ink. issue 25
Circe
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Parapitusy dancing in the rain live and lie on maths Summer Lake Road ocean
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12 15 20 24
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The Ceramic Bowl
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the silence in the thunderstorm Tap
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childhood fear
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How Unrequited Love Was Invented Dear April
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Is there still a neverland?
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“Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.” ––Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
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Circe: i. you are the daughter of the sun himself; his golden ichor runs through your veins. ii. the sorcery that turns men to pigs and nymphs to monsters is yours alone. those who seek you out shall not take it away. iii. when the gods with eyes of silver and tongues like wings come knocking at your door, let them into your home but steel your heart. iv. a hero will arrive: eloquent, wily, courageous. turn him and his men to swine and no longer shall you be trivial in the story of odysseus. instead, you will be his end. Prose by Isabel Su ’22 Photo by Alexandre Akhavein ’20
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Parapitusy dancing in the rain
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call me a crazy fool but that won’t stop me, words are words and they fall below my cold feet like the stream water i spill onto these four stone pillars, like the making of my air when i whisper icaro chants, breathe in old power, brown faces sky with red streaks like those of discarded incan kings with black and yellow feathers on crowns lined with gold, sweat of the sun, and silver, tears of the moon, just cracked rocks on their brittle spears as they cried out into a strange white war before sunrise, “llariy, illary, the first light of dawning!” stick half of my father’s watch in the middle of old mueller’s well, a broken offering, soft, pachamama’s wind whispers begin, mark my face with my dirty hands and draw the chakana, ask myself, can i pray in spanish to one false God and call in quechua to many Others? my abuelita (chikisa, they called her) slept under a cross and taught my father her mountain tongue, “count one, hijo, one is juq, two, iskay, count with me, kinsa, tawa, pishq’a...” curl mouth gasping like i count now, hot clouds over my moving feet, hands swinging, arcing, quick, my footsteps jump on lines parallel to the stars, choque illa, don’t get caught, faster! hanaq pacha closer to my dirt eyes, wayrakuy, notice how shadows color frost blue in the morning and trees yellow and nothing here is black and nothing there is white - all mix soon enough; blood and words, too - stomps strip pressure from my shoulders as i dance (pachamama, dance with me) and when i feel them listening to my mortal words i begin to hum softly i call to you to bring the rain i call to you to bring the rain i call to you to bring the rain i call to you to bring the rain
Prose by Dominic Bellido ’20
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Photo by Jeffrey Zhai ’20
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Photo by Graeme Styles ’21
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when the air’s so heavy that it’s hard to breathe the nights turn long and sleepless yearnings for briskness and virtue keep me up tear me apart as i ruminate and ponder the Midas touch, rather than the likelihood of His miracle. pero tengo esperanza drifting like smoldering smokestacks against the opposition of our obduracy– no puedes aferrarte a todo voices mutter and carp, as ocular expressions intrude upon the state of distorted harmony. we all live and we all lie let us strive to not stand by as souls of conscience and compassion blinded by inherited intuition, stuffed with frijoles, pan y vino tengo esperanza
Poem by Jerry Qiao ’22 Photo by Doug Wang ’23
live and lie
on maths Prose by Jiahua Chen ’20 Art by Tina Deng ’21
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I lost my intellectual virginity to mathematics.1 –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 1 The Oxford English Dictionary gives this one definition of intercourse: the communion between man and that which is spiritual or unseen. And that is genuinely what I feel about my relationship with the art or spirit of math. For a long time, I felt indifferent toward the subject. Sure, I performed well in school, but I felt that it was expected of me. Frankly, I detested those competitions that pitted me against thousands of people around the world. They were really just a glorified way of saying, “Here’s a test, now do it.” I couldn’t care less about the probability that George would sit next to Mary but not next to Ben on an elliptical table or whatever shit they thought would challenge us. Yet, it was something else that reinvigorated my deep yearning for the subject. It was the time I completely lost it (my sanity and the aforementioned…) when a counselor at my math camp asked me why I could add three numbers together. Apparently, “why can’t I?” wasn’t a sufficient justification for doing so, and “just cause” wasn’t a proper proof. Proofs. I came to realize that they’re as close to truth as you can get. Want to say that something’s right? Prove it. You think a statement cannot possibly be proved, then literally prove that it’s an unprovable statement. The Riemann hypothesis? Computers have checked for decades and humans have checked for over a century and it seems to be true. I would bet my entire savings, all the things I care about, heck, I’d bet my life on it being true (I’m sure many others would too). Alas, it’s not true––because it’s not been proven, hence the latter part of its name. Seriously, screw poetry and art and its inexactitude. Screw feelings and thoughts and emotions. Screw the subjective (whatever that even is). This is IT. It’s as close to truth as you’re ever going to get. Mathematics is truth. Observations don’t get you anywhere; feelings don’t get you anywhere; “just cause” and “why can’t I”s don’t get you anywhere. Proofs, theorems and propositions constitute truth, which are grounded on more truths––and that’s the holy spirit of mathematics endowed with all its trueness. That is the itness of mathematics, it’s so it that it’s true. So it turns out that addition is actually a binary operation. That’s why. It’s a binary operation so it only takes two inputs and gives one output back. That’s why you cannot add three numbers together. This and Santa Claus are perhaps the greatest lies I was told as a kid. (One person can’t possibly travel fast enough to visit the billions of kids around the world in one night, thus Santa Claus also ceases to exist. That’s logic, and logic is true. Go figure.) Yes, I still detest math competitions, but that’s not nearly all there is to mathematics. Sure, pure math doesn’t really contribute much to society, but I don’t see poetry generating any net utility for the human race either. It’s the feeling of certainty and (false) security that matters––that you know what’s true and you can dictate your thoughts and rationale. And that’s euphoria. Q.E.D.
Art by Annie Xu ’22
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Art by Cooper Roh ’22
Art by Billy Meneses ’22
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Art by Yihan Ding ’22
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Summer Summer is self-deception. She returns in a wisp, tangled Under a murmur, extricated Momentarily, by a breath–– A sigh. Summer is self-separation. She closes the blinds, Isolating herself to a self-sufficient activity Of chewing meaning. Summer is self-deprecation. She flees respite, in fear Of Time and Age; instead She flings a fury of unflagging slander At the mirror in her room. Summer is gone, already–– Yet she remains.
Poem by Shine Lee ’20 Photo by Alexandre Akhavein ’20
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Photos by Luke Gardiner ’21
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Lake Road towering pines frame the trail my feet stride across the pebbles I breath in out in out passing through the afternoon shade the lake breeze drifting across my face.
Poem by Reece Yang ’21 Art by Keren Mikanda ’21
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Photos by Jerry Sheng ’20
what possesses me? i do not know. all i know is that i feel a sudden urge to leap off the cliff into the churning waters below. darkness surrounds me, the currents entrap me, and the ocean rises up to envelop me in her loving arms. except this is no normal ocean. she is my true mother and gave birth to me and all my memories. she does not hurt, but she does not give. she’s impartial and implacable. come my child and let me show you who you are. a tiny, grubby hand; brightness that hurts my eyes, lights that bring only darkness. this is only a mere seedling, she says. she is right, i know nothing of the world of myself. a mere seedling, indeed. awakened but not alive. my first years pass blankly by, a world submerged in gray, but when the first hints of color begin to appear like bright spots, a tumult of sensations descends upon me: the ocean. an endless expanse of sky that lies flat on the ground. the smell of coffee. weariness that accompanies a sleepless, panicked night. weariness as i force myself to turn one more page, write one more sentence. weariness that lingers upon my dark-circled eyes. here to stay. then there’s me. not the seedling. not the girl who is half-asleep. look, a mirror‌ you need not see more than that. i follow no rules, because now i am bigger. i am stronger. i can submerge myself in this ocean of memories. it no longer hurts me.
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ocean
Poem by Stephanie Ge ’22 Photo by Jerry Qiao ’22
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Art by Frank Cai ’20
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The Ceramic Bowl Prose by Tina Deng ’21 Art by Keren Mikanda ’21
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The spoon clattered against the rim of the white ceramic bowl filled with rice as the hunch-backed woman tried to attract the two-year-old’s attention. The toddler raced around the house like a chicken with its head cut off, attempting to evade her grandmother’s clutches. “Come eat your dinner!” the woman yelled at the little girl, who caught a glimpse of her grandmother’s dark glare and turned pale. The grandmother’s voice blasted through the apartment. “Ma, why don’t you come sit and eat? I’m sure Lingling will eat when she’s hungry,” said the toddler’s mother, standing by the table. Only the bathroom door responded with a slam. The grandmother carried the child inside. “Edward, why can’t you just tell your mom that Lingling will eat when she’s hungry? She never listens to me,” the mother looked at her husband, who had already taken the initiative to devour the dish in front of him. “Well, I mean, she’s my mom. I can’t make her listen to me,” the man mumbled through a mouthful of grease. “But you’ve never –” The bathroom door opened, and the clatter resumed. “Hey, Ma, I was asking, why don’t you just come and eat? Lingling is probably not hungry.” The grandmother remained bent, but lifted her head at an angle so that the other woman could barely see her wrinkled eyes. “Doesn’t even eat, how she grow up? How she cook? How she find a husband?” “Ma, Lingling is not –” The man cleared his throat. “Shirley –” he said, opening the fridge behind him, “where did you put the pork ribs from last night?” Looking down at the emptied plate on the table, she felt a surge of perplexity. “For Lingling?” With his back toward her, the man continued his forage in the refrigerator. She heard his inaudible utterance, “For me.” “Check the bottom shelf, honey.” The old woman’s voice was saturated with syrup. She whipped back around to face her daughter-in-law, her right hand pointing at the toddler. “You spoil her if she not listen! I raised three sons, I don’t know how? My house, my rule!” “Ma, I go to work, I pay the rent, I come home and cook, and now I’ve got to clean up this damn mess. Tell me, whose house is this?” “You dare talk to me like this? You useless, cannot give me grandson. Be thankful you not kicked out for that brat girl you bore!” The grandmother’s finger nearly touched the tip of the toddler’s nose. The child’s face washed blank with fear and confusion. “Hey Ma, Lingling’s still here –” “This my house. This my son. You have problem? You out of house!” The ceramic bowl shattered on the floor. The man finally found his pork ribs and savored another mouthful of grease. Seconds later, the toddler’s wailing filled the house.
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Photos by Jerry Qiao ’22
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the silence in the thunderstorm the fear of living and dying, to put it simply, to be passionless in a thunderstorm the moisture in the air tremors rich with the scent of mud and electricity ripe with the skin about to burst tension runs like a low growl along shackled chains of gravity the arched spine of the earth the first quivers stir the dirt before this sphere splits open and the heavens come crashing down to meet it the children chorus as they always do when the sky mirrors the sea that nursery rhyme the sound of which is purpose in itself is whispered as the thunder pours as planets fracture in mercury showers through the fractures of our atmosphere to be passionless in the thunderstorm is to have taken the hand of death and lain silent against his chest smothered your flare in the void before a flash of consciousness had even woken beware the silence in the thunderstorm
Poem by Anne Sappenfield ’21 Art by Frank Cai ’20
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Photos by Doug Wang ’23
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Tap Tap, tap, Like a thousand raindrops, A perpetual motion Slowly lulling me to sleep. Tap, tap, Like a desperate rapping, A tumultuous plea On a transparent glass door. Tap, tap, Like delicate fingers dancing across a violin, A melodic jingle Calming my nerves. Tap, tap, Like a slow steady beat, Awakening me From this dream I call reality.
Poem by Alex Cheng ’23 Photo by Jeffrey Zhai ’20
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Photos by Beckett Hornik ’20
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childhood fear Air rushes out from the innermost cubicle of the bathroom, slashing the silence on its way out. The light bulbs that hang from the ceiling cough out a last light. Slowly, the room turns black. The pale plastic door creaks, as if a pair of crooked claws with sharp fingernails are slowly grinding over the glass windows. The sound seeps into my bones. I look behind me, but there is no wind. Waves of empty darkness gush out, leaving cold sweat dripping down to soak my back. I stare into the sticky darkness, without blinking, as if a gray face with wet seaweed hair and white eyes will flash out at any time.
Prose by Celina Wang ’23 Art by Nicole Morikawa ’21
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How Unrequited Love Was Invented
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87 years old, my grandfather still pens you late-night love letters, still sings the praises of a stranger he met at 17, voice thick & lovestruck: America, the beautiful. I bet you know this story well. Boy meets country— boy leaves famine & family to set foot on her shores, boy scrapes by on bartending wages, bears the slick cling of phlegm flecking his scuffed loafers, jeers jabbed like elbows into his sides, nights he shuffled home with a black eye & empty wallet— boy becomes man & still he swallows his dignity like whiskey, the burning slide then numbness, gives up mother tongue & fatherland for a nation that grinds him to shoe leather & ash. 87 & my grandfather still signs letters with the pet name you gave him at 17. America, tell me what you see in what he writes you— the creases like worn & weary train tracks or starch-sharp laundry, the cost of his calluses, the price of your love— folded to fit and be forgotten in the battered box beneath your bed.
Poem by Abby Sim ’20 Photo by Graeme Styles ’21
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Photo by Jeffrey Zhai ’20
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Dear April Prose by Olya Sukonrat ’21 Art by Grace Li ’21
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It began snowing this morning when I walked outside. A thick wave of fog hovered above the ground in a faintly mocking manner. The mist, an intangible sheet of translucent glass, muddied the distant silhouettes of trees. I could barely see the frozen water droplets hitting the muddy ground until they began attacking the crown of my head. The haze condensed more with every passing second, and I rubbed my frosted fingertips against my palms. I dreamt of the sun’s affection drenching my back; the sky blazing blue. Once, I was drowning beneath romantic green shades, and now, all of those hues have been engulfed by the glistening snow. I reminded myself that although spring may be late, it would arrive soon. Instead of waiting, I allowed the cold air to wrap my bones in a comfortable embrace. Sometimes, this is what healing is.
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Art by Katerina Gill ’21
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Is there still a neverland? Is there still a neverland? When satellites surveil the most remote waters. Can we go back in time? I’ve heard that purchasing memory is no crime. They’ve taught us big words About passion, deeds, the ratio between toil and feats, But strayed children don’t want to foresee, Prefer instead to savor the dusk-scorched prairie. Peaks atop peaks, age vexes age, What is the same on the next page? Only that persisting moonlight sinks in the cage, Crying out silent memories to the insomniac sage. Ah! But that precious moonlight is transient, Impeccable at the moment, forever traceless after then. Come, and go clutch that lustrous mist! With its memory it will perish in your fist. Eventually all lights fade to darkness. No chance that a gleam escapes its shadow. After all, is there anything that would forever stand? Nay, not until you reach the shores of neverland.
Poem by Eric Jin ’22 Photo by Peter Kallos ’22
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ISSUE 25 Summer/Fall 2019 Writing Director Abby Sim ’20 Art Directors Beckett Hornik ’20 Jacqui Rice ’20 Design Director Jiahua Chen ’20 Club Advisors Brad Faus Charlie Frankenbach Editorial Dominic Bellido ’20 Shine Lee ’20 Nicole Morikawa ’21 Alec Stern ’21 Layout + Visual Lucy Bulley ’21 Emily Heimer ’21 Covers by Matthew Weinstein ’20 Inside Covers by Serena Zhou ’20 Content Art by Isabella Wei ’23
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