INK: Issue 13, Special Edition by ink.

INK On Spindrift Drive One Night 06 Return 11 To intend a journey 12 Humboldt and the Humanities 18 Myanmar: Foreign Aid 21 The 400 Blows 22 The Worldeater 27 Grey Matter Jungle 28 To Get Home 34 Reeelax 37 SLOTH 38 A Potpourri of Math and Philosophy 41 A Beach Wedding in Yemen 42 to the eternal godsouls of robert frank and jack kerouac 48 Bruised Whore In your Bed 50 Brad Mehldauâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s right/left hand 05

“No time for poetry but exactly what is.” -Jack Kerouac

This is an issue that showcases what INK is: the prose, the poetry, the art, the photography, each element kept separate so as to leave it undisturbed, each element in its true form. We at INK are committed to providing you and the community with an avenue for expression, an avenue that is free of judgement or condemnation. We hope you enjoy this issue.

Design and editing team: Grace Cheng, Bobby Kwon, Daniel Lee, Henry Newton, Victor Skarstedt, Elaine Wang. Edited and compiled by Jesse Godine. Special thanks to Susan Kinsolving, Poet-in-Residence; Brad Faus, Faculty Advisor.

INK is a self-sufficient student-run Hotchkiss publication, founded in 2012. We publish seasonally. We are always looking for new writers and artists; anyone should feel free to join. Contact us here: inkredible@hotchkiss.org, or talk to any of our members.

On Spindrift Drive One Night A thirty-foot wave crashed through the house, smashing windows, pushing a pillar into the ceiling, and sweeping my desk out to sea where, strewn with kelp, it floated away to rewrite that nightmare into a dream. Years have washed over the details of my timely escape from that rocky precipice on which I lived. Yet I often yearn to retrieve one book, an unabridged dictionary, a grand old Webster’s Second. Sometimes, I picture it still in the salt water, all 2289 pages rippling and disintegrating, a plankton of syllables, drifting from pronunciation, and redefining each entry as food for fish. Perhaps that is how the book will be returned to me, on a platter of protein, bone, and etymology. I would eat it with exactitude, separating the skin and skeleton, one meaning from the meat of another. I am but a beachcomber, pocketing sand dollars, broken shells, hoping for a phrase. I envy the ocean’s endless lexicon, nameless derivations, fluencies, unfathomable piracies.

Poem by Susan Kinsolving Reprint credit to DOGWOOD: A JOURNAL OF POETRY AND PROSE Art by Elaine Wang ’16 5

Return Sometimes I feel obliged to stop and admit that I live two separate lives: one I try to keep up with at Hotchkiss and one I preserve in a jar, which is only open when I am home. The journey from one to the other takes approximately twenty-four hours. The commute has long become soiled familiarity. Yet, whenever I stand in front of a long break, the sheer ease of the trip never fails to stun me. After one last glance back at the gate, I am instantly whipped away by the blurry evolution of nature into towns and then cities outside the car window. Lush greenery fades into grey stone. Golden spaces cower in the presence of human constructions. It is not until I am caught up in the magnificence of civilisation that I slow down and register what has become of my surroundings: the constant flow of noise, the hide-and-seek game of light, and the siege of warm bodies. I then step out of one vehicle, breathe in a lungful of smoky air, and step onto another. In one drowsy blink of an eye I am lifted into thin air, as if a giant crane has scooped me up, extending its mechanical arm across continents, awkwardly circumventing South East Asia in the hopes of finding the correct destination. Finally, the friendly giant of a machine lowers me down, and immediately I am welcomed home by the embrace of humidity. That is it. Throughout the journey, I never have to lift a finger. I rest in cushioned seats and occasionally hop from one magical moving box to another. And there I am, already immersed in my old life, the one that I return to more often than not. No matter how much I delude myself into thinking that Hotchkiss has helped me crawl out of uselessness, I am reversed back to my sloppy self as soon as I reunite with the homely heat and the pollution. I do not bother leaving my bed. I spend most of the day with the only source of light emanating from my computer screen. I rarely shimmy out of my pyjamas, but when I do the the street lights are already lit. With seamless ease, I return to a life of a sloth, as if there is a switch that enables me to traverse between two souls. There was a time when I was frustrated. I considered my homeself a waste of oxygen and yet, a giant rubber band kept springing me back to square one, no matter how hard I tried to run away from it. Without resistance, I was tossed around mentally as I relocated

myself geographically. I let my surroundings permeate my transparent determination and seep into my head. I thought I should give up on dragging my new and improved self back home. Country borders encompass more than just tangible beings. Whenever I am home, I splurge my time on family and friends. I passively float through groups and groups of familiar faces. The rhythm of Saigon condones such leisurely a pace. Drowned in the scorching sun rays, the city leads me on long journeys that end next to a kindred soul. Once, I went to a cafe to catch up with the goons whom I had known forever, all the way back to when the only English I could speak was “Hi” and “I’m fine, thank you, and you?” As I examined the estranged faces of those who had also left the city, albeit long before I, I realised that each and everyone of us had made the conscious decision to return. We return to where we began not to sabotage our metamorphosis, but to assess how far we have come. We return to our foundation not to denounce our progress, but to cherish times of hardship, of naiveté, and of constructive mistakes. We return to the starting line not to forfeit the race, but to take a breather from the competition. I return home, mentally and physically, not under compulsion, but out of will and love. I remember the foreign faces I encountered on several flights from New York to Ho Chi Minh City. Some express apparent enthusiasm for they were soon to be tourists in a remote land; some carelessly bear their naked undereye circles, their paleness, and their messy hair for they have had to take this laborious commute too many times. Yet, underneath sheer exhaustion of the latter lies an indescribable sense of ease. Their dark brown eyes, peering into nothingness, flutter at a peaceful rhythm. Their lips, slightly pursed, fall into flat lines. Their faces, usually cocked to one side, rest comfortably in their palms. Travelling has thankfully been made effortless, but the anticipation of their homeland brings infinitely more tranquility to their longing souls. Sometimes I feel obliged to stop and admit that I live two separate lives: one that gathers me pride as it continually refines me as a human being, and one that keeps me grounded, as it constantly reminds me of my origins.

Essay by Ivy Nguyen ’16 Art by Chloe Onbargi ’16

To intend a journey Millions of two white cloths are the only pieces separating skins from skin. One mustn’t sense false containment while bodies press, while stones are thrown at stone. Collide! Bruised devil retaliates against the masses: “Throwers of pebbles, stoning of the devil, Ramy al-Jamarat no more. A game, a point system of faith? Just three days in and I’ll kill a score! Pilgrims of faith fingering flecks of what is my home, be my boulders.” 700, wishing to let fly lucky sevens, now deceased and unidentified, but perhaps by dead weight, height, and size, those quantitative things that don’t matter to a family’s cries. But such pride, to die, pierced by the fifth pillar of faith. To intend a journey, to intend the end. I’ll ask the question, was there ever a difference? Was there a difference for the Libyan man of 82 years who kissed his wife a real goodbye and was one of the first to fall? Who shattered his teeth and broke his nose upon the sacred ground? Who spoke his last prayer into the dust? Who choked on his own blood before his lungs collapsed under the weight of brothers? Who died in the arms of a Chinese man pressed atop him, surrounded by language supposed to sound his own? In Arabia, O holy home

Poem by Sylvie Robinson ’16 Photograph by Virginia Thornton ’16

Humboldt and the S

cience and the humanities are often presented as distinct, autonomous, and even irreconcilable fields. The effects of this rift range from affable mockery between physics and English majors to more serious matters. During World War II, for instance, Japanese university students studying engineering and the natural sciences were exempt from the draft, while humanities majors faced conscription. Even now, in a culture that ostensibly champions education and erudition of all forms, a bias often exists between “scientists” and “scholars.” What then, is the meaning of these two terms? According to the internet’s most irrefutable source, Wikipedia, a scientist is “a person engaging in a systematic activity to acquire knowledge.” On a similar note, the Oxford English Dictionary informs us that a scholar is “a specialist in a particular branch of study.” Even definitions as superficial as these test preconceived assumptions of the disparity between the humanities and science. Both revolve around inquiry and strive to fill gaps in knowledge, whether these mysteries are physical or metaphysical. In addition to being strikingly similar in their objectives, humanities and the physical sciences exist in a symbiotic relationship. In many cases, the humanities are an expression and extension of scientific truths. This expression can be as simple as putting a scientific discovery in layman’s terms and making it accessible to a broader audience. However, a more complex example of this interdependence can be found in ethical debates over new technologies. Cloning, for example, is just as much an ethical debate as a scientific one. In this case, scientific innovation lays the groundwork of a new concept while philosophical analysis tests its ethical implications. From a historical standpoint, the opposing modes of thought in the Enlightenment and Romanticism indicate that science and the humanities are most valuable at their confluence. During the Enlightenment, European society reevaluated the nature of knowledge and understand-

Humanities ing. Many philosophers – notably John Locke and David Hume – propounded the concept of empiricism. In “An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,” Locke argues that the only source of human knowledge is a posteriori, or derived from direct experience. Alums of the Hotchkiss humanities program may recognize this as the opposite of a priori proofs, the form of reasoning that Voltaire ridicules in Candide. In many ways, the Romanticism movement was a response to the sharp empiricism of thinkers such as Hume. Instead of emphasizing measurement and examination, romantic thinkers underlined the importance of one’s emotional interaction with the environment. However, the life of one particular historical figure indicates that we require a combination of rigid empiricism and abstract romanticism to comprehend the world around us. Alexander von Humboldt gained renown for his groundbreaking work in biogeography, which culminated in his voyage of exploration to Latin America. This expedition greatly expanded the breadth of scientific knowledge on flora and botanical geography. However, Humboldt’s most definitive attribute was his ability to straddle science and the humanities. In Views of Nature, Humboldt’s chronicle of the South American wilderness, he created a hitherto unknown genre that combined eloquent prose with hard scientific fact. According to Humboldt’s biographer, Andrea Wulf, “Though not moving entirely away from the rational method that had been the mantra of Enlightenment thinkers, Humboldt now quietly opened the door for subjectivity.” In our quest for reconciliation between science and the humanities, we should look to Humboldt as a model. Or perhaps Wikipedia.

Essay by James Fitzgerald ’17

Photograph by Edward Guo â&#x20AC;&#x2122;19 15

Photograph by Virginia Thornton â&#x20AC;&#x2122;16 16

Myanmar: Foreign Aid At the top of the staircase, our shoes stood watch like knights atop the parapet of a great castle, guarding the misshapen steps of violently hacked bamboo from intruders. Only the creaks of our bare feet on the rickety terrace broke the night’s serene sounds of whistling wind, buzzing bugs, and wheezing water buffalo. My friend, Chitt Oo, entered the hushed home to investigate. Moments later he returned and told us to come inside. The nine of us sat in an oval inside the room. I fused into the wall, wedged between a shelf of pots and pans and the thick bamboo stalks that separated me from the other room. Sweat began to accumulate on my forehead. Smoke from the kitchen had inundated the room, augmenting to the weight of the air, which now was crushing me into the floor. We all exchanged tense glances, but no one dared shatter the crystal silence. From the other room came the sudden and thunderous thump of a falling pot and the hissing shrieks of spilled boiling water. Chitt Oo exclaimed, “Wait here,” and went to help. Moments later, he returned and told us she was coming. She hobbled in slowly. For a moment I saw her weathered skin, nearly rusted-shut green eyes, veiny neck, twisted fingers, and hunched back, but then the smoke blurred my vision. With Cheshire-Cat smiles, we greeted her, yelling “Mingalaba” (Hello) in counterfeit, sanguine tones. She walked across the room and sat down. She sucked in each breath, as if she was slurping a thick chocolate milkshake through a thin bendy-straw. In an operatic pianissimo soprano wail, she apologized for not giving us roasted peanuts and green tea, as is required by custom of the hostess. We replied with a chorus of reassurances, but she seemed not to hear us. She wept uncontrollably, spluttering about peanuts. I pushed myself further into the wall in the hope that I would be mistaken for a Van Gogh. A small child emerged from the other room. Chitt Oo rose and shuffled him back to bed. The rest of us sat silently, as her percussive sniffles and sputters decrescendoed. Chitt Oo returned and told her we were sorry about our tardiness, but that we had brought everything that we had promised. From his bag, he unloaded a cornucopia of electrolyte beverages, anti-bacterial gels, biodegradable detergents, ramen packets, and canned goods. She winced at the sight of all of our treasures. She stood up slowly and placed her hands on Chitt Oo’s shoulder. The woman who could not give us peanuts and tea then chanted a melodious prayer to bless us for our gifts, as is required by custom of a gift receiver.

Essay by Finley Ong ’17 Art by Sharon Cheng ’16

The 400 Blows Look, Antoine is running to see the ocean. There, skimming across pebbles closer closer closer to the water where tides roll in swallowing the land, ebbing from reach, recollecting, tugginghis fears his wants his plans his thoughts are drowned in the ocean. Yet he turns, and I see the last traces of belonging. Then the sea submerged this burning, rising a transcendental peace in the yearning replaced by an awed uncertainty. He has wandered from the real. Where to?

Poem by Elisa Xu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17 Art by Elaine Wang â&#x20AC;&#x2122;16

The Worldeater Part I “Who are you?” The Boy questioned the large creature that sat before him. “I am the Worldeater,” It spoke. Every syllable blasted and reverberated the darkness that surrounded the two. Its words vibrated in every bone of the boy’s ever weak body; forcing acknowledgement from his little, poor brain. The Worldeater was a tall beast, almost double the Boy in size, with skin of golden gleam. He sat in the only object within the black space, a gigantic oak tree of purple leaves of crystalline texture, white roots and branches writhing in endless frenzy, shaped at its base so as to resemble a wooden throne. Wow, the Boy thought, what a beautiful tree. “What am I doing here Mr. Worldeater?” The Boy asked “I am not sure. I was just coming back from the Orion belt when I found you here, in my home. Your voice is-it is strange to hear your talk. I have not heard a real voice for quite a long time.” “The Orion belt…that’s the place that something to do with stars. What could you possibly be doing there?” “I was devouring a world.” “So like eating it?” “Pretty much.” It was strange for the Boy had never met the Worldeater, but he just accepted his existence and the scale of his actions; they were all simply facts. “Why would you do something like that? Are you really really hungry?” “No. I eat not to fill but for the taste. There is nothing greater than that overpowering, juicy sensation. Eating is like a trip of the most savage hallucinations; it is like hearing an epic story of epic romance, epic tragedy and all the epic parts in between. Except you are not just hearing it but consuming it: all the emotions, feelings, sights, smells and senses. Your soul is flooded with unrelenting passion.” “But what happens afterwards? After you finish consuming it all?” “Nothing. The world simply disappears into my pit of a stomach.”

The Worldeater then stood up from his throne. Reaching up, he drew from among the leaves of the tree an odd-shaped fruit that the Boy had never seen. The fruit resembled an apple in shape and size, but its outer layer was constantly shifting between a rainbow of colors. The fruit was the last one on the tree and after picking it, the Worldeater stood still and his eyes hovered over the fruit. After a moment he held it out to the Boy’s reach. “Would you like to try? Just take a bite.” The Boy found himself instantly attracted to the fruit. A sudden hunger gripped him, overpowering his mind. It wasn’t just his intestines and stomach; his entire being intensely lusted for the fruit. The Boy brought the fruit to his mouth. As it came closer, the fruit’s colors writhed brighter in their intensity. To not have it would be the death of his soul. He could not resist. Crunch …

Part II Within seconds the entire space was filled with stars and lights of such prodigious scale that the Boy was overwhelmed by cosmic nausea. Prodigious pain was all the Boy could feel. His sight was blinded by pure whiteness, but he felt trillions and trillions of explosions compressing around him. The Boy was moving backwards through time to the very beginning of a world’s story. Finally, when the universe was simple and ready to tell its tale, the Boy regained control of his consciousness. It was strange for the Boy could not see himself; his hands and feet were gone. His consciousness was the sole validator of his existence. The Boy did not know if he had lost his senses or if they were amplified to the point of omnipotence. Suddenly, music began to play. It was not the music of violins or pianos but the music of creation. Like a movie put on fast-forward, the spectacle grew. Atoms were mashed together by gravity’s hands. In the amalgamation of matter, stars were born, then the same stars were destroyed, consumed by their own elemental hungers and exploded into uncountable pieces. The divine materials then were used to create smaller, complex planets. On these planets, the Boy watched as tiny bacteria swarmed, getting stronger with every millennium that passed until they formed the plethora of nature, covering the land like a blanket of beauty – sapphire forests, towering mountains and golden seas of flowers. Beautiful! How Beautiful! The Boy thought. The world was quiet for millions of years, lavishing in its youth, until one evening a strike of red thunder hit the planet, shattering its largest mountain into multitudes of dust. The land’s virginity had been taken; intelligent life had sunk its claim. In the center of where the

mountain once stood was now a cold, black obelisk. From its base came the world’s first settlers. Only ten hundred had arrived, all were mortal with two arms and two legs. They knew not who had sent them, but they knew they had to survive. The People were an inquisitive and innovative people, finding ways to convert stones into purified energy. Over dozens of centuries the People created a civilization that swarmed over the face of the planet. The Boy was impressed at their resilience, their fortitude as they strove to build. Scientific marvels, spiritual awakenings and deep wars ravaged the land until the People had transformed the world into one interconnected civic metropolis. However, the People became tired of work. The People solved the problem of hardship by creating machine replicas of themselves. The Boy felt a deep dread for he felt the end coming. Slaves who had no voice, only a born duty to serve and please, were the People’s doom. No representation breeds hate. The Slaves slowly rose and like a long awaited storm fell upon their masters. Violence and horror filled the Boy. He watched as the creatures slayed their creators, gouging out their eyes and filling the planet’s valleys with blood and death. War tore through their humanity until in the end the cities of the land were silent. No creators. No creatures. Over time, all remnants of the People and the Slaves were forgotten and wiped out. Then every star around the planet fell asleep. One by one, darkness overcame all. The end of the dream had come.

Part III The Boy found himself back in the original black space. Looking around, he found the Worldeater sitting in his same spot. However, the Worldeater no longer sat at a tree, instead on a block of grey stone. Surrounding the stone, carpets of grey broken shards created a circular grave. The Worldeater’s skin no longer shone golden, replaced with a lackluster paleness. In the time the Boy had been gone, the ailments of eons had weakened the being, draining him of life. With grinding movements, the Worldeater struggled to raise its head to face the Boy. “So you have returned...It has been a while.” The being slowly closed its eyes and took a deep sigh. Words had become a burden. “What was th-” Before the Boy could finish, the Worldeater simply disappeared and the Boy was once more alone. He pressed his hands into his face as he thought of what to do. What did this all mean? Was it real? Why do I feel such an emptiness now? The Boy then noticed that something was different. The black walls were gone. Around him the blackness had grown alive with the stars of the Milky Way. The Boy was floating in space and as he turned around a familiar sight of blue and green greeted him. It was Earth, it was his home, and it looked so very…delicious.

Story by Max Li ’17 Art by Narisa Buranasiri ’16

Grey Matter Jungle In the midst of a great struggle for sanity water bursts over the levee of fear and doubt and cools the brain, mind therapeutically curglaffed “Oh my god turn that air conditioning off, I can’t hear myself fucking talk!” I suppose we’re actually starting now but what of the chaos inside forever unrecorded in the annals but still stories preserved for history in the scorch marks on my skull Awakening a demon, the Bayonet of subconscious fury pulling away the bony Shield protecting the consciousness A devil in My white city charging out of the jungle and into my conscious not to leave but to stay. i lost. Dull eyes betray not the elemental change Sanity is so ephemeral

Poem by Henry Newton ’17 Photograph by Virginia Thornton ’16

To Get Home W

alking through the doors that barred her office’s fluorescent atmosphere from contact with the city’s lively streets, Julie paused outside of the intimidating steel double doors, giving herself a moment to adjust to the sudden change in surroundings. She buttoned her wool coat and secured a scarf around her neck. Yet, somehow, the bitter touch of the cold still managed to creep in. She curled her stiff fingers into a fist and let the long sleeves of her coat provide a rough blanket of warmth, before turning right towards the nearest subway station. Over the years, the path had faded into an instinct, a map ingrained so deeply into her mind that she could close her eyes and know the name of every store she passed Unlike most commuters, Julie did not carry a set of headphones with her. After spending eight hours in an insipid office cubicle hearing the incessant taps of typing and monotonous murmurs, she preferred to listen to the animated sounds of the city. The rush of cars driving past and the small fragments of vibrant conversations simultaneously overwhelmed and energized her. The rhythmic clicks of her heels against the unyielding pavement provided a steady comfort. With each step, the ache from sitting all day gradually faded. Julie kept her gaze straight ahead. Vague shapes and faces blurred against the sharp backdrop of skyscrapers and winking lights. Arriving at the subway entrance, Julie slowly walked down the stairs, carefully avoiding contact with the peeling walls. Dim hanging lights illuminated the station, casting yellow shadows on everything below. Vandalized walls stood witness to pieces of unwanted garbage floating by. If she tried, Julie could imagine the beauty of the once colorfully tiled walls and antique wooden seats, but like much of the city, years of abuse and neglect left only crude traces of past visions. A saxophone’s rich voice flowed through the empty space. At the end of the platform, a musician stood playing “Happy,” but his weary hands struggled to keep up with the upbeat melody. For a fleeting second, the melody passed through Julie, evoking a brief moment of sorrow before continuing onto others. Then came the roar. Julie lived in one of the outermost boroughs. While the commute was long, she had come to consider the ride as a time to unwind. She stared ahead, blind to passing strangers. By the time the train made its way towards the last stop, only a few remained. In the corner of the train, a woman snored. Her head leaned back against the window, bouncing in tempo with the rumblings of the train. Across from Julie, a man was reading. He hunched with a book in his lap, extending his neck downwards as if bringing his eyes closer to the printed words could block everything else out. By the doors, a girl stood wearing sunny yellow headphones and a green pair of thick-rimmed glasses. An indiscernible sheet of glass stood between every person.

In the open space at the end of the car, another man slept in a wheelchair. Julie immediately noticed the cut pieces of fabric, wrapped around the palms of his hands. His wrinkled fingers were left exposed, appearing small and delicate. Ripped layers of tattered clothing hung off of the man, disguising his frail frame. His feet rested on the ground; the tip of a toe peaked out of his worn brown sneakers. While indistinguishable pieces of metal scraps constructed the chair, Julie couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but notice the unfrayed short handles placed at the back of the chair. At a turn in the tracks, the wheelchair skid backwards, crashing the sleeping man into a pole. While he did not wake, the man across from Julie glanced up from his book. For a second, they seemed to communicate a shared moral dilemma, but before either could resolve whether or not to help, a second collision stirred the man awake. He fumbled to set his brakes. Julie watched the wheelchair for a few seconds to make sure that the brakes worked, but he merely drifted back to sleep. Once she relaxed again, Julie looked to the man across from her seeking a mutual sensation of relief, but he had already returned to his book. Julie turned her focus to the changing scenes outside of the window, the indistinct blends of purples and blues against a black canvas. She allowed her thoughts to wander, drifting between a state of reality and sleep, until the robotic sound over the intercom pulled her mind back. We will be arriving shortly in two minutes. Now awake, the woman sitting in the corner wiped drool from the corner of her mouth, and tried to comb the knots from her hair. The girl with the green-rimmed glasses rolled her headphones into a neat circle and placed them into the outer pocket of her bag. The man across from Julie continued to read. Everyone stood as the train heaved to a complete stop. This is the last stop. Please exit the train. The doors slid open, and four people hurried out of the train. Julie ascended the stairs, carefully avoiding contact with the germ-infested railings. Suddenly, she remembered the sleeping man in a wheelchair. She turned to see the man, still in the train, wrestling to turn his chair around. After a few seconds, he frantically looked around the station, but no one saw him. His helpless eyes met Julieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Before she could help, the doors of the train closed. His head hung limply, weighed down by a heavy surrender, as the train started its long journey back towards the city.

Story by Jennifer Liu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Art by Daniel Lee â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Art by Christopher Hemm â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Photograph by Max Li â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

Reeelax “Get off the damn computer, wash your hands, and come to the table NOWWWW!” my mother yells. “Ugh. Relax Nicky. Sheesh.” I place my computer to the side and get up to wash my hands. While the water runs, my mother says something. “What?” I yell back. “Don’t tell me to relax! You getting me vex right now,” she says, “Imma eat whether you here or not.” My feet move quickly as I head towards the table. I plop myself down in the seat. “Say grace,” my mother says quickly. “But I said it yes-” “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this food you have blessed us with. In Jesus name, Amen.” “Aaaaaaaamen!” I say cheerfully. My mother peers through my soul with her evil glare. I imitate her, my face taking the same form. “Jelani you’re too bad. Imma call your fadda if you don’t start behaving.” “Alright! Chill out! It’s not even that serious.” “Yeah that’s what I thought,” she laughs. She stares down at her plate and then stares back up at me. “What chu looking at,” I say, sucking my teeth. “As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” she says. I steal one of her slippers from underneath the table with my foot. She notices, picks up her fork, aims it at me, and then says, “Jelani, you play too damn much. Look. You need to go by your father because you getting on my last nerves.” “Reeelax Ma.” “What I told you about that relax business? Don’t talk to me for the rest of dinner because you bugging me too much,” she sighs. “Ok,” I say laughing, “Sooooo how was your-”

Story by Jelani Hutchins-Belgrave ’17 Photography by Yocelin Gonzalez

SLOTH At times I do feel guilty ‘bout how little guilt I feel When time falls through my clumsy grasp as slip’ry as an eel. The earth revolves and weighty men go on their weighty ways While here I sit and shamelessly blow away all my days. I once did spy a tardy slave running, huffing, puffing. If, like I, he could find the joy Of sitting, doing nothing He’d settle down and never mourn the death of a winner: It’s a wondrous thing to have the mind of a beginner I’ll not leave epic kingdoms crushed nor red dragons slain. I’ll forego hope of greatest joy for absence of all pain.

Poem by Theodore Schrader ’17 Art by Chloe Onbargi ’16

A Potpourri of Math and Philosophy

Essay by Alex Jeon â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

I can make some statements of truth. I can see the Sun rising in the East, and I know it will set in the West; it will do the same thing tomorrow and the day after. The Sun is also 92,960,000 miles from the Earth. I know that the Earth will move through the four basic seasons and experience different kinds of precipitation. I can also tell you where I am right now. I am sitting on a hard blue chair, in front of my brown desk. If I were to knock on my desk, it would give a hollow, wooden sound. The computer screen shows an almost empty Google Drive document. A box of Annie’s homegrown Cheddar Bunnies is on my right and a stack of physics and math books is on my left. My fingers rest on a keyboard, moving subtly, writing this article that you are now reading. If you were here with me in my room, you would be able to confirm these descriptions, but problems arise if I describe my surroundings more precisely. I might say that my chair is a specific shade of navy blue. While you might agree that the chair is blue, you might take issue with the specific shade of blue I speak of. The way the light hits the chair is different for you and me; it’s impossible for us to stand in the exact same position. The limits of perspective differentiate our respective ‘truths.’ Suppose we were to doubt everything. Shut our eyes. Cover our ears. Doubt our senses and perceptions. What is the truth? Suddenly, nearly everything we know about our lives, our world, and our universe is shot to hell. That chair you are sitting on? You can feel it, hear it, see it, taste it, and smell it; but if our senses are untrustworthy, is it really there? Or is it a figment of your imagination? Rene Descartes, a French philosopher, addressed this very idea. He imagined that there existed a demon whose sole purpose lay in deceiving him. However, since Descartes doubted his own existence, then he could doubt the demon’s existence, and if Descartes did not exist, then the demon could not exist. Given his ability to doubt what he could not know, Descartes arrived at a famous conclusion: “I think, therefore I am.” Is this the only fundamental truth? Can we build up the rest of the world from this one fundamental truth? It depends.

It is possible to prove just about anything with the right premises. Premise A: A fish’s head exists. Premise B: A horse’s body exists. Premise C: A turtle’s legs exist. Premise D: I have an idea that a truth + another truth = another truth (For example, 1+1 = 2, 2+2 = 4, 1+1+2+2 = 2+4). Result: An animal with a fish’s head, a horse’s body, and a turtle’s legs exists. In fact, Descartes was even able to prove the existence of God using the following ontological argument: Premise A: A supremely perfect being is perfect. Premise B: Existence is a necessary component of perfection. Result: Therefore, a supremely perfect being exists (known as God). However, although it might be possible to prove anything using logic, we must consider the spaces in which these premises lie. Suppose we were to define a human space as the linear combination of all of one’s experiences, opinions, and perceptions. Do human spaces intersect? Our previous observations show that no one can perceive an idea in exactly the same way. Therefore, we can conclude that human spaces do not intersect. However, what about mathematics? Math seems to transcend all human spaces. If we were to ask someone to solve a basic arithmetic problem, he or she would eventually arrive at the correct answer. Perhaps the only thing we can be sure about is mathematics, for it seems to remain consistent across every human space. If mathematics can transcend our previous conclusion regarding the disparate nature of human spaces, perhaps math is the key to all truth. Perhaps we could use mathematical principles to arrive at a universal system of morals. Perhaps, as Kant argues, morality should be defined in terms of logic rather than emotion.

A Beach Wedding in Yemen An old maid at eighteen, a child groom at twenty, bound together by proximity and affection with hints of wealth, status, and political connection, stand in a gauzy tent on a shell-speckled beach. A paper lantern web sways. Briny tang burns nose. Ivory-sheathed men chat leisurely, crystal goblets in hand. Ebony-veiled women adorned in colorful jewels and scarves dart to and fro, straightening here and fixing there. The afternoon sun twinkles down on the topaz Red Sea, catching tips of waves, glossing the glass sea. Deafening boom, stampeding guests wail. White ceiling shatters above, showers black confetti, charred flowers scattered across the aisle. Gold beads adorn mangled wrist, lying detached under table. Glittering shard of sherbet bottle juts erect. Rotting smoke stench settles, dare not say from what.

Poem by Hannah Frater â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17 Art by Elaine Wang â&#x20AC;&#x2122;16

to the eternal godsou robert frank and jac based on robert frank’s “the americans”

holy american angels of the side-of-highway crucifix in the shimmering halo morning of idaho— the black l.a. factory spaces of old voiding street corners and entire pavementless blocks littered city like big smoking gutters— tattooed no shirt no one shoe face kissing plaid button-down top two buttons unbuttoned makeshift pillows on towels under trees in the grass of public park cleveland ohio morning, dreaming of Holy Eternity and listening to the wheezing dew-sweated skin of the Single Mother of america with too many hungry children— bumper sticker chevy straight out of gleaming detroit saying —“christ died for our sins” “christ came to save sinners”— yes but the bohemian lovers soaking sweltering in sun sex sweat and kissing in underwear cock and breast in the parks saved sinning man and they giggled high and clutched backs and l o v e d in the flesh— and the naked road on the road to Eternity of Heaven shot over the landscape of God with no genesis into the perpetual reincarnation of golden lines kissing horizons dipping over Earth and into the timeless conception of perspective and space and the jesuses’ Wilderness asymptotic to Pacific Dream—

uls of ck kerouac whipping through ethereal nebraskan sky of cobalt and the One Solemn Mailbox in the leafless-trees and personless barrenness into rodeo cowboy bars or sifting over midnight trains of bum or box, or the desert day blistering trolleys of the American sad sanctity of suffering, eyes the no-pearl oyster— and the top-hat-hatted thin White Film of banker governor inheritor slick-hair materialists and women, bubbles flittering on the steaming black Americano surfaces of Capitalism— and everyone running around in maniacal frenzy and Idiotic Oblivion in the hot and caffeinated city streets and television sets (one in every room) but oh how cool and majestic the queers of downtown greenwich brooklyn Somewhere! Anywhere! America! and hipsters with marker eyebrows funky sprouting baldspots haircuts, sloppy Whitman slouches of the New Great American Poet— or of the Perfectly Good American Poet… and gayer than Whitman! And the hungry lonely jalopy mexican of the endless nevada midwest desert who is poor in empty bar of beer and is brown and America and singing bliss twanging folk ditties in taco afternoon steaming marijuana shacks everyone sweating and yakking and little great guitar and little mexican children giggling among dishwashing mothers rolling r’s and poppa’s cigarette— and the sudden midnight past midnight Miracle of the pretty black indianapolis waitriss turning and peering out the fog window into the tranquility of rainy night and the stacked napkin solemnity of dark and neon a.m. coffee shop—

beatific drunkard slumped in dumpster truck towns pissing on bibles susurrusing divine recitation of Spontaneous Prayers of nearly not night and in the vast quietude flood of rising sun and waning gleam of lamppost the pink child eye… (sockets of the fantastic vision of Things through refraction of car window Lens of Robert and windshield) transfixed on that denim wearing Shepherd (of Lamb) stumbling to liquor store in soft highway dusk of l.a. Angeles the salt shaker pepper shaker shaking next to each other—(Which is taller?)— metal tips touching quivering in the timeless tension of the white-black tv screen of black-white faces arguing killing dying and the wondrous gust experience of ecstasy in the yamaka jews and cigarsmoking cowboy boys of the saloon and solemn bowties tied africans at st. helena funerals and the irony of the white priest preaching over Holy Soul of negro mutilated by kkk— and the gossamer curtain hazes over the city haze of smothering smoke that is Air and atmosphere of almost No-Ozone— and old suburban middleamerica man in the middle of the greenery of garden patch in the flapping umbrage of stripes and stars— until finally but never finally the hot sleeping bag sleeplessness of wandering family in dusty Depression trudges forward into the incomprehensible no-word wonder and eternity of the heavenly america… that is my soul in heaven—heaven in the soul!——reincarnate of ecstasy and god in timeless nothing the WOW of holy everything and that floating golden dust illuminated by moon disappears into the solemn night sands forever

Poem by Victor Skarstedt ’ 17 Art by Elaine Wang ’16

Bruised Whore In your Bed They say: fight fire with fire so I went to the bar and found a beautiful whore with a tiny birthmark on her neck that looks exactly like yours, and now my new red-haired naked sophistry lies in our bed, scorching me with her uncontained body, filling in your pillow with her stench. Her arms are hairy, her feet smell like carrots, her fire has ceased. I havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t slept for 3 nights, or weeks, or years. My eyes are red, my nails â&#x20AC;&#x201C; long, my body is an old cloth stitched with thick threads. Honey, since you left, my dreams are incensed with your aromas and they wring me out, making my insides rot in hell. I am 37, I am a humorless fat ass, broke, bereft, but I remember how cruel your kisses were when you woke up at 3 am and told me that all storms end and our storm is not

an exception; or how you fell down in the shower and screamed and you were all wet and skin and skin and skin and I kissed that bleeding spot on your lower back and in that moment the storm was never ever going to end. My drunken whore turns over, her back covered with bruises; she chuckles with her excessive mouth, touches her pink nipple. Honey, I have searched through and through her flesh in a madman’s search for you, but you are nowhere to be extracted, or loved, or tasted. My lonely whore leaves to the bathroom, her hair short and her odor everywhere. Honey, I haven’t had you in 3 nights, or weeks, or years. Your socks, your paintings, and your toothbrush are still here: they are your ambrosial fossils, and I still guard them.

Poem by Polina Solovyeva ’16

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“I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” -William Faulkner

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