November 2003

2

Movies Andrew Theiss

3

Lost in Amazement Brian Huselton

4

Yellow Francis Gradijan

6

Normal Cress Terrell

7

What happened?

Bill Stevenson

8

The Shop Daniel Casper

15 Brotherly Love CJ Ryan

Artistic Editor Andrew Theiss

Publishers Kirk Smith Jonathan Wheless

Design Editor Ryan Menefee

Moderator Mr. Degen

Cover art by Hagan Barber

Jesuit Journal

Movies A College Essay Andrew Theiss, ‘04 The flicker in the dark of a cinema brings magic. The magic of film changes my day for the better. Amélie, Dancer in the Dark, Stalker, smiles, tears, head scratching movies complete a world of new experiences. I can explore France or witness the life of Citizen Kane through film – worlds I am not typically privy to become something quite personal. The possibilities are endless and so too is my unquenchable desire to see and learn more about film.

Everyone enjoys a movie as an escape from a restless day, but so often the true life of a film can be taken for granted – forgotten. But it is in the private moments of another character’s life that is important to me. By understanding why Humphrey Bogart of Casablanca gives up the love of his life for a greater cause isn’t so much important to me in that I might eventually have to make the same decision. The message or story of a film is inherent, but the key aspect of a film, the quality that gives it life is my ability to experience that decision and life of another.

As the plane flies away from Bogart in the end, I can feel just as he feels, think like he does. Without even moving from my seat a good film can force me into an experience I might never know, the feelings of the characters I observe can move me into laughter, sadness, anger yet it doesn’t need to bear any actual importance in my living life as long as I carry the single memory of Bogart’s hopes fading away.

The countless hours I spend reading and learning about new films, understanding the origins of directors, movements, genres, or even in figuring out what next to watch all proves void and unimportant once a film begins.

During a film I am living in those moments and experiencing life in another light. Daily problems, fears, deadlines, hopes and aspirations sink away as a moving picture plays before me and suddenly I can witness if not experience the individual moments of a different person.

The ability of film to insert me into another world and make me feel happy or sad is the true reason I return day after day, watching new movies and exploring unique lives. Ask me why I spend hours a day watching, reading, writing, thinking, feeling everything film and I won’t have a comprehensible answer but for this. Powerful moments within a film come only when I watch them. I could be left in the wake of a film’s impact but it never quite equals the strength of seeing the actual moment play to me. I spend hours watching more and more, there is a further basic attraction to movies, but it most specifically lies simply there in those perfect moments of the film. I can watch a good scene over and over, play it like a good song only because I am devoted to the experience. The more films I see the more “moments” I can experience – so I search for more. Everything in a film, the experience all boils down to specific scenes in a film that can touch me in one

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way or another. It is one film, one scene amidst an infinite more that explains everything important in movies. It is an experience all in its own that amounts to my personal joy.

How can that be explained but for someone to experience these films in the exact same way as I, but since no one will see what I see and I won’t see what they experience, explanation fails. All that is important is a movie’s ability to make me feel something, once it has, what more can I ask for?

Short Note from the Editor Throughout the year the Jesuit Journal publishes student pinions, stories, art, and ideas. Students from all classes will write about topics that interest them and will pursue their artistic interests with the Jesuit Journal as their medium.

Already swamped with enough work and activities, writing or drawing more than one should may seem silly, but any student genuinely interested in writing or art, or those students who simply feel strongly for any issue are encouraged to put forth a little extra effort to show other students what you can do and how you think. The practice can be helpful and the experience fulfilling.

The whole point is that students are given the chance to display talents not always directly related to school.

Whether you think you are a good writer or not does not always matter so long as you are given a chance to improve and are able to discuss things uniquely interesting to you. If you like sports, then tell others why; if your favorite movie goes unappreciated by other students then argue your point; if you like anything at all than you should take the opportunity to say why.

Already lined up for later issues are senior college essays, numerous film reviews, eccentric short stories, photography, art, and even if he ever decides to transcribe the story, senior Jason Misium’s summer escapades.

The Jesuit Journal is for the students. Do not shy away.

Take the rare chance to tell others about who you are and who you want to be.

November 2003

Jesuit Journal

Lost in Amazement Film Review of Lost in Translation Brian Huselton, ‘07 The incredible soundtrack has slow, soothing songs that play throughout the movie and seem to go along with the movie perfectly. The songs fit each scene tremendously well. Each song plays slow riffs of the guitar and has the gentlest singers. Unlike many other people, I believe that a soundtrack can do great things for a film. For instance, The Royal Tenenbaums is a wonderful movie, and one of my personal favorites. It has one of the best soundtracks I’ve ever heard and I think that is one of the reasons I like the movie so much. Each song fits the mood of the film, and I love several individual songs on the soundtrack.

This film is slowly but surely gaining the attention it deserves. I had the privilege of viewing this movie several weeks ago, and I was astounded. For those of you who do not know, Lost in Translation is a film about a washedup actor who has taken a job as a spokesman for a whisky commercial in Japan. There, he sparks a friendship with a young woman who is in Japan because of her newlywed photographer who is always at a shoot. The actor and the wife are bored with their lives, and this similarity is how they form a friendship. The characters are played skillfully

by Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. Sofia Coppola directs her second feature film, this following her 1999 movie The Virgin Suicides.

Bill Murray gives one of the best performances all year.

He has such a subtle and gentle look of depression on his face throughout the movie. He never breaks character.

Mr. Murray pulls off the role with sincerity, realism and even a touch of comedy. He displays boredom and sadness at the same time almost perfectly; it’s almost like you’re watching a documentary. Murray’s character thinks he is better than everyone else; he believes that he has been everywhere and done everything; he thinks he has nothing left to live for; however, this all changes with his trip to Japan. I must also note Scarlett Johansson’s performance as the bored newlywed. She shows the same sadness Bill Murray’s character feels; however, she wishes to be optimistic about the future with her husband, where as Bill Murray knows he lives a pessimistic lifestyle.

Why should you go see this film rather than some of the big-budget Hollywood action movies out now?

It’s surprisingly funny. I went in expecting Lost in Translation to be a sappy, dry, melancholy film; yet it is hilarious. One of my favorite scenes occurs when Bill Murray is doing a photo shoot for the whisky brand and carries on a conversation with a Japanese photographer who has trouble speaking English. The photographer says things that are on the verge of English but not quite English. Bill Murray has to correct him half of the time. Not only are the scenes comical themselves, but also Bill Murray’s performance often reaches comedic brilliance. In another scene, Bill Murray is stuck on a stair-master while it is going at an insanely fast rate. This movie isn’t all jokes and gags though. It has some sympathetic and dramatic material.

The conversations between Murray and Johansson are flowing with dramatic effect. However, humor is in the film to enlighten and revive the viewer from the dramatic scenes.

This movie has Oscar written all over it. The acting, directing, writing, and even the incredible cinematography are all Oscar-worthy material. However, I truly believe that Billy Murray will be nominated for best actor. There are very few things I dislike about this film. It gets dull in a few places, but other than that, this is one of the best films I’ve seen all year. It shows that depression is a serious thing, and even the smallest thing such as gaining a friend in Japan can change your life as you see, judge, and live it.

So, don’t get lost in Hollywood Tripe; get lost in amazement, see Lost in Translation.

There is a large array of colors shown throughout the film.

The photography is absolutely amazing. It shows the nightlife of Japan like I never thought it would have looked like. Its fluorescent colors light up the night sky often in the film. Both Murray and Johansson are shown gazing at the city blindly. They, as well as the audience, are stuck on the beautiful neon lights.

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November 2003

Jesuit Journal

Yellow Francis Gradijan, ‘04 In the sky there were these yellow balls of fire. No one knew where they came from - but they sure were huge.

Scientists came to the observatory thinking that they would discover the yellow balls’ secret.

A cryptic transmission coming from the vicinity of the yellow balls was intercepted by NASA. It read, in plain English, "Thanks for the reenergizing power. We'll be unpacking soon."

I knew they wouldn't, but who would listen to me - I just mop up.

Scientists theorized about the transmission's meaning, and then ignored it after the government told them to.

Now, lets see, the next thing to happen was that the balls stopped right next to Jupiter and neither advanced or retreated. Eventually, one of the balls imploded and left a thick metal core in its residue. The scientists observed a halo of light, which they assumed was generated from the metal core. How the light and metal core were formed and their exact purpose was unexplained.

I told them the obvious, but who'd listen to me? I just mop up.

Greedily watching the metal core with great interest, the scientists hurried to develop an unmanned probe to meet, land on and analyze both it and the yellow balls, which now were beginning to lose some of their glow. The scientists, consulting their computer-generated data readouts, predicted that the enigmatic balls could be easily approached without danger of the probe overheating.

Two years later, one of the balls began to melt. Its fiery coating crumbled off, leaving only a hollow husk behind.

Moving slowly through the spatial emptiness, the yellow coating enveloped the thick metal core, once again igniting the ball in yellow flame.

After the metal core had been enveloped, the yellow balls moved a few miles away from the massive planet, inching towards Earth and beginning to actually orbit the planet, whirling faster and faster, trying to reach an acceptable escape velocity. After a few months of movement, it became apparent that the balls would not be able to escape Jupiter’s orbit. Then, almost as suddenly as they had first begun to orbit the planet, the balls stopped, using their inertia to balance themselves and repel against the massive planet’s gravity.

I offered an explanation, but no one listened - I just mop up.

Now, of course, these yellow balls remained in orbit while the probe approached them. The scientists on the ground, looking through the probe’s lens were amazed by the balls' immobility- until, of course, they moved.

So, after the probe ceased to exist and the fiery yellow balls began to move towards Earth's atmosphere, the scientists began to worry.

I wasn't worried. But who cared? I just mop up.

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Weapons were readied; the Earth's strongest and mightiest. America, Russia, England, China, France, all the space faring nations prepared a volley of nuclear weapons. When the balls were within a month of reaching Earth, the weapons were fired.

I told them it was all for naught. But then again, why should they care about what I have to say? I just mop up.

The weapons' explosions merely increased the giant yellow balls' speed. The balls reached Earth the next day.

After a rapid descent, several of them landed in Miami, and their occupants disembarked.

I was the first to greet them. Why was I the first to greet them? Because I knew where they would land. Why would I know? Because I just mop up.

Once landed, the creatures were quick to disembark.

They emerged from their spaceships, stepping out fearlessly into Earth’s atmosphere. They were threeheaded, yellow and as tall as elephants. And of course, most people shied away from their landing-space, many fleeing in their presence.

I however, greeted them genially and welcomed them to Earth. Introducing myself, I told them all about me. And then they realized who I was and why I just mop up.

By that time, the police had arrived, drawn their weapons, and brusquely ordered the audacious person who had approached the aliens to depart from their company, citing “procedural” and “governmental restrictions” against such an action.

I smiled and explained who I was. Of course, I just mop up. But there is a bit more to my past than is obvious to anyone who sees me mopping up.

The Alstarians, that's who the aliens were, had traveled thousands of parsec across the galaxy to meet their long lost, deformed brother who had been sent, some time ago, to live among the humans because, the inhabitants of

November 2003

Jesuit Journal

Earth, looking as they do, were a perfect match for his deformity.

The police, now being joined by the army and a multitude of scientists, stared in awe as the person related my story.

My good friends and cousins had run out of fuel in space and had been harvesting energy from Jupiter. Since the harvesting had been taking longer than they expected, my cousins had started cannibalizing some of their emptied supply ships for fuel, and would have continued on in such a manner, except for the arrival of the probe. After the probe conveniently arrived, they were able to use their scientific technology to envelope its energy, harvesting enough so that they were able to continue their journey.

The Alstarians nodded their three heads and smiled, thanking the Earthlings for shooting nuclear energy at their ships in space, thereby greatly hurrying their arrival.

Earth to vacation for about seven of Earth's years, until their leave from work on the Intergalactic Bridge was used up and they had to leave for home. The Earthlings agreed. My good cousins then asked them if they would shoot some energy after their ship to speed their departure when they were forced to return to work. The Earthlings agreed, gifting my cousins with much Plutonium, Uranium, and other energy-sources.

During the seven years, my cousins greatly enjoyed the sights of this gentle planet while teaching the Earthlings much about their traditional ways and technology. After seven joyous years had passed on Earth and their vacation time had been duly spent, my good friends and cousins departed happily for their home system.

Much has changed since then; however, I did want one thing to remain the same, and it has. Thus, now and then, I just mop up.

Then they asked the Earthlings to grant them space on

Andrew Theiss, ‘04

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November 2003

Jesuit Journal

Normal Cress Terrell, ‘05 Today just like a dream that he doesn’t want to wake from Today a reality that he doesn’t want a break from Here on his bed, drying away his old tears He’s a man now, time to get rid of those old fears Kids these days have it so tough, it isn’t at all fair He tells himself to let it go, but it’s hard when you really care Because he’s angry at himself, but he’s blaming you instead Because everything in his life, has screwed up in his head It’s sad to say that there is no cure for the pain he holds inside He hates having to give up, but all he can say is he tried There are no words to describe what he has to feel The scars inside burn with fire, they’re true, they’re dark, they’re real Why does life have to be something that he learns He sees people winning this game and all he can ask is when is it his turn He tries to convey a glimpse of himself to others so that they can understand But they can’t do anything to help him out, not God himself can meet his demands So quietly he stands alone Wanting things to be like they used to be when he wasn’t a stranger to his home But as we all know life keeps going There nothing he could do to stop it, his question just kept growing In friends, in life in everything that was worth his while How he had to question everything, like his actions were on trial How he couldn’t think straight, because he was afraid something bad would reoccur How he gave up trying to live normal and now his past, his present, his future, was a blur But maybe his life isn’t as bad as we think Because we all know he decides his future, where to float or to sink His mind is blank because he knows nothing now He has to start over and he doesn’t know how He has had to pull his own weight for as long as he could walk All he wanted was a steady life, on a dream boat that won't rock Too much sorrow, too much grief, to little time for him to care Because he changes, he’s not your toy, your teddy bear He wants to jump out into the sky and ride life by the horns He doesn’t care anymore, because when there are roses there are thorns Can you see him out of your fake Oakley sunglasses, do you notice he’s not a glare Look beyond his face, his looks, beyond what he wears Because now he needs you more than anything, he needs you more than air Take him in like one of your own, be a man, be a brother, just be there Today just like a dream that he doesn’t know if he wants to wake from Today a reality that he doesn’t know if he wants a break from

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November 2003

Jesuit Journal

What Happened?

Bill Stevenson, ‘04 I didn't know roaches could fly, no I didn't But yet I saw one tonight, yes I did It lifted into flight shuddering wings into rise Pulsing up and down gliding softly towards the light Oh, I gave a leap! I was startled The whole business had me rattled Never before in all my life had I seen a roach take into flight I didn't know roaches could fly, no I didn't I stared into it's beady eyes, yes I did They were small and black, they stared right back Pleading kindly asking frankly if "such a thing was right" Oh, I gave a sigh. I was baffled I've seen lots of things through my travels I've seen pagans and gypsies Make like Christians and the wealthy yet never before in all my life had I seen a roach take into flight

Chris Wilcox, ‘04

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November 2003

Jesuit Journal

The Shop Daniel Casper, ‘05 It’s often in the Shop I sit here and speak about nothing.

We call them Shops, not in the retail sense, but a place where they fix our heads. Today there was a Suit at the bar. His stale eyes were smug with the sort of vain confidence you see running through his type. It’s inherent to the suits. He was a Red tie. They were common to begin with so when he approached me with his cup I was not surprised. Minutiae, minutiae, minutiae, he kept talking about time and space as if they were related, like married or something. I guess that’s where distance comes from.

So he paused for a sip, only a sip as it is with the Reds.

Blues take gulps. Blacks don’t drink at all; they just buy out of habit. I was the only patron who didn’t buy. Reds don’t smoke, and when I lit up he told me I couldn’t smoke in here.

Draaaaaag.

He frowned. I smiled. He left. I stayed.

When you are here long enough events blur. You kind of forget where you live, who you are, how to walk. I think I’ve been here two years now. Assuming years are time, and time exists, and if I exist. Because here I doubt whether my eyes can see or if my brain is just being stimulated. I can feel the chemicals in my brain twisting my neuropath ways, turning my cells. I drank once, and it is searing. To think about it, the memory blew out my brain like a floodlight crammed into the wrong outlet. My used fuse box brain blew out, went up in a cloud of smoke. Or steam? Water vapor? Spark? Ignite, the substance is ignition. Take one sip and you are it. There is nothing else.

She’s not real. I can tell by her stitches, keeping her together like that, or the dress. It’s not a color. I know it’s not there. Because she’s not there. Counter. Ash tray. No cigarettes. Why are there ash trays if you can’t smoke?

Her name is Sophia. Then Eve. Then October. 1986? She walks away and leaves the tray on the table for me. My cigarette never runs out.

They wheel some guy out in a white bed sheet. White reflects light too bright. The blanket looks like new fallen snow. Mummified, his face looks drained, little unhappy bones jutting out as his skin sags around. He’s perforated like paper torn from a book, who punched the holes?

One of the Reds and Blues get in a fight. These usually break out here. Predictability. Ennui. The Shop is ennui.

Reds and Blues fight about how to drink. Blacks try and get involved but then the two point out that they don’t drink at all. They lean back, puzzled, and make strange alien motions with their hands and throat. You are drinking it too fast, savor. Flood yourself, feel fire in your lungs. Push.

Red! Blue! A stand clatters to the ground as the two suits

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grapple. Hands like ivory vices connect, muscle and sinew contracting, tearing. The Manager smiles. They grow larger by the second, their legs and flailing arms pushing tables, chairs, patrons to the side, still grasping their drink.

If you become a regular, assuming you can become anything here, you learn to balance your drink in all circumstances. Like fights, gravity failure, paradigm shifts, although most...most amateurs can’t even sense those, so they are immune. Red pins Blue. Structure. New Structure. I am new blood, hear me. I am God’s child and protégé of language. Blue pins Red. Power. Raw Id. I am old as mind, thought. I am man and protégé of subjectivity.

The floor, whatever it might be, buckles under their weight.

We all can feel it. Their terrible strength conflict is threatening implosion on the atmosphere. The ceiling pulls toward the sinking floor. No one moves, attempting salvation, connection. Even Black is paralyzed, still, with the lump in his throat bobbing up and down, mimicking tradition. Black doesn’t even adjust his glasses, knocked down in the struggle. The two can feel this more than god.

They know, and they desire. And a Manichean yell emanates from their throats. Void is close now, I can tell.

Suddenly a mug clatters to the ground, the drink vacuuming towards the quicksand carpet. The Manager, shock, pounds the counter. Sound, movement, all cease.

Blood stops circulating and that desperate cry of myopia is locked in their lungs. The universe snaps back into order and reason, the tear in the space-time division of the Shop is repaired. Elasticity. Floor back. Red and Blue are on their feet; adjusting their ties, back to normal size. Shake hands, pick up drinks at the bar, dream of, not hypocrisy, but walking paradoxes.

Draaaaaag.

I look at my table and notice coarse hair, colorless. I know it’s mine, I can tell by the vibrations. All my cells humming, clicking in place, resonating mourning for their own mortality, so evident by the loss of others. I don’t know if I pulled it out or nature grasped the hair from my head or the cells just grew tired of my scalp. I reach down and grasp a clump of weighted air. Self destruction is convenient. I engage in this process if I detect sensory emotion Ω. It begins with sensory emotion ά, but that is undetectable in all cases, including my own. Often, the indications of Ω allow just enough time for a person to tear himself down in order to stop the process. Sometimes the effects set in too late and Ω is so deeply rooted in the person, the only escape is total self-destruction. The person crumbles apart liked aged mortar from a sledgehammer blow. Usually the Manager cleans them up, but the dust can sit there for days. I caught this one in time…I believe...no one has actually survived sensory emotion Ω.

November 2003

Jesuit Journal

A Black sat down and blew all the hair into my face. He laughed, straightened his glasses, and began crying because he was laughing. Glazed over, Black says to me that happiness makes him sad, it reminds him of sorrow.

Blacks always speak in circular tongues, ideas coinciding at some parts but existing on planes of their own. If you try and follow the cycle you get lost in the loop somewhere between the serpent and its tail, spiraling out mindlessly.

Tears drip into the drink parallel to his eyes. He sniffed and stared into his cup, vision spiraling down as it tends to do when you are not careful. I coughed and his head jerked up violently. I was afraid it might have broken his eyes. When you tear them away that fast they can still see, but they could be ghosted by former visions. He smiled, then frowned. I can tell he’s hungry, not thirsty. But how is he supposed to chew with no teeth?

She’s back. I can tell she’s just purged sensory emotion Ω. Her fingernails are bloody stumps and razor lines trace her arms. She’s a crimson ghost. Because she’s not real.

The ashes are piling up in the tray; I was surprised that the Black didn’t huff/puff them away. She looks down at me with shotgun pointed eyes, her two pupils consuming, enlarging like barrels. She’s trying to press the trigger but instead she keeps blinking, pupils swelling up like tar bubbles. Her dress doesn’t have the constraints this time.

Frayed. Torn out. Glide. Sit. Extend. Her voice is like oil and honey, a heterogeneous mixture of vapid transience. I couldn’t stop sentences from reaching my ears. I have no defense against sound waves, but then the Shop blocks out most radio waves and light waves. The words marched across the table, laid siege on my ears. No defense. No counter. I spoke to stop the attack.

Drink?

She declined. Her head shakes back and forth as if she were being tempted. She must have tasted once, too. Like tacit addictions bearing down from the city of Tangiers, of galvanized hideous flesh cravings, her mouth wavers and waters at the concept. Drink does that. Her hand extends between one and infinity. She’s not real.

There’s a tube in the back of my neck. It’s hooked up to the register. Is it counting my tab or reading my mind?

Awareness bludgeons conscious reason. I can feel the suction of a thousand tiny mouths feeding on me. Suck.

Suck. Draaaaaag. I’m being smoked like a cigarette here.

There are ashtrays, but the cigarette never runs out. Its fake like plastic to take my fluids back to the origin. The machine whirs and clicks, happy to receive oil. I oil cogs. I am a cog. I’m turning gears. Rust. Crumble. I’m a register.

A car. A computer? Is she doing this to me? I can suddenly remember how long I’ve been here. District 12.

Drool over table, I must have slept but fatigue is an impossibility in the shop. They limit physics, range, depth, and things like natural consequence. Cause and effect no long apply. There’s a party going on in the corner. Not Suits, but Sweaters. We don’t get them much here because of the space/time marriage. I believe they have other Shops elsewhere because they can handle their drink. A toast. To god. Immediately, their drink runs dry

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without a sip and they disappear. The Manager frowns.

Parties, usually, disappear with the toast. They never get to drink it and vanish. And sometimes, when the rustle of suits and cloth and clatter of light rays is quiet enough, you can hear old toasts coming from the glasses. Little microscopic imperfections. Sometimes the influence is so great that the patron makes the toast himself. They disappear. Protection is key. If you want to stay here, it’s best to keep talking. Or not listening.

Blue pats me on the shoulder. He would have asked for an embrace but I was sitting. He likes to whisper into my ear, as if the space/time marriage will accelerate the message to my brain. I’ve trained (or did the one drink?

It’s all it takes...) my neuropath ways to block Blue’s image/reference/empathy language. The result is a string of mouths moving but the sound waves are reflected off me and received by the Blue. He thinks, that by repetition, I am agreeing with him. So he continues. Blues can talk themselves away if not careful. I’ve had time flow by me on birds and roaches as a Blue would stand there talking, his face looking like his tie. If they say everything, if they run out of words, Blues cease to exist (or not exist?). Their conversations follow a set rail too narrow and simple to even fathom. Like walking a razor. Even Blue’s words cut and make bleed. Blues infect. Like a virus, the retro double helixes twisting out of proportion, resizing to make bastard parts. He gulps his coffee and sighs a fulfilled sigh. It is my lifeblood, he says. I’m a threat to the Blues.

Blues talk at others. Reds preach to themselves. Blacks have no words to say, but ape sounds out of memories and tradition. Ashes fall into the tray, but the cigarette’s perimeter/area remains constant. He stands there with his hand on my shoulder like a reassuring Father. Smoking kills.

Draaaaaag.

She’s back. She’s either becoming real or I’m fading (or vice-versa?).

Sometimes I wonder what’s in the drink. Sometimes I believe it’s a placebo. Or demonsthene. Fulcrom? Agate?

Even though the memory of my first and only sip is fresh in my mind like memory itself. You understand in one taste, but conveniently forget to flag the addiction. Is it addiction or want? Definition? Subjective. I believe. I conveniently forget things on accident (necessity?). The Shop does that to the mind. Or do I do it to myself?

I had to purge sensory emotion Ω again. My clothes were crusted where consciousness streamed back in like unwelcome infestation. This time, a gaping hole in my side. Blood covered clothing, stained skin, but the floor bloomed red and blue where my hemoglobin connected.

Touch. Power. Where is it coming from? Sensory emotion Ω has no origin yet it begins everywhere but somewhere. I think Suits are immune to it, but are hypersensitive to paradigm shifts. Pro’s and con’s.

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Jesuit Journal

I think my thoughts, or my smoke, are causing one of them now. The room spins violently, topsy-turvy hurricane.

Tables and chairs are rearranged. The counter faces updown. Or left-right? The Suits in the Shop scream in static, holding onto the drink for pure suppression. Too late.

Spills occur. Rapture separation. Their bodies are flung to the wall like rag dolls. Space-time, minds invert and distort. The walls change to brick, stronger than former plaster. Swirl. The light spectrum shifts three decimals to the right, sure to rose color the light...for a time. By the end of the paradigm shift, only one Suit remains. He speaks about the last Suits and the plaster walls. No one hears him anymore. He fades out like a blip.

Blip.

Reality flipped.

The machine is grinding. I think my paradigm shift has loosened the bolts. My flesh/eyes notice another tube in my wrist. I’m a liquid I-V dripper. The Manager calls me over. He looks at me and informs me that there will be a wooden Indian installed at the bar. Everyone smokes here now, even the Suits. My veins are aching and its hard to move with my tubes all tangled. Now the Reds blow smoke in your face, the Blues keep it festering in their lungs. Blacks hold cigarettes in their mouths but never light them. Their lips fumble over the fag. The ashes by now have piled up to the ceiling and the vibration of molecules is causing a thousand tiny avalanches down, down, ruled and governed by gravity. Suddenly the avalanches reverse, tumbling back up. My colorless hair begins to levitate, my chair lifts off the ground. Gravity failure. Patrons shift their drinks and begin to utilize centrifugal force in order to stay liquid addiction loss. The manager bangs the register and the gravity generator in the back kicks in. Collapse to the floor. Problem solved.

She touched me. Strange, contact unusual. Ghosts can exert pressure, move matter like breezes but breezes aren’t tangible. No hold on air. She isn’t tangible. She crosses to tell me something like a Blue. It evades my neuropath way blocks. The message billboards across my mind. Nothing exists, but everything feels real. And feeling is a fraction. Nothing equals whole. Nothing is whole.

Fragmented parts are what Suits, Sweaters, you are. She has a foreign tongue, so they must be sphere wide by now. Are they individual or bound? She continues.

Fragments together reach existence and creation is connection. Meaning inside, not minutiae. Cigarette burns dot her body. Ω at work again.

The Shop doesn’t have rules; at least they’ve never been established. Fertile Crescent codification does not exist within our brick structure. Unspoken administration exists but no one understands but the Manager. He let it take hold of him. The culmination shifts and constant fear of burning is frequent among those who open their mouths.

Do I have anywhere else to go? Do my legs even still work? Atrophy is the least common denominator.

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Jason Misium, ‘04 Black’s cigarette is falling apart it’s been in his mouth so long. Blue offers him a light as Black looks puzzled, staring at the light fixture dangling from the ceiling. It’s a single wire with a single bulb with a single chain hanging down, begging to be pulled. The thought screeches and grinds in the back of our heads like sprockets exploding from a broken film projector, but the fear of the ceiling collapsing with it dominates, preventing action. Hand twitches, mind reels. Blue’s poison tongue is forking its way out of his serpentine mouth, slithering into Black’s ear. He needs the contact, desires. He forgets what makes him happy then sad then happy again. His neuropathways are deteriorating. Black keeps smiling, his brains liquid as they dribble out of his nose. Blue hands him a tissue. Cyclic. The Blues prey on the Blacks, just as the Reds alienate the Blues and the Blacks ignore the Reds. It’s human rock, paper, scissors. I felt sorry for their game as everyone is forced to play by the rules and there are no exceptions. Just timing. The Manager smiles at them, amused by their futility. It serves his drink distribution. Realigning interiors, same tissue, but different context. Black feels insecure, ashamed about his tie. Blue knows this because his tongue is connected to Black’s brain. Air tastes the same, holds the same consistency.

The spectrum decimal shifts violently as the light forces shadows, making jagged lines cutting my face. I need to hide my eyes, shield from the knives wedged in between the light rays. Sometimes, when I don’t remember out of convenience that my organs operate on electricity, I shut my generator off and see without my eyes. I’ve seen

November 2003

Jesuit Journal

enough conversions that my eyes didn’t need the 10010110110010101100 data stream. Binary system. The bond of love that exists in replication of self, idea. Wholly human, inside, outside, mind numbingly animalistic. He grunts in between his sentences like he’s hunting for substance (nourishment?). He wants everyone to understand and feel like him. Black, scared of ancient confines and eager for new ground, expels history. Then his cells, mind, organs, bionic ideas break apart into basic matter and elements. I can feel him breaking apart, old pieces falling to dust. He wants to belong in new confines.

Blue knows what he’s done. It is a thrill. Black is completely disintegrated now, he’s slipped into a dimension of non-being. Neo equals new. Time and space folds back as the former Black is now completely reconstructed, bonded tissues, cells, and organs leap back into place. The black tie, caught in that strange space, is no longer connected to his cerebral cord.

Instead, the empty body sports a Blue tie to give it direction. Eyes don’t need to see events like this. They embrace and order another round, smoke rings circling their heads. The Red two tables down frowns. As does the Black walking from the back. Opportunity and fellowships dashed. The Shop is all about stereotype politics. The answer is simply because. As long as I’ve been here I’ve never thought why. How preoccupies my mind. There isn’t really a why any longer. I move my arm with signals, I blink with electricity. That’s what matters. Not the extent or drive. Specifics and peripheral. I wish they’d turn down the razor lights.

She says she’s doing something new. Trying. We’ve all been lied to. It’s not necessary, pointing to her scars.

Wonder? She wants a conversation, I’ll surrender to her suggestion. She holds the cards, especially since I can’t move. The tubes have snaked their way around me. My vital signs registering on the machine, pulse speaks bearing significance on the heart beat in sickly green shades. Movement tangles them. Her lips form Byzantine syllables and beat phrases as the words escape from her mouth: I can see you’re hooked in. Feeding it. Are you a Tool or a Man? Thinking about you. It’s all I’ve managed.

I’ve purged and purged and purged. Because that’s the general consensus. But now I realize how foolish it is. We can connect, we can surrender. I don’t know how, subconscious and archetypical undertones are evading me, but it is possible. But I want and want is somehow key. I am beginning to see such possibilities, she says all starry eyed. Our faces are flirting closer. She thinks she’s revolutionary; the Manager thinks she’s trouble. The tubes are sliming an occasional thought into my brain. Nothing is a perfect send and receive. Sometimes a trickle of conscious can leak out. The eyes in the back of my head are watching his face as the light folds over it, providing cracks for the darkness to creep into. She says I’m not going to be me if I stay here any longer. The Manager is turning you. It’s because you are dangerous. Look at your lines. Your connections. Next time, I’ll try. I’ll try. I won’t let you be wheeled out. Then she sinks into blue gray silence for a few moments and I stand. Compulsively, I worry for her. I don’t know why but I take my cigarette and

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extinguish it on the back of my hand while someone sings bad karaoke in the corner. She reaches to my hand and kisses the wound. With that she rises and glides softly from the room.

And I know it will scar.

I’m suspecting the Manager of a falsetto smile. He knows he knows everything since I’m cerebrally connected - the tubes. Occasionally, when the light shifts, I forget how to think. My brain flat lines, no blips to register, and I start foaming at the mouth, repeating syllables and Catch 22s.

Tumble and cascade and I can hear the whines and tiny teeth vacuums of a million conceptions parasiting off me.

And I falsetto smile, too. The grin escalates higher than my pale cheeks, my rose ears, extending beyond my face and stretching out across the room. I’m glad to serve, be part of something. Functionality and purpose are reassuring in the blackness of absence. I am proud to oil. I am a cog. A needle. Turning the record, playing the sounds, lounge songs echoing across the moon. My hand is not mine, it is “theirs.” Self is alien. I merge into the slipstream of the thousand mouth uniform mind and feed off the next likely candidate. He too senses my presence on his wrist and he arches his back. The Manager holds the leash...wouldn’t want to consume the sickly sweet hosts fully. But then my mind defibulates and I snap back into being. I want to conveniently forget, like the drink, but it’s so hard because I long for it so desperately.

She is not here. But when my brain functions at full capacity I picture she is. My mind took a snapshot of her hand on mine and I often project it onto the chair in front of me. He can disapprove, but I don’t care. Her words are ringing a bell in my head and the resounding sounds are gaining ground. I stopped trying to purge. It hurts; it’s strange. But maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s real. Maybe I miss her.

My mind clicks out again. nothing ... feed ... parasite ... Tuesday ... crystal ... drink ... fall ... heart ... crimson ... bleed ... red ... vague ... prayer ... shatter ... fragment ... black ... star ... hang ... glow ... bright ... starring ... thirsty ... blue ... drink ... drink ... drink ... breath … beat ... drag ... drink ... drowning ... deep ... conform ... uniform ... stream ... lose ... animal ... oil ... apathy ... cover … snow … click ... blink ... beeeeeep. silence.

I’m fading out. The Manager is keeping me tethered to disappearance. I tried to take them out but something shocked me. Is it too late to stop being preyed on? Am I going to be pushed out on a stretcher? I’m so cold. My lips like frost. I could feel the snow, the white powder resting lifelessly on my face, preserving ice. Stasis, my bones looking all emptied and the flesh imploding over the contents of my skull. I lean back again and submit to another period of mind loss.

November 2003

Jesuit Journal

She rolls her R’s and shorts her Y’s. She’s awkward with her tongue, or at least what’s rolling off it. Her words are knocking me over. She says she’s holding out, knows it all could be lost. I can feel her sullen breath on my neck, ice crystals bracing skin. I feet so hot. Burning. Needing cold.

It’s like her teeth are jutting into my neck. I thought isolation was the key to survival; especially here, with conversions, sublimation, and all. She doesn’t care that’s why she’s breathing down my neck. Arches, lines, curves her face embodies these. She’s mouthing words into my lips. She’s telling me so much, she has to. She’s in her final stages; I know it. Complex chemical reactions are exploding in her head, phenylthalomenes, but she’s not letting it stop her. She’s blossoming above it all. The smoke tries to pull her down, choke her. She’s dragging me up there with her, my lungs have air again, my blood has oxygen. No nicotine synthesis. Breathing inevitable. A wing, a single wing bursts from her like a ray of angelic aura, muscle tissue rending beneath the sheer gravity. I’ve never seen anyone give birth to such conceptions. She knew this would happen; assumed that she could accomplish evolution, divinity. She was rubbing it off on me; my skin polished with golden fingers. Her lips locked with mine, her tongue, a dragon spitting fire with my own fire, delving into me. She’s wrapping around me, caressing me with angel down. Harder, desperation, pushing two pieces to a whole. Rising. Neptuning the sun, salamandine fires dancing around us. The heat off our bodies melting ice stone skin. Her hands can’t sit still grasping for something concrete on me. She’s burning up as she whispers she can’t hold out much longer. My impartial mind reels; no longer quiet observance. She is so real, beyond mere shallow perceptions. She was not imagined, illusioned, personed. I see/tell with my mind, not my eyes: They are false, disenchanted with object reality.

Since her first words she has been a foreign invader to my detached mind. She births Ω, something not human.

Quasi-divine. And here she is, evolving, the gaps shrinking smaller and smaller. She’s propelling us higher, farther, breaching stratosphere. Her body was meshing with mine, fitting perfectly connected. We are sphere, whole, unison, balanced. I was forced with a choice: an actual choice. I’m not used to being faced by such a metaphysical opponent. To break the line of Fate or reality, create two separate words of “yes” and “no”, fracture the path itself, this was unknown to me. To deny is still a choice, cosmic impact bearing down on the universe. To accept is like-wise, welcoming the defined possibilities. But stasis...was it even a choice at this point?

Was noncommitance possible when my lungs were reinflated and my heart resumed beating like this? Apathy, the lack of choice, would result in status-quo, the same Shop with my pseudo-objective mind. I would no longer disrupt the space time flow but instead be woven into it as a peripheral utensil. She said creation is connection.

Decision is part of creation. The choice whether to bring something into being or deny it presence. Procrastination leads to nothing but continued fragmentation and convenient self-destruction. My mind kept stumbling over the notion, her growing more and more distant and detached with time. I was faced with infinity.

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Choice.

Decide.

Now. My arms circled the universe. She is the universe. My universe. This time it was my turn to evolve. Another wing parallel to her own explodes from me, light/feathers spreading across creation. She joins me; kisses me harder and deeper. Our sphere is now perfectly aligned.

We, operating as a single organism, beat, beat our wings against the cold impartial blackness of space. No wind; simply light. We glided on gossamer rays of moonshine, on cancerous beams of sun, never content with stagnation. We reached the end of the universe, leading us back to the beginning. And in that limbo, from ά to Ω, we found each other like no other beings in creation. “I” ceased to exist. “I” never existed. Only “us,” since the notion of time itself. And after an infinity of rose tinted moments, perfection in a single instant stretching over the extent of time, our strength and internal fires gave out.

November 2003

Andrew Theiss, ‘04

Jesuit Journal

Gravity dragged us back to Earth. Re-entry threatened to expose us to harsher fires than we ourselves could create.

The atmosphere tore us apart as a deep guttural cry rang from my throat. It beat off the moon, rebounded off the Earth, cut through space like a blade rends flesh. We returned, our immortality stripped from us like our innocence an eternity ago. The Shop had us again, we were in its walls, never suspecting that we were inside all along. Our perfect intimacy was lost, but we still clung to each other, two newborns from the womb, in desperate hope, undying dream, to hold onto the past.

The moment. Never the same, but never stop trying to grasp it. Because one day, under some autumn/winter sky, we’ll find it...under the ruby pools of youth, cascading over the sapphire cliffs and burgeoning greens of life and love, we will find it. Paradise. This is what we were faced with. To love and be loved. And now - now I have split infinity and exerted my own personal power on Fate.

I choose to exist.

I choose to act.

I choose to love.

That is what makes me human.

Everyone is staring at us, but the arrow glances merely bounce off of us. Even the Manager attempts control but his efforts are in vain. We’ve made quite the spectacle.

Blacks are looking at us in wonder, Blues disgusted, Reds puzzled. A Blue approaches us. He thinks we are living in a dream, an illusion. Drag and gulp. We’ll never find salvation, he says. Black wants to say so much as he shuffles to the table, but he is paralyzed by his own insecurity. His tongue continues to form failed syllables and conveniently swallow phrases. He can’t make choices because of the inevitable outcome. To a Black, making a choice is destroying potential, terminating some alternate world that could have existed. Fear is their fire. Instead they own nothing, denying both shape and presence and continuing the cycle of drowning in self-doubt. Now a few Reds gather around the table.

People are flocking to the table out of curiosity. Gawking is painfully awkward on their faces. Retrace. Then ask how, why, when, who. But it’s none of their business.

They wouldn’t know because they don’t think it’s real.

We ignore them and drown in each other.

from the tubes as they snaked on the ground. She smiled at me so closely that it was my smile that was beaming. My cords severed, I stand. My muscles ached with beating pain like acid instead of blood being pumped by my heart. She grasped me, propped me up, bandaged my bleeding wrist. The withdrawal of the tube, the fact that I could not oil the machine, made me bleed copper and iron. The last of the inorganic purges. She bandaged me. She guided our steps toward the door. I was to leave, all ties broken - finally. The Manager said something about coming back, not leaving. Vital parts.

But we ignored the words and trudged toward the door.

Patrons took me in with their eyes, never seeing me move before. The Manager shot out, desperate containment his last ditch effort. Press forward, only steps away from the door. He informs that I can never leave, he won’t let me. You feed us all, you help the machines whir and click. You’ll always have the scars, you’ll always remember. And in that instance you’ll be back where you started. Remember memory’s impact.

Distortion of past. Anything is possible. He has a key to lock the door. He is heaving his ring, control mechanisms clanging back and forth. Our muscles contract and expand faster, pressing all energy toward a dash for freedom. Krebs cycle acceleration as our mitochondria work toward their symbiosis and our adrenaline spike peaks out. Our hands connect with the titanium hold, the cold feel of metal shocking to our nerves. We struggled, press harder. We’re pouring time, hope, desperation into the attempt and the constructs begin to give way. The bolts snap. The hinges break apart as light, natural light, streams in through the cracks. It slices through the air, burns through the smoky haze. The Manager, stunned by nature, recoils, shudders back, but we press on heaving the door farther and farther open, the structure giving way to a new world. Not fed by me any longer, the machines shift and lurch, gears gnashing, gravity, light, temperature all fail as the Manager’s curses echo across the room. But we press on. The door gave way as we both stumbled into a frontier with promise, infinite possibility. It is ours to take, seize, join. The Shop crumbled apart behind us as we ventured further into the blinding light. And as we gazed at the virgin soils, the unbeaten paths, the unlimited potential, we realized that god had handed us Eden for a second time. This is what we believe even now - now.

No more containment, no holding back. There were no tubes, no unspecified rules to tie us down. So we rose, connected, like two ashen phoenixes and met with such intensity as to shake the foundations of the Earth as the new world blossomed for us, yielding to our human minds and divine dreams.

I think we must have remained in this state for an eternity. Eventually, our purpose returned to us. We decided what must be done. Mutually exclusive. Another decision was to be made. Slavery to a drink, a machine, was our antithesis now. She pointed to my wrist and the reverse dripper. I acknowledged, knowing the entire course and consequence in an instant. I tore at the dripper, the tubes all around me. White plasma dribbled

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November 2003

Jesuit Journal

Jesuit’s literary magazine

Jesuit Journal seeks submissions…

Short Stories Plays Essays Film/Music Criticism Artwork Photography

Email your work to mdegen@jesuitcp.org

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November 2003

Jesuit Journal

Brotherly Love CJ Ryan, ‘04 He spat in his brother’s chocolate milk. The greenish yellow mucus that congealed atop a light brown sea floated aimlessly in a circular fashion within the glass. He had had enough of his brother’s childish taunts. No, he had had enough of his brother.

His brother and he were engaged in the glorious war of football, their backyard the battleground. Halftime was called and boys enjoyed a warm dinner, but the second half was quickly underway. The last seconds of the fourth quarter expired as the sad autumn sun set all too soon on their rough match. They would eventually fall down in a bed of bushy grass, undeterred by its itchiness because they were so exhausted from their afternoon full of play.

Their perspiring faces would look to the stars in the clear autumn night, admiring the sparkling of crystals against the black velvet background. All felt so right: two brothers enjoying each other’s company and the sweet scent of fallen leaves.

He realized the futility of such a childish approach.

Spitting in his brother’s glass of milk would do nothing except transfer the germs of his cold to his younger brother. He felt remorse, drank the soiled chocolate milk, as an act of penance for his sin. Then, he made his younger brother another glass.

Two evil eyes watched their older brother’s battle with conscience, all the while, with unspeakable contempt.

Their green hatred burned through the very shadows of the kitchen in which they were hidden. The younger brother calculated the most precisely hurtful action that he could perform to hit his older brother where it counts—his heart.

The brothers stood in a vast, Colorado field of grass that swayed like waves in the breeze. The leaves of the aspen, which had turned a beautiful golden with the added chill in the wind, rustled like the sound of falling rain. The left arm of the younger brother rose and gently struck the shoulder of the older brother.

“Tag! You’re it!” a high-pitched voice giggled above the rustle of the aspen leaves, its owner running happily from his older brother. The older brother ran after the younger in pursuit. The two played like this until nightfall.

When he presented the new, clean glass with a beaming smile to his aggravated brother, the younger, less happy brother, scowling his evil demon scowl, received the glass,

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and spat into it. He, then, briskly walked to the kitchen sink where he poured out the contents.

The football game had gotten out of hand. Both brothers, angered at the fact that their parents had grounded them for the new found habit of physically fighting, had decided to take their aggressions out on the playing field of the backyard. Taunts and un-brotherly gestures were made at one another to the other’s frustration.

The pigskin, looking more like a black blur in the dusky light, was in motion. The older brother threw the younger to the ground, the latter’s chest hitting first, knocking the wind out of him. A burning and helpless sensation permeated his abdomen as he rose to his feet only to throw two punches to his older brother’s solar plexus.

This game was war.

This wicked act threw brother the older into an uncontrollable rage. Through his crimson vision, the older brother saw only the body of his younger brother thrown to the ground. A bludgeoning fist beat at the chest of his younger brother senselessly.

He, being the elder brother, was a Romantic. He longed for the innocence and beauty of the days of past; he desperately wanted to recapture all that was good. It was the younger brother who had changed, not he. He had just grown, while the younger had grown to be evil.

The elder brother, being the responsible, better brother, hoped to expel that evil. He knew that time stood defiantly against his cause. So, he tried, almost to the point of despair, to be as good and as was possible to his younger brother.

He even asked his brother, “Do you remember when we used to play? Do remember the winters, and the springs, and summers. We had our whole lives in front of us.” His heart, pumping and pulsing, moved up into his hoarse throat as he spoke. “This is my last year here. I don’t want to leave home with any regrets.” He paused. “Do remember the falls we had? I want those back.”

“Can, I go now?” retorted his brother indifferently, annoyed that the older brother had wasted his time with sentimental mush.

The older of the two was serious when he said he did not want to leave home with any regrets. The delicate

November 2003

Jesuit Journal

balance within his mind was made uneven. He had tried to coax the evil out of the younger brother, but now, as there seemed no other way to do so, he was determined to beat the evil out of the heart of the younger.

The clenched hand rose and fell, pounding over and over again on the left, upper torso of the younger brother.

Despite the open wounds on his arm where the nails of his younger brother had buried themselves into his skin, despite the bruises that decorated his shoulders and chest like war badges, the older brother had come to the realization that the fighting had to stop. They were both too old to be bickering, let alone fighting like fiends who

lacked self-control. The older had made a promise to himself that he would never again allow the younger to fight with him.

The older brother’s vision lost its deep red hue, and returned to normal.

“I love you, brother!” he screamed through his sobs. “I never wanted to hurt you!” His cries were in vain. Though fist had stopped pounding some time ago, the chest of the younger no longer heaved in an effort to breathe.

It is fall again. weeps.

The backyard is empty.

One brother

Jason Misium, ‘04

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Jesuit Journal