Mandala
2014
Mandala: An Art and Literary Magazine
May, 2014 Northfield Mount Hermon School Mount Hermon, MA 01354
Table of Contents Shield of Light.................................................. Nicolo Frisiani.................................Cover After Reading Susan Mitchell’s “Havana Birth”.. Peter Weis............................................... 1 Collage............................................................. Kevin Ouyang........................................ 3 Obligation and Love......................................... John Adams............................................ 5 Lake Solitude.................................................... Kevin Reilly Gross.................................. 7 The Garden of Eden.......................................... Isabella DeHerdt.................................... 9 Black Beach...................................................... Assel Shardarbekova.............................. 10 Nhyira............................................................. Isabelle Lotocki de Veligost................... 11 Sotto Voce......................................................... M. Harper............................................ 13 Clock............................................................... Camille Chai........................................ 14 One Day All Your Friends Will be Happy........... Lauren Scott Corwin............................ 15 Brody............................................................... Elizabeth McClellan............................. 17 Self-Portrait...................................................... Paige Fenn............................................ 20 Refraction......................................................... Simon van Baaren................................. 21 After Basho....................................................... Peter Weis............................................. 22 Scratch Art Drawing......................................... Katie Schroeder.................................... 26 Crow................................................................ Lila Livingston..................................... 27 View towards the lower fields............................. William Roberts................................... 28 Still Life........................................................... Paige Fenn............................................ 29 Any way you want............................................ Beatrice Dowdy.................................... 30 Collage............................................................. Khe Phan My Nguyen.......................... 31 illuminated...................................................... Shuangni Huang.................................. 32 The Allegory of Leinad...................................... Christopher Ahn ................................. 33 Self-Portrait...................................................... Franscis Balken..................................... 38 Shoe Shiner...................................................... Mark Yates............................................ 39 Acknowledgement........................................................................................................ 41 Editorial Staff............................................................................................................... 42
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The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude. Friedrich Nietzsche
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After Reading Susan Mitchell’s “Havana Birth” My mother died before I was born Kept above ground by wires And glint from doctor’s glasses. “Look at me, I’m a corpse” She told an uncle who told a poet Who told the whole fucking world. I was about to be born when She spied the fox dying in the short meadow, She stumbled but scooped The near-dead dog gently, Carried it in, nursed it, Could not bear to see death. Buried her face in his matted fur Wept for the fox, Wept for five children. I was about to be born When the wires broke And the neighbors lifted her To their acorned shoulders Kept her from drifting. She insisted they set her down That she could still speak; Wait this is important Gave them every line of Jabberwocky From morphined sleep.
Peter Weis Provincetown and Montague July 19-29, 2013
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Obligation and Love One doesn’t forget one’s parents braced in waltz frame like the soft watercolor of a statue. She is demurely dressed in blue with a matching brocade letter below the collar, deferent, always deferent, to him, who in smart dark suit and polished shoes seemed in the nine-inch height difference to tower in respectful domination. They knew enough never to break hold, to preserve elegance at all cost, because that was part of the ruse, you see. They both sprang from southern parents-farmer and pharmaceutic-depression survivors whose claim to class lay not in their breeding but in their mien, born of the same stuff as their dance posture, pretense but only in fact, so that the rise up the social scale never seemed like elevation. One doesn’t forget one’s obligations, coming from such dancers, so one poses as they did, making sure through imitation of posture or through language like this one knows the difference between entitlement and expectation, carriage and affectation.
John Adams
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The Garden of Eden I see the world through red colored eyes. Feel the words run off tongues and pierce me like knives. The people surround and circle me where I lay, their dance like vultures, and I as their prey. I see the world through red colored eyes. And can feel Eden’s inevitable demise. The buildings will crash to the ground in flames, planes circling the air in pollution and blame. I see the world through red colored eyes. The weak do fall where the stronger will rise. And as I look at the world through my red colored eyes, I see everything live and everything die.
Isabella DeHerdt
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Sotto Voce wind that raises seas listen M. Harper
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Brody Richard crossed his right ankle over his left knee and tapped his foot. He loosened his tie and adjusted his briefcase to allow for more legroom. He turned off his Blackberry and his pager. Richard was still a little bit miffed that he wasn’t flying first class—or at the very least business class. In fact, he didn’t want to be on the flight at all. It was only bringing him closer to a life he was not meant for, didn’t want. It was his fault, this couldn’t be denied. Yet, he was having trouble taking responsibility. Richard was sweating now. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a mother hustling three sticky-fingered children down the isle in her orthopedic shoes. What a nightmare! How glad Richard was that he wasn’t traveling with three small boys. He sighed and sat back in his chair. Oh no. He realized too late what was happening. Suddenly sticky fingers were fumbling along the sleeve of his suit, a little elbow pushing him off the middle armrest. Oh no. The mother and her other children found their seats across the isle. “Sorry,” she said to Richard in a kind voice, makeup absent from her mouth. Then, “Brody, behave. Don’t be too loud. Be polite to the nice man in the suit.” Back to Richard: “I hope this is alright with you. Having so many, it’s hard to make travel arrangements. At least one of them ends up sitting with someone else. They’re usually pretty well-behaved, though.” Richard just smiled and nodded tightly; he hoped he was adequately concealing his horror. Brody bounced in the seat next to him and fiddled with the seatbelt. The boy stopped and looked around wide-eyed. He looked up at Richard with wonder. “You’re tall!” he exclaimed. Richard groaned at the childishness of it all and closed his eyes. If this is what it was like, all the time, he didn’t think he would ever be prepared for parenthood. Richard didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he awoke to the harsh, electronic sounds of a portable game. Next to him Brody was so engrossed in the small man he was jumping around the screen that he was jerking around in his seat, flailing his elbows with every move of his tiny thumbs. A flight attendant appeared. Brody ordered juice. Richard ordered coffee, black. He smiled at the attendant. She was cute in her little blue vest and ponytail. She smiled back. He brushed her fingers intentionally as he took the coffee from her. “Thanks,” he 17
said. She smiled again, and then seemed to notice Brody for the first time. Her smile faded and she pushed her cart passed them and down the isle. Kids seem to ruin all the good things in life, Richard thought, panicking suddenly. He didn’t think he could sit next to this kid anymore. “What is that you’re playing,” he demanded, again noticing the game’s tinny noises. “Game,” the boy said, without moving his eyes. “What game?” “Mario.” “Oh.” Richard folded his arms. After a few minutes: “You wanna play?” The boy thrust the game toward Richard, who shook his head vigorously. “You don’t have to be scared, it’s not hard,” said Brody. “I’m not scared; I’m a grown man for Christ’s sake.” Richard reluctantly accepted the game, which was of course sticky. “You press A to jump, B to shoot, and then the arrows to move around. It’s pretty easy,” Brody said, pointing feverishly at the different buttons and then grabbing his juice to suck down. Richard began and pressed B immediately to jump, only to shoot and lose the game. He bristled and restarted. He died again within the first four seconds. Brody began to coach him from the sidelines: “Left…jump… NOW...shoot… I SAID SHOOT; that’s A!” The boy had a high score of 90,465. Richard did not make it above 84. After about the ninth round, he gave up. “Alright, little man,” he said, exhausted, “show me how it’s done.” Brody’s hands flew over the controls for a solid eleven minutes until he let out an exasperated sigh and threw himself back in his seat. He put the game down. “That’s how it’s done.” He went to high-five Richard. Richard hesitated, conscious of the probable colony of germs and bacteria living on Brody’s sticky palm. Finally he 18
gave the kid a spirited high-five and smiled. Richard decided he had nothing to worry about, and assumed his immune system was as superior as his charm. Suddenly, “Whoa, cool!” Brody leaned across Richard to admire the view as they descended. His bony arm dug into Richard’s ribs and Richard winced. He practiced his indifference; this was an exercise Richard went through regularly when he was waiting. He glared at Brody, still sprawled across his lap. He didn’t like kids; that hadn’t changed. But at least he now knew the secret to their entertainment: Mario. Richard felt slightly more prepared. He straightened his tie and cuffs. He wasn’t ready to give up his lifestyle, but he was more prepared. They landed, all the while Brody gripping the armrest tightly and trying not to look scared. It was the moment Richard had been dreading since he left the airport. He turned his blackberry back on. One new voicemail, from Karen. He put the phone to his ear. After a few moments he slipped it in his pocket, eyes wide, sweat beading on his forehead. He clutched his briefcase and said goodbye to Brody begrudgingly. Richard had been seriously pondering just getting on another flight to somewhere else and going far, far away from home. But at this point he realized there was no turning back. After all, he did now possess a greater knowledge of the meaning of parenting, and a greater determination to keep his kid’s hands clean at all times. With his mind made-up, Richard exited the plane. He had a delivery room to get to.
Elizabeth McClellan
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After Basho – Cycle I with interludes I. Ironic half-smile Beneath one crooked grey eye Gone before it’s noon. Ashes swept away by wind. Father swept away by grief. Alone on ground floor Child sleeps in hand-me-down crib Who will pay the cost? Blueberries plucked by blackbirds. Abandoned sandbox unfenced. What could he do any way but move to a foreign land, pitch his tent, and begin again? But in the manner of a nomad, he tried to take nothing with him that would not serve his journey. The memories were heavy, so that even if the movers would charge nothing to transport them, he left as many of them behind as possible. He stopped telling stories except the kind you find in books. He began to read endlessly and his children somehow learned to do the same. It was easier than asking questions. Waking and sleeping Years pass imperceptibly Nesting young cry, grow. Birdsong in neighboring trees Hails spring, marks a given year. Awake, in the dark, You hear spiders making webs, Heedless of your fears. A word, a name will calm you Said slowly, repeatedly. The dinner table Round as the sun, black as night Reaps its daily will. Bookcases stand sentinel Grandfather clock chimes
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If time ran backwards And childhood last forever Would joy fill your house? If all food turned to ketchup Would any child be happy? Outside, flowers bloom Irrelevant schools bells ring Learning still happens. Youth at last passes Ivy grows in evergreens Wheels of commerce spin. It made it possible to move away at least. The warmth of the family hearth offered little heat. New stories grew in the interval between the first remove and that now long ago present.. The children shared a bond of which they were only dimly aware. How it was taboo, why it was, was never clear. It was a fact, a curtain that was dropped between themselves and the first one ever to love them. II. Strand of windblown hair Across sharp nose in sunshine Will snapshots suffice? Images from distant past Or stories from yesterday One can’t escape the past of course, you always leave a trail behind you. But in the thickets, without a compass, you will travel in circles unless you are very careful. This is particularly true if you travel without the sun. Without a sense of passing time. Lilies waft summer scent Newness, promise of children Tomorrow, gone, done. Monarda, goldenrod next Cicadas sing autumn in. Sun slides down the sky Time slips between our fingers Long winter darkness. Bright stars, frigid air, worthless Never warmth in wintry sun.
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How much is enough? How empty can the glass be? Try another year. Spring, summer, autumn, winter Seems the cycle’s gears are stripped. Voiced fears spring like doves Whirring into amber dusk Carry them safe home. Wait, later count all the stars The drops of dew, night’s blackness. Soft breathing slumber Dawn’s cool on the last morning One more place to search Do not try to find my path I just might be seeking yours. Somehow sun rises Let the seasons roll again Clouds, birches yawn, stretch. Listen for new voices. Look for vivid everywhere Head east towards sunrise. III. Somehow though, if one travels the same treadmill circle long enough, one comes into contact with another, as a comet might collide sometime with our small blue world. That contact might be bad for both parties, but the blow might be merely glancing, or the two might pass and almost kiss. Lighting up one another’s world’s for at least a moment Her arm flung seaward Artists in those fingertips New growth burgeoning. Hearts beaten, beating hopeful Joy in each new translation. Someone said if you want to do things differently, then you’ve got to do different things. Given a compass, oh but no one gets a map, suddenly it becomes possible to travel farther in five days than you have in half a lifetime. A town awakens The sun burns on P’Town streets The bears are strolling. 24
Gathered in cool shade, hot sun Poets, aspiring poets. Grass green: too green lawn When windblown cyclist streaks by Birds are louder now. More loudnesses, a Harley A Care Mark delivery. Done with bicycles In racks, on bottles of wine Let salt eat and drink Sand blows across the bike path Waves will sweep it clean again. Pockets filled with sand Perhaps more dear than silver Because they remind. Recall a time and a place Perhaps Provincetown or France. It is possible then to pack carefully all of your memories, even the heavy ones. Travel back towards the place where the sun sets and seek, not a new beginning, not another way, but your own way. An apparition, A smile not meant for a smile Left eye almost squints. A photograph from afar Sand and a long ago beach. Unasked answering Sparrows cloaked by branches Traffic stops, listens. Sparrow far away Opens throat wide, sings heartsong Branches bend nearby.
Peter Weis Provincetown July 18-19, 2013
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(Any way you want) Just the Right Words Crowd me, move me, preach me, stand me up, Brush me off, push me out, create me. A thousand voices for how to survive, How to tweak my feelings (any way you want). But none of these can reach the part where my soul moves. I myself can barely reach there. It’s common sense that you can’t shout your way to a soul. So I will tell you this: Sleep now, wake, glance upwards.
Beatrice Dowdy
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The Allegory of Leinad Don’t stop writing until the very end! -Maria This is the story of a man named Leinad. Leinad was a young man who worked for a big company. Barely qualifying as an adult, Leinad was the youngest employee in the company building, but such trivial details were dismissed. Leinad wasn’t very bright. He had not attended school and even if he had, his grades would have been a mess. The company had accepted him on one condition: Leinad had to stay in the company building for a year. He was not to leave his office for any reason. During his stay, the company promised to ensure the welfare of both Leinad and his family during the year, and that he would be paid at the end of this program. Leinad’s office was gorgeous. It had golden wallpaper with patterns of small angels blowing their little horns. However, Leinad’s office had no windows or any other opening into the outside world. In fact, Leinad only knew whether it was day or night by a speaker attached to the ceiling of the office. When it was day, the speaker announced “Day.” When it was night, the speaker announced “Night.” Leinad’s office also had a flower - a grand, blue flower - which Leinad tried his best to keep alive. So Leinad watered the plant whenever the speaker announced Day. Leinad was never hungry. So, Leinad assumed that he was being fed during the Night. To confirm his suspicion, Leinad vowed to wake up during the Night through methods like taking morning naps or refusing any sleep at all. But, no matter what method Leinad used, he always seemed to fall asleep by the time Night was called and not wake until Day. Leinad’s job was simple: he sat down in his office and wrote about his feelings in a brown book chained to his desk. But because Leinad was not allowed out of his office, he did not have much to write about his daily life. He had tried to leave the office once, but the door was locked from the outside. Leinad could only hope that the company would keep its end of the promise.
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In fact, Leinad didn’t understand why the company wanted him to write in this brown book. As far as Leinad was concerned, no one entered his room to check on his work. Every Day, the brown book was exactly how Leinad had left it in the last Night. Nevertheless, Leinad wrote and wrote and wrote. He continued to do this for every Day of every Month. Though he did not have much to write about pertaining to his waking life, he constantly had dreams every Night. These dreams were unlike any dreams Leinad had dreamt before he entered his office. These dreams were more vivid. More lively. More realistic. Leinad had no idea of what to make of these dreams, for they did not seem to relate to anything Leinad had experienced in his past. But they were a fabulous source of writing material, and a welcome escape for Leinad, who was stuck in his little office. Leinad found enjoyment in these dreams, and this is how he kept himself entertained for the next several Months. Then one Night, Leinad dreamed a dream that would forever change him. Leinad had a dream of his company. The hallways were empty. Doors, much like the door to Leinad’s office, lined the company’s walls. Other than the doors, the hallway was very bland. Usually, angels, crosses, squiggly lines, or some other-worldly designs are present on wallpaper to help brighten the mood. Oh, but not the hallways of Leinad’s company. The wallpaper of the company was, well, white. It wasn’t dirty, and from that Leinad inferred, incorrectly, that the janitor did a very fine job. At the end of the hallway appeared a woman. The woman, around the age of young Leinad, walked towards where Leinad was standing in his dream. Now this woman was attractive, at least to Leinad. To get an idea on how she looked like, imagine your dream girl. Then, make her perfect. See? Very attractive. It being a dream, and not lucid, Leinad had no control whatsoever over his response. Now, Leinad was a young man, and having been deprived from female sexuality for over months, his male instincts should have kicked in. But Leinad did not jump at the woman with despicable and animalistic thoughts. He instinctively made a smile mixed with nostalgia and felicity. Then, the dream came to an end. Like every other dream Leinad dreamt of, this dream was extremely vivid. But this particular dream was so real that an idea formed in Leinad’s head: perhaps the dream was
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real. Perhaps this dream was a sign for Leinad to leave his office and leap into a world unbeknownst to him. So Leinad got up from his bed and walked to the door. He turned the knob and much to Leinad’s surprise, the door was locked. Did he think he was the main character of a story or someone chosen by God? Preposterous! Then another idea formed in Leinad’s head. An idea that had never occurred to Leinad before: perhaps he was stuck in his little office room forever. In fact, how could Leinad trust the speakers that endlessly announced Day and Night to be accurate? What if Leinad had been in his room for longer than a year? What if the company had locked him in this room? For what reason was he secluded from the rest of humanity? Was Leinad crazy? That would explain the extremely vivid dreams and his inability to think about all this after Months. “No!” Leinad cried. “I am not crazy!” Leinad banged on his locked office door and shouted “Help! Help! Please, someone help me! I’m not crazy! I’m not crazy! I’m normal! Please, please! “Som…” Oh wait. Wait wait. Is this how the story went? No, this is all wrong. I’m sorry, but this is not the right ending for The Allegory of Leinad. This is The Allegory of Leinad: Insane Ending (draft 4). This isn’t the story I wanted to narrate at all. Hmm… Here. While I look for the right ending for this story, let me tell you another story. I’m sure you’ll enjoy this one as well. Ahem. This is the story of a patient named Daniel. Daniel was a young man who made a living from of writing realistic fictions. Daniel’s stories were in no way popular, but such trivial matters were dismissed. Daniel had a beautiful wife named Maria. Maria was a beautiful woman who fell in love with Daniel’s stories. She described Daniel’s stories as realistic yet dreamy. With the little budget Daniel made off of his stories, Daniel and Maria lived a humble life in a humble home with humble furniture and humble accessories.
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But Daniel was happy. Then one day, Daniel fell into a coma. Daniel was a healthy man. There was no medical explanation as to why he would fall into a coma. Perhaps he had overdosed on drugs or drank an excessive amount of alcohol after recognizing that his stories were simply not being read by anyone. Or perhaps he was shocked. Yes, that would explain everything. Interestingly, Daniel’s landlady found Daniel’s unconscious body lying in his bed while she was trying to retrieve Daniel’s rent, which was late by three months. Only after her third slap to Daniel’s face did the landlady consider calling an ambulance. Daniel did not see a brighter day in his hospital bed. He remained unconscious for every day of every month. And yet, for all these days, Maria never checked in to Daniel’s room. And then, after months in his small hospital room, Daniel died. Did you enjoy it? Hmm? Good. While you were enjoying that story, I found the correct ending for The Allegory of Leinad. I apologize for my previous mistake, but I am certain that this ending would make much more sense and be much more appealing to you than The Allegory of Leinad: Insane Ending (draft 4). Ahem. This is the story of a woman named Maria… No no no, this isn’t the right story either! How could I possibly mistake Leinad for Maria? I knew I should’ve given these stories proper titles. Guess what this story was called, hmm? The Allegory of Maria? Ha ha, no. That would be too organized and novel. No, I gave this story the name The Pre-Allegory of Leinad. Leinad doesn’t even appear in this story! The Pre-Allegory of Leinad is the story of a woman named Maria who lived a humble but happy life with a man named Daniel, in which Maria catches a horrible and incurable disease and writes a beautiful yet shocking note for Daniel before her death. It has absolutely nothing to do with The Allegory of Leinad!
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Sigh. I’m sorry. I’m sure we both agree that I failed horribly in narrating. All I wanted to do was convey a vivid, yet realistic story of Leinad. In fact, I don’t even remember if I had written the final draft of The Allegory of Leinad. Perhaps all this was for null… Why, it just dawned on me. I don’t even know who I’m writing this for! For all I know I could be writing something that will never be read by an animate, and hopefully literate, human being! I guess it doesn’t matter much now. I’m sorry reader, if you do exist, for wasting your time. But, as you should know very well, today is the last day I would be writing in this raggedy brown book. Sure, there are still a myriad of unanswered questions about this company and my supposed job. But I already dismissed such trivial details. Something much more important is at hand. Leinad 12.31 “Day” announced the speaker. As he did on every Day of every Month, Leinad naturally woke up from his sleep. But Leinad knew that this Day was not going to be like any other. It was a Day that was going to forever change him. He looked around his office, at the golden wallpaper and the small little angels, at his beautiful blue flower that he had managed to keep alive, and then at his brown book, still chained to his desk. Leinad then walked to his door that had not been opened for an entire Year. Yet, Leinad was confident that today was different. Today had to be different, for someone was waiting outside of that door for Leinad. And Leinad knew this fully well. So he grabbed the knob of the door and gave it a twist. And then he gave a push.
Christopher Ahn
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Acknowledgment The staff of Mandala extends its heartfelt thanks & best wishes for the future to those faculty & staff members who will be leaving the School at the end of this year.
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Mandala 2014 is a production of Yishan Zhang ’14 Philip J. Calabria - Faculty Advisor
Layout, printing and binding by TigerPress, Northampton, Massachusetts Printed with soy ink. Environmentally friendly printing since 1985.
Mandala
2014