May 2007 2
Freedom Connor Stratman
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Progress Gary Norris
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60 Days/60 Plays: An Interview with Mitchel Civello Ian Berry
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Play #26: Scenes from the North Dallas Genocide Mitchel Civello
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New Year’s Day Connor Stratman
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Past the Blazered Travis San Pedro
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Tabletop Chris Ackels
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Open Sky Joey Fechtel
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Layover Ian Berry
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Barren Joey Fechtel
Publisher Student Council Artistic Editor Ian Berry Layout Editor Kurt Swafford Moderator Mr. Degen
Jesuit Journal
Art by Renato DeLara ’09
www.jesuitcp.org/campuslife/studentcouncil
Freedom
Connor Stratman, ’07 I woke up on the wrong side of the world this morning, breathing in the fumes of the human dumpster. I lost some coins on the walk to the edge of Iraq, and children came and found ways to spend it on each other.
The only place in the country to travel to anymore is home, Gravel roads in the back Where you can hide anything you wish; You can trust that all bodies are accounted for.
Gone are the days of good mornings, where ghost mists wrap themselves around your nostrils and pull you mercilessly into their scent, the given mess of truth that lies within some sick joke of reality. The marriage of my soul to the planes of the sky and the hellish movements of music coming from the speakers of cars, shouting loudly about the coming of the revolution.
Thrusting the burden of love on the rich and selling it to the ignorant, This is our free market, giving nothing for nothing, Grieving for the dead hero who never lived Oh! Such tiring weeks we face!
All known saints were obliterated by the discovery of snow in the corner. Joe and I in the bathroom shared bliss, while I came to know hell with the girl in the theatre. They both could sure give me something to think of. I’ve become so psychotic all I can do is walk in circles, In a circular room, With nothing to think of but circles, And no new mornings to trouble me. Oh, America, when will I be free?
But where Can it all lead Down this lazy river? Empty ideas, the stuff of the millennia , With fake movements and the tradition of the insane scientist, Where can it all lead? I’ll let you keep kicking the can down the alleyway While I sit and try to compose my song, Hoping it might have some meaning For all the objects in space.
Art by Bryce Ford ’07 Page 2
May 2007
Jesuit Journal
Progress
Gary Norris, ’08 I’ll just dump all of the flyers on the street Hoping someone might pick them up And read the blank pages, And laugh as they drop it back onto the pavement.
Progress is a unifying force, But first this force must unify. Hand in hand, foot upon footprint. Together, and only together, will change sail free.
Where can it all lead?
Desire mustn’t lag behind ambition. Persistence must keep pace with loyalty. Creativity mustn’t depart before inspiration. Energy must synchronize with compassion.
Exhaustion can overwhelm the body in Chicago, With its suffocating winters and weak buds, A city only good for museums and coughing. But the enemy lies not within some distant desert, but always within our own borders, Where the air conditioners burn and the bored men sit and play chess in the parks, Where the people sit and sniff concrete ideas and hope for salvation in the gutters, Where the optimists know damn well to keep their eyes closed when towers fall, Where the litany of the saints can be said in jails made of flesh and bone, Where bottles of urine can lead you to the recluse’s deepest secret, Where the sanctuary can be a home for the blind and the crackpots, Where the clowns cry their lives away in shame, Where the starving children can laugh at the businessman, Where all hope is set ablaze by words of fire, Where every living being counts down to the collapse of all.
A feat is never accomplished by a loosely bound diligence, That of which is incapable of withstanding the hardships of opposition, And held together only by weak ambition and fragmented vigor. This progress will only spiral within itself to become a lowly whisper. No, progress is a unified force! Empathy must collaborate with devotion. Courage must work together with perseverance. Friendliness must join with compliance. A coalescence of worthy ideals, This defines true progress, The essence of movement, the soul of maturity, And for those willing enough, the spirit of humanity.
Art by Kevin Kopf ’08 Student Council
May 2007
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60 Days/60 Plays: An Interview with Mitchel Civello Ian Berry, ’07
Every year, the students of Honors English Seminar are required to complete a Seminar Project. This project can entail almost anything, but each student chooses something that he is passionate about or has a desire to learn more about. The project brings mixed results to different students, but the journey is almost always an interesting one. Last week I had the opportunity to sit down with one such student, Mitchel Civello, to discuss his journey: playwrighting. Ian: Some people write poetry, others short stories, others plays. For you, was it being an actor that attracted you to playwright? Mitchel: I think anyone who enjoys theatre at a young age mostly does this through acting. You don’t see many eighth graders directing one acts. In high school, all the ‘theatre kids’ direct one acts and some gutsy ones even write their own. So to finally answer your question, yes, it was being an actor and reading the words of many playwrights that sparked my interest in it. I: Have you ever considered other forms of expression? M: The first play I ever remember writing was sophomore year, and I remember the idea came to me while writing an English paper on The Crucible. Needless to say, the next hour and a half was dedicated to the play. But I’ve always been a fan of writing short stories. The ones I really like I email to all my friends. But mostly for the past year or so I’ve been interested in plays. There are a dozen or so Word Documents I have on my computer with just a couple of lines of dialogue on it. That’s the reason I wanted to do this project – to make myself give me the time I want to write plays. I: What do you think is most unique to playwriting? M: What has been most unique to playwriting is that, as history shows, the audience is going to allow a play to be set in one location and feature a limited number of people talking for long periods of time. With movies and TV, the locale changes every five minutes, if that long. And then you get into Theater of the Absurd, which is a whole other question. But for me personally, I like the idea of typing a line of dialogue and hearing an actor read it exactly the way I imagined it. You feel all tingly – it’s an out of body experience. It’s almost as big a rush as actually acting. All you wrote was the words, no adjectives, no “‘Blah blah blah,’ Dave said angrily while rolling his eyes.” And yet
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somehow, through what you’ve created, the actor decided to speak angrily while rolling his eyes. I think it says a lot about human connection. I: So, 60 Days/ 60 Plays. I know you’ve probably grown tired of explaining it to everyone, but what is it and what inspired you to do it? M: 60 Days/60 Plays is my Seminar project for Ms. Row’s Honors English Seminar class. It is based on a project called 365 Plays/ 365 Days, in which the playwright Suzan Lori Parks wrote a play every day for a whole year. All across America (Dallas included) theatres are putting on the plays. I knew I wanted my project to be writing oriented, and when reading about 365 Days/ 365 Plays I knew it would be perfect. And when Ms. Parks came to speak at the Downtown Library this February, I knew I had made the right choice. We’re theatrical cousins. I: How do you go about writing these plays? Is it any different knowing they will be acted out? M: I started writing them out on my computer at home, but something wasn’t right. I was talking to a friend of mine and she mentioned how she has a Play Journal, in which she scribbles any random characters or scenes that comes to her. I then bought a spiral and christened it my Play Journal and it is now one of my favorite assets. Knowing the plays will be acted does make it different, but I had to block the audience out while writing my plays. If the audience was hovering over my shoulder while I wrote a play, the play would be about them. And that is not what they paid money to go see – they want to see what I wrote. It’s a love/hate relationship. I: When and where will you be performing these plays? M: Well, now that the project is over its new name is 60 Days/ 33 Plays, which I am perfectly fine with. I would much rather have 33 plays that I’m interested in seeing than 60 plays I forced out of me that I don’t care about. But to answer your question, I originally was going to perform them all around Jesuit, but proved too daunting of a task. Lots of seniors have told me they want to see them, or, in a few cases, act in them. So we’ll see!
May 2007
Jesuit Journal
Art by Pablo Cerilla ’07
Play #26: Scenes from the North Dallas Genocide Mitchel Civello, ’07
Wife: It was a quiet, still night. But then, suddenly, everything got very loud. Car alarms going off as their windows were smashed, dogs barking their heads off and ‘Oow Oow Ooooow-ing’ amidst the chaos before being shot. Garbage cans being spilled, babies crying. A wave. It was a wave of noise. I didn’t hear it coming, and I - I can still hear it today. (Becoming very emotional) We hid in the minivan while we watched the…attackers, the psychos…set fire to our garage. Then, my husband said, ‘Oh, no! My golf clubs!’ and off he goes to rescue his stupid golf clubs which you use, what, two times a year? Three? Husband: I happen to have within my expensive set of clubs a 1946 Byron Nelson driver. It’s practically an antique. Wife: Oh! And my grandmother’s pearl necklace wasn’t? (Temperamental) At least I actually was concerned for our FAMILY’S SAFETY and didn’t UNLOCK the car door and run out to a burning house. Husband: I bought those golf clubs! I bought them! I!
Student Council
(Yelling and finger pointing ensues. Their 4 yr old baby starts crying. This calms Wife and Husband down.) Wife: Us and the other survivors have taken refuge in this local Starbucks. We take turns being on guard. It makes us a little on edge. This is the 8th day we’ve been here in lockdown. No word from the government, we can’t reach anyone because the internet doesn’t work. Everyone’s cell phone here gets no reception. It puts us a little…on edge. Husband: All I want is a ham sandwich. Ham and mustard. But all their sandwiches here have crap like… bruschetta on it! And mustard? Ooohh no, instead, Try Our Delicious Garlic Horse Radish Spicy Caribbean Mayonaise. What the hell! And coffee! Mocha chino, cappuccino, frappaccino, Al Pacino - what the hell is this! I want coffee! (Starts to cry) Coffee flavored coffee. Coffee flavored… coffee… (His wife holds him. End).
May 2007
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New Year’s Day
Past the Blazered
All is quiet, All is quiet on Times Square, Every soul on the street awaits the parousia Of man-made Time, kissing children’s eyes And screaming verses from some lost American songs from some distant, Torn, heroized battlefield, That war fought among us and our children, Driving uncontrollable madness, throwing seashells At the enormous windows and lifting Weakened fists to the air as antennae; Ford lies dead with three-thousand other Dead Americans since the inception of The war. Millions of lost souls in Munch-posed screams Tremble and shake, stumbling down Broadway In New York, Baghdad and Jerusalem -
Diffused, numb reticence My breath speaks my unspoken words. The fraternal hand reaches my reverie determined, Saving me from frostbitten delirium. Calloused from sacrifice, It frees me to the vanguard. The inspired brethren Carries on spiritedly In hopeful vigil I shall save, Diving into icy oceans To be a fired beacon A crew amongst the sea.
Connor Stratman, ’07
Travis San Pedro, ’08
All ways are broad ways, all ways are broad ways. Dancing skeletons sing island songs and Gyrate on my eyes, sharply pricking my nerves, As I, with a drunken-hearted pose, run blindly Down the beach, feet bleeding with shards of rocks. And millions of the faithful mourn the death Of their tyrant, swearing vengeance on the very ideas That hanged him; My tyrant still rules, solipsistic and unconcerned, Waving his ropes and pulling the tight strings of The ever growing killing machine composed of Countless death-obsessed bulls. I cry at the sight of it all, A sadness only soothed by a blind boy playing His ringing piano on a downhill slide; Can I not hide inside sounds? No, I am trapped in space, impermanent and Debilitating, bastardizing some old fairy-tales I created myself when I was a little boy. I created myself as a little boy, My unshaven face and thick-stomached hunger, Ceaseless, I can’t control them; I have only twelve months to live, Before my new self will appear.
Art by Pat Gorman ’07 Page 6
May 2007
Jesuit Journal
Tabletop
Open Sky
On this tabletop once sat the papers representing this house On this tabletop once sat the boxes instituting this home On this tabletop once sat the plates providing the meal On this tabletop once sat the cards allowing for fun On this tabletop once sat the elbows of a good conversation On this tabletop once sat the cloth of a major event On this tabletop once sat the news of the world On this tabletop once sat the letters of distant loved ones On this tabletop once sat the bills of our every-day life On this tabletop once sat the textbooks and papers of learning On this tabletop once sat the folders and pens of business On this tabletop once sat the love of a family.
Walking alone on the sidewalk beside an icy road, I let my mind wander as my tired eyes scour the grey path. I wonder where I’m going, when I see before me, in the nebulous distance ahead, a spot where the grey blooms into glowing white. It seems a promise of new life for the dying grey cement and my gaze falls, like the slab beneath me, broken, cracked, and bent.
Joey Fechtel, ’07
Chris Ackels, ’09
On this tabletop now sits a million tiny memories, making up our lives, and welcoming us to the only place that could bear all its work: Home.
Art by Chadd Mathis ’08 Student Council
May 2007
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Layover
Barren
Through the holes in a corrugated iron sheet, (to him the bedroom wall) he watched the lights of his many stars, though the night had yet to fall.
This solitary leaf On an empty tree, Holds fast Where others have Fallen. Even as the ground is Barren, All else decayed, it still holds Strong.
Ian Berry, ’07
It was bullet point daylight ran in, and he felt sculpted out; but in those worldly constellations, not a whisper from his mouth could disturb the inner sanctum, the malaise within his thoughts, or stir those dimmer memories of family, his life, and the lot. He didn’t know if he’d chosen his place there, in the silence of his “room” – yet he saw outside the men were different; where dreams came to bloom.
Joey Fechtel, ’07
How it must feel To have nothing But its roots. Ah, but to be so Alone, And bidden to fall. Who now, could so well Withhold?
And so with growing disdain he saw his own emaciated form, and wondered darkly at the future as he tried to keep warm.
The Journal would like to congratulate Pablo on becoming a Finalist in the 2007 Texas Visual Arts Competition, this piece placing in the top 100 in the state.
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May 2007
Art by Pablo Cerilla ’07
Jesuit Journal