broken, Pale parched almond skin pulled taut over your ďŹ ne, aristocratic bones. I know what you lost, Mother, home, religion, your mind. But you straightened up, shoulders back, almost jaunty. Spry, wry, crying girl. So you lost today, But donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dare lose your lacquered-smile.
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[ 51 ] 6 <]dhiĂ&#x2030;h :cY! 9VnĂ&#x2030;h <aZZ NVZnddc NjcV EVg` @^Y l^i] i]Z 8]Zb^XVah 6a^cV 7VaV\jZgd
Yet it was such a curse, such a shame, shameful sham. You retreated into your ďŹ ne tortoise home, Nestled in pearl. I asked for nothing, To follow you would be madness. The stories you tell are of death and the dead and dying.
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)LQDOO\ WKH %R\ 8QGHUVWDQGV Line by line, Note by note, The boy struggles on.
He collects his breath And tries the piece one Last time. Out comes sweet music, The kind that tastes Like honey on the lips.
Determined, he once again takes up his horn, Wipes away the dirt and grime, Lost in the moment . . . Shining the trumpet Feeling kinda blue . . . To a golden coin.
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It’s not a piece of music, It’s a conversation On a hot, summer afternoon.
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Finally, the boy understands . . .
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;^cVaan i]Z 7dn JcYZghiVcYh C^X` 7ZgcVa [ 54 ] ;ZZa^c\ @^cYV 7ajZ 7gVcYdc L^ahdc
His eyes glistening over the pages, His mouth dry from playing, His frustration grows.
It’s the sound of rain pattering On an old tin roof
7RJHWKHU :H 6LQJ The violin sings out loud My bow slides back and forth With every breath it takes, Sweet music fills the air Each note of high and low, It plays the concert hall My violin plays on and on
Alfred V. Nicoletti
Let vibrations on a violin make music come to life such as those strings of a puppeteer ?ja^VccZ G^X]VgYhdc
[ 55 ] Id\Zi]Zg LZ H^c\ 6a[gZY K# C^XdaZii^ >c i]Z ;VXZ d[ Bjh^X ?ja^VccZ G^X]VgYhdc
And soon I do find out That I am its master all along
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Our twenty-six member staff produced this fifty-six page volume. Each student was responsible for at least one page and some worked on as many as two spreads. All of the students were involved in the process of selecting the magazine’s literature and art. We opted to print four hundred copies, free for the artists but $3 for students. The publication was printed in full-color, thanks to a very generous donation from our principal, Ms. Adrianne Leal. We chose to use 80-lb glossy white paper with a 100-lb classic linen cover. The cover images were the end result of a magnet art contest. The body of works we selected seemed to suggest an urban theme. The works fell into the categories of Political Reflections, Introspections, Retrospections, Disconnections, and Transformations. The individual pieces were arranged to show a progression from darkness to light, from disorder to a tenuous balance.
Since Coral Reef has six magnets, we sought to represent the talents of the diverse student population by showcasing a range of mediums: paint, colored pencil, photography, digital art, poetry, essays, and vignettes. To showcase skills that fell out of the two-dimensional range of print, we also generated a website which included audio and video of dance, theater, film, and music. http://coralreef.dadeschools.net/elysium. The staff of Elysium is completely made up of volunteers; we worked after school and during lunch with Dell Computers using Adobe InDesign CS and Adobe Photoshop 7.0. We used fonts AHJ Garamond and Garamond for type and AHJ Michael for titles. This entire publication was printed by Rodes Printing Corporation, 8369 S.W. 40 St. Miami, Fl 33155 Telephone: 305-559-5263
Past Awards: 1997-98 A Bronze and All-Columbian from CSPA; Excellent by NCTE
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Sean Gayle
Principal: Ms. Adrianne Leal, without her this book would not have been published Assistant Principals: Mr. Brooks, Dr. Cespedes, Ms. Maysonet, Ms. Valdes Teachers: Mrs. Marion Hanks, Mr. Scott McKinley, Mrs. Colette Stemple Technology Department: Gracian Casas, Cynthia O’Hair, William Ortega The Coral Reef custodial staff.
All Art Magnet Students
Adrianna Arintok Eileen Rodriguez
Joseph Burchell Kristie Conserve Bernardo Garcia
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Amber Williams
Beverly AchaDarnell Johnson
Justin Dainer-Best Co h e n
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Re s h m a Ramachandran
Michael Suarez
Ana Pena
Su s a n
Alina Balaguero
Girl Into My Doubts Alina Balaguero
Sarah Youbi
Brandon Wilson Sarah Schloss
Justin Danier-Best
BSU
Carmen Guillen-Casal
â&#x20AC;&#x153;The City watches us its poets, its dreamers.â&#x20AC;?
Amanda Luis Ocampo Martino Allyson Jones Joshua Roth Elise Perez Chazyn Jose PazosGinelle Boyer Julianne Richardson
Ad a m Kressel Rafael Rivero
Courtney Askins
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Paloma Guilamo Whitney Arostegui Christie Delagandara
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Nick
Retro Yuna Park Spections
Kallergis
Allyson Jo n e s
Alfred V. Nicoletti
s p e c t i o n s
Sonia Miranda Lillian Marquez
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