November 2005

November 2005 2

Blissful Night Nikhil Dhingra

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Internal Winter Ian Berry

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Autumn Haze Connor Stratman

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From Life’s Love to Death Scott Moore

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My Old Toys Jonathan Lee

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The Bar Nightmare Chapter 2 Russel Lemburg

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The Black Gate Scott Moore

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Theolomogy Eric Haney

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All Eyes on the Clock Ian Berry

Publisher Student Council

Artistic Editors Ian Walker

Associate Editors Russell Lemburg Chris Colgin Max Von Schlehenreid José Coló

Layout Editor Eric Haney

Photography Matthew Tullia Mike Brady

Art Contributors Nikhil Dhingra Pablo Cerrilla Brooks Oliver

Moderator

We apologize to Pablo for mispelling his name in the previous issue.

Jesuit Journal

Mr. Degen

Art by Pablo Cerrilla ’07

www.jesuitcp.org/campuslife/studentcouncil

Note from the Editor

Art by Nikhil Dhingra ’06

Ian Walker ’06 The Jesuit Journal is proud to recognize not only talented artisans and writers, but also aspiring songwriters in all fields of music. That said, the premier article of this issue contains lyrics from senior Nikhil Dhingra’s song “Blissful Night”, including comments on its conception and meaning. This summer, Nikhil recorded a compilation of songs along with Blissful Night that will be released as an album in the near future. You can listen to Blissful Night and other traciks at: www.nikhildhingra.tk www.myspace.com/nikhildhingra.

Blissful Night Nikhil Dhingra ’06

As I stood in the vocal booth at Deep Ellum Studios, my producer commented not only that my eyes are usually closed when I sing, but also that my face twists into all sorts of forms. No, it’s not because I am in utter pain when I sing, but because my soul is truly in a different place. When I pick up a guitar and sing, I feel a sense of completeness, a feeling of harmony uniting my body and soul. My mind suddenly strays from trivial tasks and daily worries, and it finds solace in the

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Photographs by Matthew Tullia ‘06

Jesuit Journal

of notes and chords can transcend everyday English language. I can almost reflect the energy I am feeling onto my audience. When I am flustered with the intricacies of the world around me, music not only allows me to regain a sense of optimism and happiness, but it also hones my thinking skills and broadens my perspective on life.

I wrote and composed this song, Blissful Night, about a year ago. My primary objective was to write a song in some sort of universal language that every person could relate to. Listening to Blissful Night, one might notice the mysterious tone of the song, initiated with minor chords on the acoustic guitar. Using the technique of acoustical realm where I am at peace. I can think counterpoint, writing two or more melodies that fit freely and reflect in blissful together, a background Walking around…. the streets late at night ecstasy. The sensation of electric guitar emphasizTrying to relieve… my lonely mind plucking steel strings and es the haunting melody.

I’m wondering if the time is right emitting feelings through After experiencing initial Ohhhhh vibrating vocal cords is feelings of sadness or satisfying on every level. distressing uncertainty, Protected by… the heavenly moon Whether I perform for loyal the listener soon has a From the frightful… creatures of the night fans at the annual Benefit chance for introspecI’m wondering if the time is right Concert, a warm family at tive reflection during the the quaint Potbelly Sandlong instrumental bridge, Ohhhh on this blissful night! wich Restaurant, or simply which is more upbeat alone in my room during a and concludes in a creAnd I found out something I had missed fifteen-minute homework scendo-like nature beI never thought it would come to this break, I am in this acoustifore fading into the last But I’m lost without you so bad cal realm where I can look chorus. The bridge’s Yeah I’m lost without you so bad deep into my soul and purpose is to allow the Lost without you so bad discover unique feelings. listener to reflect and Much more than a sense Watching shadows… while they’re bustling by suddenly experience of satisfaction, music rejusome sort of epiphany Shoot a quick glance from… the corner of my venates me. I experience that provides feelings eye some sort of cleansing of hope, optimism, and I’m wondering if the time is right and renewal, a catharsis in bliss. The universality Ohhhhhh which my head is cleared of this song allows for a and my mind is open for unique connection within each listener, whether it new ideas and thought processes. Having almost be with God, a loved one, or simply one’s self. a dual effect, music not only stimulates introspective reflection, but it also helps me connect with people on a more personal and intimate level.

With a universal outreach, this intricate language

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November 2005

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From Life’s Love to Death

Internal Winter Ian Berry ’07

Scott Moore ’06

Staring through the cracked glass, Fogged by the winter’s breath, I watch snow fall with deceptive purity, Upon the tree barren in death.

Trees breathing in the meadow Flowers drinking up the sun This is how I feel, Alive, un-done

Reaching out with stiff fingers, Cold and rigid as her branches below, I wonder if I too have been sleeping, Trapped beneath a layer of snow.

Wind skips over the ocean My love skips heart to heart The sun’s rays talking with the flowers I watch it all take part

Autumn Haze Connor Stratman ’07 The sky is showing a darker blue The wind is blowing softly against the treetops Its sweet music rings in our ears With calm volume, giving somber peace And its enchanted scent in the pale air In the morning hour I gaze outside To see the trees waving at me Emanating the melody of their leaves Resonating in my soul ever so quietly As they collapse onto the ground They lie there, patiently and silently Sleeping on the grass and staring into the sky Watching the clouds drift by in euphoria The sunlight drifting through the trees And a broken shine descends upon them

I need you like humans need a soul Without you I would die Then and there the wind would cry The day you die, the wind would cry The daisies would bow their heads The field mice, would keep to their beds All the plants and all the grasses Would never try to grow Because God would send heavenly snow To show His sorrow and his woe For the death of you, my love The sun is out The clouds have passed The snow is gone, There is a dawn

The ethereal call of the mid-morning breeze When one must close his eyes to breathe The piercing intoxication of the heavens Moving within us, touching us gently Within the deepest place of our being And while we may only know this wonder So briefly in our moment We will sit patiently by our windowsills And await the sweet return In our most solemn hope and our deepest dreams

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Art by Brooks Oliver ’06

My Old Toys Jonathan Lee ’06 That old pack of hair You called teddy bear Sits alone on your cold, dusty shelf Like the rest of your toys That used to make noise Broke, when you played by yourself You yelled and screamed Till you got your dream Of having another stuff bear But like the rest You ripped its chest And formed yet another small tear

Then came back content And brought you a new baby boy You looked at his face As it seemed out of place And sat there quietly with a smile You pushed his tummy in And he laughed with a grin As you two became crazy and wild You both danced and sang And your voices rang As you two partied like little elves You held him steady And called him teddy Then placed him on the top of your shelf

You kicked and pouted Then cried and shouted That you wanted another new toy So your mom out and went

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November 2005

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Art by Pablo Cerrilla ’07

The Bar Nightmare Chapter 2

R.A. Lemburg ’06 “You got a name, son?” sputtered from the bulky officer with a gun and an attitude. “I’m gonna teer y’ apert, son.” His grim eyes looked not only at the 50-year old bartender, they looked through him.

“Germaine. I’m not sure what all of this is about. I was trying to save him.”

Germaine, who was obviously finished celebrating his 50th, began to get teary-eyed and think of the fun he had in the first years of his life. He dreamt of ponies, of lizards, of the chocolate ice-cream he bought after swimming Saturdays in the summer as a young lad. These vivid images were quickly interrupted by the rough commands of the officer.

“Yerp. That’s what they all say. Well yar gonna haf

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to answer ter me, sonny boy an’ answ’r me questin’ plitele’ey er I’ll be a snappin’ yer in th’ eyeballs like a cow snaps at a fly, boy!” His belt contained the usual pepper-spray, a gun, and a large set of handcuffs which Germaine began to imagine being placed around his weak, trembling arms.

“Yur gonna haf’ to tell me whatchu wer’ doin’ thurr, sonny boy, bee’cuz I’ma getting a lil’ impashent.”

Above him was the luminescent shower of a light bulb, almost blinding him with its searing light.

The hopes that he would not dig deeper than he already had were above him.

Down the road of sawdust and bulbs hanging like a chandelier bridge came the footsteps of a bearlike animal with gasping releases and a mouth full of day-long chewing tobacco. It was a fat police officer, presenting to everyone the rarely seen police doughnut combination in his manus . As he walked forward, every light swayed, begging to be more evenly strung across the dusk hallway into the fragrance of the room at the end of it (the

November 2005

Jesuit Journal

room at the end of the hall had the privilege of mediocre air conditioning and a Glade Plug-In).

mingled in linguistic formalities and communicated in satanic script.

Germaine struggled. The air, although in opposition to the unpreventive asthmatic white-picket suburbanite housing he had grown up in, was somehow refreshing but at the same time troublesome. It reminded him of growing up.

Germaine liked the musky scent of dead skin and mollusks, but he preferred the smell of that same dead skin combined with the ever-present aroma of cow manure and the enigmatic freshness of death and the pervasive, almost chronic un-embalmed rotting of elderly populace.

Germaine woke up. He had passed out, the dusty hallway of the police station confining his lungs to the painful state of strangulation. As quickly as he fell, he arose, with the help of a glass of lemonade provided by a nearby lemonade stand (conveniently parked next to the indoor doughnut stand, only operated by a small child rather than an Asian family).

“Thi’ herr’ is detec’ive Spradlinerson. He’l be sennin’ you a lickin’ on account o’ wha’ you bee’ dooin’.

Get, boy!” jutted the officer, holding a doughnut in his right hand and set of kuliches in the other.

Germaine waited. He took a deep breath.

Then he sneezed.

Germaine felt weird.

There was something still revolving in his head like a revolving door at a supermarket.

He was framed. But why? He could only peer deeper into the eternal snake-like eyes of Spradlinerson, and the snake-like tongue which curled out of his mouth at regular intervals to savor another bite

Art by Brooks Oliver ’06

He didn’t just sneeze – he snoughed. This caused a domino effect best described as miraculous.

Not only did the dust encircle the room in a tornado-like wisp of illness, but the haphazard slog at which the dust particles migrated was scientific.

They encircled like halos the arid presence of the room, enjoining rings of death and satanic-like figures, resembling what one would claim to see in the clouds of this formless void. Like tunnels, they

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“I’m going to end up letting you off with a warning, but before I do that, let me be my pestilent self and say pointless crap while spitting all over you,” he snickered.

of his glazed doughnut. ************************* NEXT: CHAPTER 3: THE CONFRONTATION

November 2005

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Theolomogy

The Black Gate

Eric Haney ’06

Scott Moore ’06 We sit We stare Into the heart of the other Through those gates of black surrounded by blinking blue

You said you thought you Saw the light, But it was just a shadow Brighter than the night Coming for you or more Likely coming from you.

I see myself across from you, sitting in that chair Yet I continue to stare Deeper Further I walk through the gate into the village The warmth of your loving soul flows like fog as in heaven Out of the black gate over that circular river of blue

Yeah, since the day That you were born You were staring at your shadow’s form Finding gods and devils Deep inside The shade you made.

Not awkward Not odd Just loving, estranged from reality through a thick veil of lashes Wrapped in the comfort of a bed within your village That lies beyond that black gate and moat of blue Speaking would be obscene For then I’d leave the village the black gate calls its own The gate would shut and be kept by the blue Not to be re-opened until I looked back at you But I spoke As I turned my head, I was rushed from the village out the black gate and over the blueness I was cast from the kingdom like Adam and Eve The blinking stops I turn and look, the gate is reopened, your heart is exposed, and I find my bed, My bed of safety and my bed of love Sitting Inside your head Through those gates of black loved by the blue and shrouded by your lashes

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‘Cause given what we know today, It’s worse to die Than to fade away Into those shadows Made of light, Not the darkness of the night.

All Eyes on the Clock Ian Berry ’07

The clock hung ominously over us, Low enough to catch the eye, And just above our fingers’ reach, To turn back the minutes flying by.

And yet we’ve made it our final goal, To search for that eternity we crave, And fall out of step on this lonely march Ever towards the inevitable grave.

May those hands reach ever upward, And make of this time what we may.

To deny the inevitable is our human gift, That hope may exist as we live out our days.

We apolgize to Chris Hensley and Tony Garcia of the class of 2005 for not giving them their due credit for writing Golf on Fridays and Hope Ann in the October 2005 issue.

November 2005

Jesuit Journal