AGAINST THE CURRENT THE LITERARY MAGAZINE OF PROFESSIONAL CHILDREN’S SCHOOL
VOL. 2 Spring 2020 Edition
AGAINST THE CURRENT THE LITERARY MAGAZINE OF PROFESSIONAL CHILDREN’S SCHOOL
VOL. 2 Spring 2020 Edition
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For Mr. Orefice
We dedicate this issue of Against the Current to Mr. Thomas Orefice, our English teacher, advisor, and friend, who is retiring in June 2020 after 34 years at the Professional Children’s School.
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Table of Contents Cover Art - Sophia B. Letter From the Editor
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I. Whence Did You Come - Eugenie Sappho K.F. Self Portrait - Eugenie Sappho K.F. Love/Craft - Sierra B. Untitled - Ian Z. Untitled - Ms. Petersen Twenty-Three Waverly News - Vanessa V. Untitled - Dashiell D. Cheers! - Devin L. Introspective - Devin L Luke & Lizzie - Colby C. This Way to Paradise - Valencia H. To Create An Eurydice - Sierra B. Ethereal - Devin L. A Million Things - Mia F. Strength - Devin L.
2 3 4 5 6 7 11 12 13 14 18 19 21 22 23
In the Past Ten Days - Jeff W. Corona Tan - Ms. Holder Together Apart - Ameli S. Untitled - Joanne L. Somatic Interlock - Eugenie Sappho K.F.
26 27 28 29 30
II.
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Connection - Claire F. Untitled - Mr. Casey The Last Resort - Devin L. Fair City, Lone Soldier - Colby C. Golden - Devin L. Untitled - Dashiell D. What is “Taiwan?” - Joanne L. Quarantine Diary - Daisy S. March fourteenth or Teeth - Sascha F. In Transition - Audrey Z.
31 32 33 34 36 37 38 40 42 43
Wayfinder - Audrey Z. Quarantine Diary, ctd. - Daisy S. PCS - Patrice C. Reflections - Claire F. Untitled - Dashiell D. Review: Charlie Kaufman’s Antkind - Tobi I. Stairway to Heaven - Valencia H. Short Poem - Tiger H. Swan - Vanessa V. Our Path - Joanne L.
46 47 48 49 50 51 53 54 56 57
Masthead The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
58 60
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Letter From the Editor What is it to be human if not to have an ability to dream? Students of the Professional Children’s School pursue our individual professions and passions with tenacity and purpose. Every day, we chase our dreams through hard work, courage, and steadfast dedication. We love the excellence, the fight, and the freedom discovered through our dreams. Our teachers affirm and fuel not only our academic curiosity, but also our urgency to aspire and to imagine. PCS students do not just analyze and dissect our nightly dreams; rather, we put them into action and fight to make them real. Ballet dancers work to defy gravity, to leap higher, lighter, and longer with the illusion of effortlessness. Musicians work to tell meaningful stories with impeccable techniques to vast audiences. Athletes work to assist their teammates, to push themselves forward, and to inspire others through sheer will. Actors work to empathize with another person, a character, in order to tell their story. Hard work links us together, like oarsmen, fighting or harnessing a current. We must work and keep dreaming by day. Even when fighting as a generation against forces that seem to have sidelined our pursuits and ideas that do not mirror who we aspire to be, we should always stay true to that which makes us unique. Writers and poets have long created change through their powerful words and their transcendent works of fiction and social commentary. During the 1960’s, musicians and artists created radical change with their lyrics and their courage. In this second edition of Against the Current, we were inspired by quotes that help to frame and link our own original works. During these final, blurry days of school, these words, while written long ago, remind us that we are interconnected and let us know that we aren’t so alone.
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The Class of 2020 has seen an invisible force try to invade our human experience and infect our spirit. Some days, it may feel like the world is telling us our dreams need to wait. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Fear and hardship have become visible and real in the face of the pandemic. Yet, while COVID-19 is a silent virus and a formidable enemy, we are not the first generation being asked to adjust our plans, to fight for freedom, and to hold fast to our dreams. We cannot stop growing into who we are meant to be. Since March, we have had to define new ways of learning and of dreaming by day. Indeed, our days are entirely different. For most students, both our schoolwork and our pursuits have shifted to new modes. Our training has seemingly shut down. Not only do these creative works link us together, Against the Current, this second volume reminds us what it means to dream. COVID-19 has only amplified the wisdom and the permanence of being students who live to dream and who dream to live. Adversity, change, time, and space cannot diminish our community; they can only make it stronger. Amidst quarantine and distance learning, daily life is in a dream-like state. For many of the contributors to this second issue of Against the Current, creativity, in all of its intangibility, has been something we can hold onto. Creative imagination both roots us in our new reality, and takes us far, far away. I feel lucky to have had the chance to write two “Letters From the Editor.” It has been an honor to collaborate with my peers and teachers in creating a PCS literary magazine and to see a modest dream come to life. It is my hope that future classes can continue to bond in celebrating creativity and in acknowledging our willingness to dream, together. Our creativity cannot be stifled. Our voices will not be silenced. Our community cannot be divided. We are rowing hard, rowing fast, rowing forward, Against the Current. Welcome to our second edition. Sincerely, J. Colby Clark ‘20
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I
“You may say I’m a dreamer But I’m not the only one” - John Lennon, Imagine, 1971
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Whence Did You Come By Eugenie Sappho K.F. Whence did you come? I saw not a place of origin Nor a conveyance to bring you hither Your means of transportation unknown Yet you are here, oh so nigh Through a means of enchantment. You, the greatest force driving me Charming and enchanting me And twisting me around, around earth’s orbit ‘Till I am most bewildered, striving to reach The Hands that inspire, allure my senses While others shun me from the earth, Decried an outlander though this my native land Still I flee, immersed in thee And somehow our hands doth interchange Ancient charms, seductive spells Unknown to mortal man. Ay, you shun and delight simultaneously Invariably am I pursuing thine elusive presence, - And at intervals I see but a trail of dust Leading me to the inconceivable nowhere.
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By Eugenie Sappho K.F.
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Love/Craft By Sierra B.
Winter 2016 You are in Abrey’s house, suburbia Queens. The publication dwindled as the year went by. You started as one of twelve plus the three presidents. Now you’re one of six, total. Mosh brought pizzas, two vegetarian and three pepperoni. It’s the cult part of the publication--the annual editing party. Everyone is sleeping over to finish editing the first edition of the year. Abrey’s house is the kind of place you could go and get murdered at and they wouldn’t find your body. You love it, even when the cold and the newness breaks your heart. You eat pizza and microwave kettle corn and leftover Halloween candy that Mia brought. It’s giddy, you have no control or power in the situation, just learning and watching as you help--task after task--create your first legacy. Mosh puts on Stranger Things in the background; you dart order after order between the Presidents and the other two members to the sound of synths and pseudoscience. There is a dance to recognizing a finished task before the person asks. Mosh flicks her short dark hair; her thin chapped lips loosening to a smirk. You slip papers from under her raising arm, the action practiced and smoothed out by the early afternoon hours of one o’clock the next morning. Mia’s tongue retracts from her cheek, her sharp eyes flick like a cat’s to the clock then back to the five other acolytes surrounding her. You slide the pile of approved artwork into the “to upload and format” folder, which you then hand off to Oliver, who whisks it off to his designated task. Abrey rolls her neck, cracking each bone in turn in a slow and macabre succession. You hand her the notepad with the remaining budget points. She grins, her teeth like iron with her braces in the light of the still-playing tv. Shadows flick from bare tree branches like spiders’ legs and tendrils (tentacles) of a dream. By the late time of early three in the morning of the next day, they finish the cult’s ritual. The tv-show has been re-started for the third time; it’s on the last episode of the first season. As the monsters turn to ash, everyone piles on Abrey’s couch- you on the arm with a pillow squashed against your knee with all the awkward grace of a gilled creature coming to reclaim the land. The girl next to you is tall and cute. The shadows play with her lips and her eyes - a wolf or a demon beneath her features or maybe that’s just the sleep-deprivation. She falls asleep with her head on your lap and you try not to wake her when you lean back to fall asleep yourself. 4
By Ian Z.
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falling slow south by west nineteen miles south six twenty seven thousand south east by south four and thousand and twenty two south six to gale eight rain at times upon Tweed. moderately good occasionally poor Whitby to Gibraltar point fair to good southerly increasing six at times occasional rain later including the isles of Scilly fair moderate poor late night BBC four sometimes the time is just right and I hear south six to gale eight rain at times what is the longing yearning deep satisfaction hearing Isle of Wight in my night and their deeper blacker night shifting winds fair to good and moderate to fair
By Ms. Petersen 6
Twenty-Three Waverly News By Vanessa Valore ’88 Alumni Contribution
Justin Berton woke to a hideous sight that morning. He showered and dressed groggily, then took the stairwell down to the courtyard of his apartment complex. Every morning he swung open the heavy door to find the quaint, European courtyard waiting to soothe him. It was especially peaceful in early morning hours when a hazy blue tint still covered the earth toned brick. The haze formed beneath two brick arches leading down to large, iron gates. The sides contained shadowed alcoves holding two gargoyles. Today, however, Justin swung open the heavy door to find a patch of raw earth at his feet. He followed the trail of upheaveled bricks to a group of burly men with pickaxes. The men were laughing in deep, gruff tones and stopped upon noticing Justin’s gaze. He stared not at them, but to the raw earth exposed at their feet. His mouth dropped a bit, and he quickly gathered his senses feeling uneasy stares returned. He felt the heavy stares on his back as he turned for the gate and heard their derogatory remarks concerning his masculinity. His sensitive face contorted not from their abuse, but from the image of the disheveled courtyard still seared on his brain. As he walked to work he thought of how he had leased that apartment specifically for the courtyard. It seemed a haven to him compared with the hustle of the city. He felt, as he closed the iron gates at night, he really closed out the city. At night, sometimes he would linger in the courtyard staring above to a purple-tinted sky and smelling the decay of soggy leaves beneath his feet. He cherished the exotic essence of the tiled courtyard, for it transported him. This was his sanctuary. At night, when all the tenants were sleeping, he forgot everything in a peaceful solitude that enveloped him. A woman jabbed her shoulder into his side jarring him away from his thoughts. She looked back over her shoulder frowning as he turned. He felt slightly nauseous as he walked on darting between people in the early morning rush.
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Returning home that evening, he saw more destruction had been accomplished. The gopher-like trail now made its way to the iron gates. It was dark, but he could still make out the demolition of bricks scattered in large clumps. It was late and quiet, but Justin didn’t linger in the courtyard. He hurriedly made a beeline for the elevator, feeling a sweat break on his brow. I must be coming down with a virus, he thought, wiping the drops with the back of his hand. Upon entering the elevator, he was startled by a child in the corner. He gasped, bracing a hand on the door, then suppressed his irritation as the child smiled. There were no children in the building that was another reason he had specifically chosen to lease this apartment. Justin composed himself as he pressed for the sixth floor. He wondered what the child was doing up at this hour alone as he focused on the closed door. Does the mother know? he thought, but said nothing. It also crossed his mind that he hadn’t seen anyone move in recently, but his eyes remained focused rigidly on the door. The door opened and only then did he steal a last glance from the safety of the hall. The child stood with hands knotted behind its back, swaying back and forth mockingly. There were only six floors, so Justin assumed the child was playing with the elevator. He’ll probably break it down, he frowned to himself, It hasn’t been working right - God, I hate kids! He flopped on the bed as he entered his room. His work shirt stuck to his body as he breathed in and out. The child’s face invaded his thoughts - it was a peculiar looking child. Its impish face was ghostly white and the slightly rosy cheeks feigned the appearance of a porcelain head. It? He repeated to himself. Was it a boy or a girl? Who cares, he admonished himself, I hate kids. He rose wearily to soak his feet. The next day he woke to the sound of drills. They played on his head like a hot prod poking in a steady rhythm. He thought of calling in sick, but rose to dress, unconscious of his movements until he was ready to go. He stopped to check the mail, catching a glimpse of colors at his side. The child was playing with a stuffed dog, which was being hung by the neck to a hanging plant in the lobby. The child methodically tied string from the dog’s collar to a loop of chain holding the fern. Justin shook his head slowly as the child stared back with a blank face. The dead stare troubled Justin more than the mocking smile from the night before, so he turned - No mail yet, he told himself after staring into the empty box for quite awhile. 8
The workmen had set up wooden platforms that morning, for the bricks were completely removed now. He felt the vibration of drills through his feet ring to the top of his head. Flying dirt and debris hit him in the face as he passed. “Another day, another dollar,” he grumbled, wiping the dirt with his sleeve. The iron gate closed behind him. The workmen didn’t come for two days and Justin slept well on his days off. He woke in cheered spirits and felt he had shaken off his fever. He hummed to himself and was going to see about breakfast when he passed the child in the courtyard. The small form darted around the wreckage hiding in the runs, chanting and talking as it jumped out from behind piled bricks. Justin smiled, remembering that he too played war as a small boy, and stared at the child this time thinking it must be a boy. Still, he could not tell for sure as the long, blond locks hung disarrayed about its face and the bright, patterned smock hung loosely on its frail frame. The child ran chanting in circles as Justin noticed it wore no shoes. A vague apprehension seized Justin and stirred him to yell out, “Hey! You! You don’t have any shoes. There’s nails around there and it’s fifty degrees for God’s sake!” The child stopped dead in its tracks staring back at Justin. Red war paint streaked its porcelain face and no words formed on the pursed lips. It blinked dumbly, then continued running and chanting in circles. Returning from the market, Justin found the courtyard empty. With full hands, he strained to check the mailbox. He sighed heavily under the sound of Mrs. Ruben from 5L ranting in a loud nasal tone. The superintendent was patiently trying to reason with her. “It had to be done Mrs. Ruben, the foundation was rotting beneath,” he said in a soothing voice. “Nobody told me about that three months ago when I signed the lease, did they? No, I think not!” The bellowing clamor softened as the elevator doors swallowed Justin up. The next day he woke at noon. He was horrified with what he found. The foundation ran deeper than he suspected. Now piping showed through the large pits, which went at least six feet down, and the men were still digging.
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How far are they going and what in the hell are they looking for? he puzzled. A young, sinewy man carried away the tree which previously stood in the center of the courtyard. Another man pulled at the stump with a thick, metal rod. Justin stepped back grabbing a leaf that fell as the man passed. He sat on the steps staring thoughtfully at the veins of the leaf. He looked up as he heard a cheer of triumph to see the stump of the tree had been jarred loose. The roots hung dangling like exposed nerves in the cold air. “How far are you going to go?” he asked in a feeble voice. “Huh?” shouted a workman turning off his drill. His face was large and stubbly and his words were loud and muffled, for he held a cigarette between his teeth. “We have to do this job right away. Usually we do this sort ah thing in the summer months, but since this was an emergency an’ all, -- well no cause for alarm,” he added as Justin moved back on the step. The man smiled revealing rotted teeth that clamped the cigarette. But Justin’s thoughts were on another matter altogether as he rose to return to bed. The elevator doors opened to his floor revealing the long corridor and the approaching child from the end of it. As it walked forward, he fumbled with his lock, then slammed the door quickly. He didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone or hear anyone. He wanted complete silence and wanted to sleep. He went to work at the bathroom cabinet throwing cartons and containers over his shoulder until he came upon a bottle of valium. He took four tablets and saw large, black blotches as he stared at the ceiling – then he went out. In the thick fog of his brain he heard a dull clamor. He made out voices and shouts as he came through and stumbled groggily to lift the shade. Tenants in night clothes clustered around the block screeching and cawing like birds. He became dully aware that perhaps he should leave and mechanically went for the stairwell to check it out. He heard faint sirens and a distant rumbling in his head. It had been raining heavily, for the courtyard was covered with thick pools of tar and debris. As he treaded the wooden planks of the bridge, he heard a faint cry beneath his feet. He stepped off on the side to get a look below. The hanging lamps barely lit the space below so Justin moved back and forth in the stream of light searching beneath the planks. He heard a faint whimpering cry and saw the small child standing in the ditch. What the hell is going on, he thought for a moment, then slid between 10
the plank and the edge of the cement. As he slid to the bottom he fell on something soft and gasped thinking it was the child. It was not – now he and the child sat on a woman lying face down. Ah, so he does have a mother, thought Justin, his mind warped by the drugs and pressure of odd circumstances. He swallowed hard looking at the child. Its face was barely visible down in the darkened ditch, but he felt the wet tears against his own face as he pulled it close to his chest, soothing the sobs. They both started with the shouts of voices beckoning above and the louder rumbling below. Justin saw badges flickering in the light above and figured they belonged to uniforms. He heard the urgency in their voices and struggled from his stupor, lifting the child above his head. He felt the stones and earth giving way beneath his feet and thrust his arms higher feeling the weight of the child leave his arms. The rumbling was now in his head and the deafening noise shook his whole frame. As he struggled upward grasping for a hold, he saw a hand reach in the crack above then disappear as earth and rock swallowed the vision. *****
By Dashiell D. 11
Cheers! By Devin L.
humanity says cheers! and clinks fragile glass cups together believing anything changes when the year does an unforgiving time when everyone actually believes their deepest desires can come true over the course of the following twelve months the world watches from their smartphones as mother Nature dies a slow death while they wait on the corner for their lyft driver to arrive (but What are they truly waiting for?) it’s no wonder the world’s physical ailments aren’t Healing… its people aren’t healing getting so worked up about these issues, too overwhelmed to fix them, neglecting their own personal issues in the process how can you expect to mend a toy when the tool is broken too nothing changes after new years except the digits you write in your journal and on your checkbook global warming still warms the globe politicians still bring you the latest politics that after all this time don’t phase you anymore and you are the same person at 12:00 am new years day as you were at 11:59 pm new years eve unless you’re not. unless you deliberately decide to change change out of love Love for yourself for the world 12
for the better change won’t come if there is no change done tasks get done when you Do them quit waiting for uber eats to knock on your door and say here is your food oh and by the way the world is fixed if you want it to [get fixed] fix it yourself by fixing yourself and if you like yourself the way you are you’re already halfway there
Introspective By Devin L.
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Luke & Lizzie By Colby C. This piece juxtaposes two letters from twins who grew up in a farm in Spencer, Iowa. They were the youngest two in a Catholic family of five children. One letter was written by Luke Lewis McMurphy to his twin sister, Elizabeth (Lizzie) Laura McMurphy who had received a scholarship to the University of California Berkeley to study English Literature. He wrote in the weeks leading up to the Gulf War in November 1990. The second letter was written from Lizzie to Luke. November 10, 1990 Dear Lizzie, I hope college is great. I cherish your letters about your classes and your life. Keep’em coming. Sorry this letter is behind schedule. I had lots to think about as I wrote this. First, I think of you everyday and hated missing your birthday last week. Happy Birthday, Double L!! Mom has told everyone at Sacred Heart about your scholarship to Cal so many times that they’ve stopped spending time at cookie hour after Mass. They just grab and go, giving her a thumbs up as soon as she says, “Did I tell you about...?!” Seriously, though, we’re all so proud you made it to where you want to be. I also write to share some news, Lizzie. It is always so hard to speak when you call home with everyone clamoring for the phone and the long-distance costs, so I didn’t tell you when you called last week. Also, I knew you would try to convince me otherwise. You are the one family member I’ve never fought with, and I never want to. You’re the bravest person I know, so I don’t know if you’ll think what I’m doing is bravery or something else.
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Battles: we all face them, and I yearn to fight in one, a real one. Lizzie, books and prose have always been who you are. Maybe war and courage will define who I am. Does that appall you? You used to tease me for loving guns and being able to shoot a quail out of the sky from 50 yards and for doing push-ups before school, but don’t forget, I got an A on that Emerson paper too. You like being alone with your words and thoughts, Lizzie. I like being in a group, producing and protecting and believing in something bigger than ourselves that isn’t God. So, for me that’s America, and what I can do for it right now is join the Marines. I think I’ve wanted to since grandfather read us “Paul Revere’s Ride” at bedtime after all those stories of being a fighter pilot in Korea. When I heard of Revere, I wanted to ride alongside him! I too want to be on the move, Lizzie. I want to move others “In the hour of darkness and peril and need....The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed.” I imagine you’ll think this grandiose, but I really believe I have a duty to America, like those who came before me did. We’ve faced weapons of mass destruction over and over, from the crown to communism and now this: Saddam Hussein and whatever he’s got in that silo. “The people will waken and listen to hear...the midnight message of Paul Revere.” So, this is my midnight message to you tonight, Lizzie. When you reply, don’t pull your punches, but please think about them before you throw them, ok? Love, Luke November 19th, 1990 Dear Luke, I’ve been thinking about your letter... I know when I was last home in August I was proud of you and supported your idea to enlist in the marines if the Gulf War escalated. But before you make your decision on December 1, I want to tell you a story and read you another war poem, one without the cheerful hoofbeats of Paul Revere. This Monday, I was quiet amidst the chatter of the students in the large lecture room for Early 19th Century British Literature, a lot of them debating this conflict. 15
My professor came in, and announced to the class: “Quiet! Listen! You need to understand that war is horror! It does not preserve ideals or order; it creates chaos. They never tell you about the chaos so I’m going to tell you now.” He read us the poem Dulce et Decorum est. You might not know it, Luke. It’s not part of the Spencer Senior High School canon, but it was written by a soldier in 1917 as he fought in WWI. “Bent double, like old beggars under sacks.” As my professor read, I actually became the character, the writer of the poem, fighting his way through France: “Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, ‘Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!” My eyes started to tear up, and my throat ached. My knees locked, I could feel the sludge, the sores, and the froth-corrupted lungs. “As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.” Luke, in that moment, I saw you drowning. I felt my twin connection slip away. I thought: “We were born together, we lived together, but he’s going to die before me, without me, somewhere neither of us has ever seen. And for what? Do we really need to send our soldiers, Luke? Why do we even have to go? How much does Saddam Hussein half a world away matter to you? I understand that people are suffering, but mom and dad are also in peril and need. You help them so much on the farm. I believe in bravery, Luke, particularly yours, but I don’t think this war requires it, and it doesn’t make any sense that it requires your body, which is what Dulce et decorum est is about: the cost of war on the body.
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“Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.” The professor finished reading, and the room went silent, dark, black. You’re not a child, Luke, but in your letter, you sound ardent and desperate for glory, and that’s not patriotism, it’s self-idolatry. You want to be Paul Revere. Who wouldn’t? Even I want to be Paul Revere. If you want to serve the country, find a way to serve that doesn’t drown you in gas or oil or whatever it is our soldiers are going to find over there. The Latin at the end of the poem means “how sweet it is to die for one’s country.” Well, the author of the poem, Wilfred Owen, foresaw dying for his country and did, less than a year after he wrote that he knew it would not be sweet to do so. Remember what we were taught growing up: the heart is sacred. Do you know why they choose that body part to name the church? Because it’s the one that makes everything happen, and its movement is the proof of life. So sure, Luke, move, be on the move, be part of a movement, but make sure it’s one you believe in. Don’t forget, it was the horse that moved; it was Revere who believed. It’s probably a good idea in life to believe more than move. If what you believe in is this country, then devote yourself to it. It is surely sweet to live for your beliefs, and maybe for some, like Revere and Patrick Henry, it was sweet to die for their country, but Iraq is not your country, and you shouldn’t let anyone make you think it is. Stay home, Luke. Go to the other side of the nation if you want new scenery, but whatever you do, be productive. If you look, you’ll see plenty to challenge your courage here in America. Dulce et decorum est pro patria vivi. Always yours, Lizzie 17
This Way to Paradise By Valencia H.
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To Create An Eurydice By Sierra B. Her frame has turned to a spindle in all but literal transformation. Her hair the threads, spewing and spinning, her bones the needles, her skin the wooden frame. She hides in her potato-sack dress, the dress she insists upon wearing though she could have ball gowns and suits to fill a castle and its storybook. She watches the boys who line the street, wandering between flutes and lutes and guitars and harmonicas. Every haphazard Orpheus no longer amuses her sallow mind. She is just a shadow to them, no longer something to admire nor to fear. The melodies that swallow the boys no longer catch her voice, no harmonies blessing the melody-filled air. They watch each other without watching, both seeming to be the most important figure, attracting their lessers to them like moths to a flame. She searches the market every day, though she knows nothing will come from it. Orpheus is long dead, and there is no Ariadne to fix the maze that is their escape. But she searches still. For the ones that once came. For the slip-through-the-cracks places that she wishes to hijack. The cobblestone streets made for foot-travelers wear and weather beneath her bare feet. Other travelers walk around her, a wide berth, noticing the vines threaded in her hair and the calluses on her hands. Her Hades will begin searching for her in a short matter of time, but he will laugh when she returns late. He resents and adores her in equal measures, and she knows this constant cannot be changed even should she wish it. The wish-to-be-Orpheus’s will wither in the night just a little more every day until they turn to dust. She will trail her toe in their sandy remains, and bless their hungry and blisteringly stubborn souls. She reaches the end of the lane, the last and mostly skeletal player gasping for the notes of his song. It catches her ear just a bit. Dun-ba-dun-un-un dun-ba-ou-ouou-ou. Just a drumbeat and rhythm. Latin-like, the beats a dance that twitches her fingers. She pauses. This boy doesn’t play like the others do, not for himself, not for his lost muse and his hope for the future. This one just plays, and plays, and plays. Her fingers pluck in time as she examines the boy. The shadows around them hurry on, they don’t want to see neither her nor the changeling ghost-musicians. She considers the boy’s ashy skin, sickly even without the palor her land tends to cast. His eyes unseeing, but that is as all the boys along this lane are. She considers, then walks to the vendor down the alleyway opposite this boy. 19
She buys two plates, shreds of chicken dripping fat and stout mushy grains piling in a tray and vibrant blue-grey bitter-smelling greens. She brings the offerings to the boy, who she knows will die within the week. The boy doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop playing, just like every other player on the street. That is, until she trails a hand on his milk-crate drum and suddenly the world around her seems to shift. She sees her fantasy, the reality the boy sees, the place he thinks he is starving in. Her world collects the Orpheuses’s souls before they can truly die. That’s the only way they can play their music to trade for their life. Those who die come to her Hades and forget their song was ever different than the harmonies they now make for his pleasure. Those who live go somewhere else when they die, singing their unending solidity of melody. She examines the alley the drummer-boy sees, the mid-afternoon shade in the heat of summer. The humidity plays with her hair, making it curl and snap in the sudden light. Her dress shimmers around her, turning to something more believable within the boy’s world, a sundress the color of fresh-picked olives still more bitter than any lemon could be. She crosses the street, straw sandals twining up from the heat-killed weeds in the gutter to wrap around her ankles as she approaches. The rhythm catches in her head now that she’s in the world it comes from, the drum singing where parched lips cannot “brother, spare a dime, brother, sister-brother-baby spare a meal, spare a chance, spare a dime, brother spare a dime please…” Desperation and intoxicating dedication. She walks up in front of him, places the plate at his feet. Holds the other, wrapped in a paper bag, waiting for him to notice. The boy looks up, brown eyes dull and brow sweating. “For you, and whoever you’re playing that rhythm for at home.” She says, nodding ‘cause this world remembers who she used to be, an’ who she was knew all ‘bout hard times, knew that empty pit of hunger, an’ the crying of children, an’ the sobbing desperation of no jobs needed from you ma'am. “Anks, Ma’m.” The boy replies as best he can, but he don’t stop playing. The rhythm pulls up his heart. She blesses those tattered sneakers, eyes praying; trails a hand through that heart, holds it up and burnishes it with the fire of a million sticky-full August mornings. She holds on to the sunlight as she’s dragged back into earth by the tendrils of Hades, roots of her shadow-world that melt back into dirt from her sandal straps. Her heart holds the light and the rhythm beaten by a sweat-dripping brow. Dun-ba-ou-ou-ou-ou, dunba-un-ou-un-un. Her feet take her to Hades, and she lets them wander without thought to the other melodies she passes. 20
Ethereal By Devin L.
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A Million Things By Mia F.
If I could tell you a million things I’d tell you just this Don’t look back Look only forward; Or you’ll trip over your own two feet Or maybe I’d tell you To never forget How to be a child For one day you will surely wake up With only drawings and memories Or maybe I’ll tell you To take your time Life’s gifts are hidden in the folds and creases The moments in between And maybe I’ll tell you The point is When all is said and done A million things and more I want to tell you And you have left me without a single one
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Strength By Devin L.
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II
“What happens to a dream deferred?� - Langston Hughes, Harlem, 1951
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In the Past Ten Days By Jeff Wu
“Look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.” ― Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead In the past ten days, everything is just like yesterday, when I think of it, but it also feels like I am in a trance. In retrospect, I remembered that I had been grounded in the home for several days. Being unable to go out during the day is very boring. I am often looking at the world outside the window, listening to the continuous sound of the siren, thinking about how the world will be tomorrow. When the virus just hit, it was like a bolt from the blue, and all the courses related to my major became ridiculous online courses. I was so close to everyone, but also so far away. The piano sound from the cold electronic screen is so dull and boring. Every minute of every second I miss the school’s grand piano; every minute of every second I miss the air of Central Park; every minute of every second I miss the laughter of my friends. I finally began to feel numb, began to become dull, began to be silent. This year seems to go by so fast. It seems to end before it starts. Well, one day, I listened to the birds outside the window, and it feels very peaceful. At that moment, I suddenly understood. I resolve to obtain a clear direction by discarding the pursuit of fame and fortune; to achieve greater goals by placid meditation. When people get used to everything so fast, it slowly becomes a kind of torture, but also a kind of enjoyment and test.
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Corona Tan By Ms. Holder
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Together Apart By Ameli S.
In times of crisis we hope and pray, And thank those working hard everyday. You can’t go outside, you open a book Mom’s in the kitchen, ready to cook. The cheering outside signals it’s seven, The hour for all the brave men and women. Sprint over to the window and you hear Everybody cheering loud and clear. Walk out onto the balcony and start, Pouring out everything that's in your heart. Show your support and appreciation, To those that protect and help our nation. The Big Apple begins to fall asleep, Everyone needs to be strong, not weak. Remember to always be safe and smart, Remember to remain together but apart.
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By Joanne L.
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Somatic Interlock By Eugenie Sappho K.F.
He, an apparition to me, An unsubstantial presence If we may only exchange looks Of but half a second’s worth And not unite our skins Link our bones Or join our ligaments,Any form of somatic interlock, Merely for reassurance Of one another’s existence.
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Connection By Claire F.
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Another slipped away Was it ever there? Did some things, did some living but keep comin' up empty. Can't get it back Stay connected Can't seize Six feet six feet Carry me home.
By Mr. Casey
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The Last Resort By Devin L.
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Fair City, Lone Soldier By Colby C.
Never waning jungle of remembrance Exit highways clogged, time stops completely When Kings and Queens all just abdicated Yonder, the Empire State awaits Only dreams can thrive in the fair city Rearing its head to return to glory Kneeling, for the first time, perhaps ever Coronation looms over the masses Impersonal streets are damp, extinguished Trains don silver armor, but won’t move You, lone soldier in the darkness, fight on.
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By Colby C.
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Golden By Devin L.
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By Dashiell D.
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What is “Taiwan?” By Joanne L.
Taiwan is an island in Asia that is full of enthusiasm, kindness, and unity. In my head, the image of Taiwan has always been the brightness found in corners of the community. Love spreads within microseconds, and it is hard to find stinginess anywhere. We create together a supportive society not only on the island but also with everyone who isn’t in the homeland too. Kindness has become ingrained in Taiwanese society because of the social norms. For example, on public transportation, even with crowds, priority seats still remain empty so that elders or people with disabilities can be most comfortable while traveling in the city. Thinking for others has been at the root of education in Taiwan. Although any individual can’t control another’s thinking, the education that we receive has subtly inserted the thought process of always thinking for others before making any decisions. Unity tends to be hard in all relationships, but Taiwan has successfully created unity throughout the country for any situation that might require every citizen’s attention. The unity might not be seen during normal life because there is no critical need, but the time when a hard situation comes, the power extends to everyone, and it cannot be destroyed. While facing COVID-19 at first, some people in Taiwan had taken their duties for granted. However, quickly, stores on the street all cooperated with the government, citizens followed the rules of quarantine, schools reported all students’ body temperature every day to the government, etc. This is a small island, but worth sharing. I believe we all enjoy comforts and kindness, and we love to spread them. I love both my current city, New York, and my hometown, Taiwan. I’m thankful that I was born in Taiwan. 謝謝我的朋友們，謝謝台灣。
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Provided by former classmate of Joanne L. ’21
By Joanne L. 39
Quarantine Diary By Daisy S. 3/12/2020 New York: the first day of quarantine I had online classes this morning at home. The internet makes everything easier than we thought, we still talk and laugh like we are three years old in class. The only thing we are struggling with is our computer skills. We could still talk and laugh like three years old in the class. I saw Mom taking pictures of me during class. Pretty distracting, I have to admit. I have a strong feeling that I will miss an important part of life every day during the quarantine. The first wind, whether it would slam on my face or not, wakes me up and reveals the mood of the day. Then, if I am lucky on that day, I will walk in the sunshine on my way to school. On the way, there are two groups of kindergarten kids with their parents. I see them nearly every day. When I am walking across the street, I always have to squeeze into the crowd of Laguardia students, and I feel like I am walking next to a huge group of migrating rainbows. I never thought I would miss them all.
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3/26/2020 New York: broken strings, true love I broke three piano strings before the quarantine. They are all terribly out of tune now. I apologize to my teachers, my friends, and especially my mom, who has to experience this torture every second. Well, after my piano and I tortured each other for two weeks, we eventually accepted one another’s existence. Creating music together under the difficulties and the scary data of the virus, we are like an old couple, hating and loving each other at the same time. We see a lot of bad and ridiculous news every day. Our recent family conflict is whether we should go back to China or not. The future of New York is unpredictable, but the way to home is more dangerous. Many of my friends started packing early and have already gone to other countries. The whole world has paused, and people are fighting to heal its scars. I’m only poor Daisy, staying at home, being tortured by her piano, and pondering a question: What can music do at this point? The thing I love and am willing to spend my whole life for, is it even worth doing? Is it selfish? We say music can heal the pain, but who could truly understand the pain of another? Musicians are like historians. That is my answer at this point. We are just coldhearted recorders of history.
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March fourteenth or Teeth By Sascha F.
it’s March fourteenth and my hair is unbrushed i used to have a friend with cream cheese curls sour, scallion free she drank lots of water (the recommended amount) sharp little teeth when she left (knew she would) i still thought of her wore her shirts wore her faces’ shapes later i wonder if she still wears mine i won’t ask (isn’t likely) later than later she writes asks for one of my Teeth a big one please (how could i respond?) march fifteenth i send it (a bulky one from way back) you’re welcome i speak into the ziplock bag march sixteenth i worry that it’s disintegrated somehow (rotten already) march seventeenth my tongue reaches Back to the gap where she lives i’m sorry i’ve lied i’ll admit: it’s still March fourteenth and my hair is unbrushed
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In Transition By Audrey Z.
I heard the glass gears in motion When her sailboat walked the ocean To touch the silver stars was her notion When her days became colored by emotion I saw a metal kite winding around the stone spire Held on by small hands, a dream, and some thin wire It dove to feel the blue and then buoyed to inspire A glance at the light and sun, our ethereal fire I fell asleep in my metropolis’ wooden train It took me to the country of clear rain Where I traversed the verdant plain And learned to live again
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III
“Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera.”
“You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.” - Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, 1924
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Wayfinder By Audrey Z.
Peppermint rose by the stony brook A house with legs and a ship with a hook How small the world seems, and yet so large As we drift upon our light blue barge Gliding across the great vast Nothing, We swallow a star, to understand Something Plucking the blazing sun from the cobalt sky, We ask the guiding question of why why why A call sweeps across the meadow like cosmic dust, And we part the sweeping strings with our mutual trust As we arrive upon the edge, where the dragons might be We slowly but surely learn our first melody
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Quarantine Diary, ctd. By Daisy S.
4/10/2020 New York: we will live each day in springtime Eventually, I convinced my parents to let us stay in Manhattan. I am not sure what we are facing here, but I am sure mom cannot sit on the plane with facial protections for nearly 20 hours. The sunset falls into my room, on my wall. The sign of spring is Mom’s flowers on the windowsill. They are all blossoming. I feel I am blossoming with them, too.
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PCS By Patrice C.
As I sit here gazing at the soon-to-be bloomed hydrangea flowers in my backyard, I begin to reminisce about my time at PCS. I remember first walking into the building when I was a naïve eighth grader. I knew that the personal odyssey ahead of me would be a sea voyage through dense fog, but that I would ultimately find the lighthouse at the end. During this scary and unpredictable time, it is all of the lovely memories I have had the privilege of sharing with my friends over the past four and a half years that bring me solace. The sixth floor hallway; the lockers and the occupied bean bags; simply saying hi to Ms. Pena every time I walk down the hall. I miss the smell of the paint as I walk by the art room, the sound of the piano chords in the music room, and the exhilarating feeling of being on the black-box stage in the drama room. Even learning about integrals in Calculus and Snell’s Law in Advanced Physics on the fifth floor have become cherished memories. I long for the traditions that my friends and I have started: going to The Smith for lunch every Tuesday after school, ordering milkshakes and waffle fries from the Olympic Flame Diner during our free periods, and going to the Columbus Circle Holiday Shops after school during Christmastime. In the same way we couldn’t foresee that our high school experience would end like this, I never would have thought that my years at PCS would turn out as wonderful as they have. I’ve been so fortunate to share it with nurturing teachers and empathetic, kind-hearted, and honorable friends. This unforeseeable period of time has taught me to appreciate the places and friendships I have been lucky to have. Down the road, when I look back on to PCS, I will picture those seemingly mundane yet irreplaceable mornings of sitting against my locker with my friends at 7:50 am waiting for Calculus to start, probably talking about how we are worried for a test we have that day. PCS has propelled me forward and allowed me to reach the lighthouse at the end of the sea, shaping me into who I am today.
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Reflections By Claire F.
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By Dashiell D.
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Review: Charlie Kaufman’s Antkind By Tobi I.
4/4 Antkind is the debut novel from Oscar winner Charlie Kaufman, writer of critically acclaimed films such as Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Adaptation, Being John Malkovich, and Synecdoche, New York. It is difficult to capture what Antkind is truly about in a single review, but suffice it to say that this novel is completely mindblowing in every sense of the word. In the course of this insane, zany postmodern masterpiece, Kaufman reminds us of what it means to be human, how to laugh, and how to cry. In my estimation, it is one of the most original, inspiring, and amazing publications of the last twenty years. Kaufman’s novel chronicles the story of a pretentious film theorist and critic, B. Rosenberger Rosenberg, who comes upon a movie that is three months long, stop motion, and shot over the course of ninety years by a reclusive African-American writer/director/claymation artist, Ingo Cutbirth. B. believes this to be the greatest film of all time and is determined to show the world the genius of it, but unfortunately the film is destroyed and the creator of the film dies early on during the three month long viewing. As the film has been seen only by Rosenberg, he feels that it is his responsibility as a film expert to remember the film in its entirety, and then write a book detailing its genius. However, his mission is derailed when he loses his memory and lapses into a coma for three months due to a U-haul accident, where the film catches on fire and is destroyed. Truly, these are events that can occur only in a Charlie Kaufman story. I mean that in the best way--only Kaufman could pull off this 700 page comedy/tragedy/social satire/every conceivable genre with such brilliance, humanity, and absurdist zeal. Antkind is one of the most confusing, hilarious, absurd, and heartbreaking books that I have ever read. It is a masterpiece of postmodernism, more Pynchonesque than Pynchon, a pioneer of the genre, and at times I felt as if it were impossible for a human to come up with the ideas presented throughout 51
(an all out war between more than a million animatronic robots eerily similar to Donald Trump and a fictional fast-food megacorporation?). The characters are loveable and funny, while at the same time being hateable and infuriating, making them somehow all too human. I feel as if I could meet somebody walking down the street as neurotic and eccentric as B. Rosenberger Rosenberg, yet the characters Kaufman writes seem so unique at the same time, I can’t even imagine a situation in which that would happen. B’s journey is tragic, laughable, and usually interrupted by long rants about esoteric films (such as the William Greaves documentary Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One). It is worth noting that B’s storyline loosely mirrors that of Tyrone Slothrop in Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. But instead of Slothrop’s search for the Schwarzgerät and Rocket 00000 across The Zone, in Antkind it is B’s search for a film across a different type of zone--one filled with traps, dreams, and open manholes--a metaphysical one similar to the zone in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker, which Kaufman references in the novel. Themes and allusions such as these, which are frequent in the pages of this very dense book, reveal Kaufman’s encyclopedic knowledge of modern literature and film. It is obvious that Kaufman is a giant consumer of both classic and postmodern art forms, and while at times the density and breadth of his references can feel relentless, I found it exhilarating and ended up discovering new film from this novel. This book may very well ruin postmodern literature for some--and understandably so. The stream of consciousness style of Kaufman’s writing, the unreliable narration, the lack of conventional plot, and the leaps between alternate realities may prove frustrating to many, particularly those who are not fans of metafiction in the first place. But for others, this work proves itself to be a testament to Charlie Kaufman’s uproarious, chaotic, hyper-brilliance. To quote David Foster Wallace, “Fiction’s about what it is to be a f---ing human being.” Antkind achieves this goal by juxtaposing the infinity of the human mind with the fact that at the end of the day, we are no bigger in spirit than ants, bugs on a rock floating through space and time. 1I
actually ended up watching this documentary out of curiosity. It’s perhaps the definition of metacinema: The filming of a movie being documented by another separate film crew, who is also simultaneously being filmed by another film crew. It’s interesting to say the least and is worth checking out. 2 Apparently while writing a book review about something that is even mildly funny, I am legally required to use this word. See Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. 52
Stairway to Heaven By Valencia H.
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Short Poem By Tiger H. 我们都是凡⼈, 但却不⽢平凡。 踏上梦想的路， 向天发誓 不达梦想终不顾。 纵使路途险远， 纵使⾬雪风霜， 纵使犹豫不前， 但我坚信， 时间会证明我的存在， 时间会让我闪亮。
We are all mortals, But we are unwilling to be ordinary. Embarking on the path of dreams, I swear to my dear God That I’ll never stop until I reach the eventual dream. Even if the path is dangerous, Even if the rain, snow, wind and frost persist, Even if I’m hesitating. But I firmly believe that Time will prove my existence and Time will make me shine.
苦尽⽢来，
After the hardship is the cozy sentiment Turn around and look back, 回头望去， All the suffering and tiredness, 所有的苦与累, Are all faded away. 仿佛都已逝去。 What did you get, I ask myself 问⾃⼰得到了什么? 却⽆法回答。 Unexpectedly, I don’t know. 但⾃⼰仿佛变得厚重。 However, I can feel the staidness in my heart 收获到的， What I gain 是那份沉淀, Is the precipitation 是那份沉淀带给你内⼼的强⼤。 It is the strength that comes to your heart.
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韶华已去， 内⼼却满⾜， 只因没有辜负那美丽的青春。 晴空万⾥， 春⾊正好。 我们的脚步不曾停下， 只为追随那⼼中的⽅向。 路向远⽅， 背上⾏囊， 追逐梦想。 奔向那只属于我⾃⼰的远⽅。 我从不奢求有⼈能与我⼀同前进， 我只希望所有⼈的青春都能⽆悔。 不为遇见， 只为远⽅。 多少不凡， 只因不⽢。
Glorious youth is gone, Inwardly satisfied Just because I did not let the beautiful springtime down Look at the boundless sky It’s full of sunshine We never stop, Keep following the direction deep in our hearts. You got the way to the dream destination Pack up, To chase the dream. To chase the distant dream that only belongs to me I never expect someone to move forward with me, I just hope that no one will regret their youth Not for encounterance But for distance How extraordinary, Only because of unwillingness.
One day, I hope that I can put on my backpack and roam about everywhere, to travel to where I haven't been, to see what I haven't seen, and to be who I really am.
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Swan By Vanessa V. ’88
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Our Path By Joanne L.
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Masthead Spring 2020 Editorial Team Editor-In-Chief - J. Colby Clark Managing Editor - Tobi Irikura Faculty Advisor - Jeffrey Laguzza Arts Editor - Audrey Zhang Editor - Joanne Lin Editor - Patrice Cahill Editor- Valencia Hochberg Staff Contributors Visual Art - Dashiell del Barco Writing - Eugenie Sappho Kourti Ferrante
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Contributors Upper School Ameli Sato Audrey Zhang Claire Fishman Daisy Sun Devin Lyon Ian Zelbo J. Colby Clark Jeff Wu Joanne Lin Mia Fernandes Patrice Cahill Sascha Feinburg Sierra Blanco Sophia Barakett Tiger Hou Tobi Irikura Valencia Hochberg Middle School Dale Owens Faculty Kevin Casey Caroline Holder Erika Petersen Alumnus Vanessa Valore ’88
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“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter–– tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning–––– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, Final Lines of The Great Gatsby
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