Portal 2022 by San Francisco Waldorf School

portal Issue 18 | 2022

a literary and artistic magazine

Issue 18 | 2022

portal

portal a literary and artistic magazine

Issue 18 Spring 2022

Staff Editors Sadie Ashourizadegan Piper Aweeka Mika Cerda Kai Langen-Wong Grace Lipson Prema Wishart Faculty Advisor Mary Anne McGill Front & Back Cover: What Do You Hear? - acrylic painting by Roxy Dayon

Acknowledgments A special thanks to all SFWHS teachers who inspired students to create and share their literary and artistic work for this issue, especially humanities faculty: Joan Caldarera and John Hanlon, science faculty: Ben Kerbs, and art faculty: Margrit Haeberlin, Tara Layman, Elsa Murray-Lafrenz, Marilyn Rodriguez, and Carla Schaareman. A strong round of applause to Cory Powers for her unwavering support and production assistance.

To Mahbouba Seraj, the Afghan women’s rights activist, whose relentless bravery and benevolent passion inspire us all to uphold human rights through action.

Contents 1

Solidarity Megan Spegar

Girl with Blue Veil Natalie Razera

Ode to Salt Kai Langen-Wong

Joanathan Julian Luger

The Singing Lark Jensen Lee

Gratitude for the World Jack Mahoney

Wild Horse on Marble Mountain Prema Wishart

The Mountain Trail Ananda White

A Study Evan Lee

C.Z.U. Lightning Complex Fire Kai Langen-Wong

Untitled RJ Johnson

The Man with the Black Fedora Liana Soria

Untitled Logan Weening

Healing Begins Ananda White

Self-Portrait Grace Lipson

Samsara Jensen Lee

The Plague of Darkness Logan Weening

Opa Valentine: An Ode to Fortitude Prema Wishart

The Handsome Devil Generosity Samas

Faust Kaia Garcia-Vandegrift

Untitled Natalie Razera

Summer Days Grace Lipson

Spring Dance Molly Wazna-Blank

Warm Lilianna Roman

Woman Sewing Ben Sarig

A Tired Mother Amelinda Origunwa

Escape Coralyne Taylor

How Insignificant We Are Piper Aweeka

Sailing Colette Coleman

The Hands Pita Elhauge-Roniger

Rocky Paths Mari Garcia-Vandegrift

River of Flowers Skylar Henderson

The “L” Word Vivian Molesworth

Morning Routine Abiene Larkin

The Devotee Flouts Nature Mikal Ennis

The Things Left Behind Jeremiah Saks

Self-Portrait Ally DiDomenico

A Broken Picture Frame James Beckman-Maldonado

Reflections Haven Frombgen

Sheep By The Sea Mari Garcia-Vandegrift

The Town Square Generosity Samas

Never Together Again Mari Garcia-Vandegrift

Untitled Pita Elhauge-Roniger

Summer at the Ballpark Julian Lehto

Sunset Logan Weening

Puzzles in the Snow Anya von Wolff

The Stories of Forgotten Things John Gorelik

Bigger Than Black and White Lucien Bieber

Forgotten Friends Kai Langen-Wong

Untitled Luca Goldthorpe

Grim and Gray Jensen Lee

A Still Life Logan Weening

Solitude and Lemon Water Sadie Ashourizadegan

Untitled Griffin Engels

Broken But Still At Home Skylar Henderson

Samba Till Morning Natalie Razera

Battle Prayer Kota Salinas

Sunset, 8:23 PM Piper Aweeka

Pear Blossom Hwy Ananda White

Loon Diving Chesna Pelka

Just Go Molly Wazna-Blank

Untitled Jackson Belanger

Intermission Shoshana Priel

Untitled Aurelius Costa

Scene de Rue (five a.m.) Liana Soria

The Wave Pita Elhauge-Roniger

You Blow My Mind Annalina Lowden

Cool Lilianna Roman

The Comic Strip John Gorelik

A Thief Sarah Van Brakel

Self-Portrait Ella Wade

Days Like Mine Amelinda Origunwa

In Hopes Of Vivian Molesworth

Towering Redwoods Jack Mahoney

Compassion Prema Wishart

The Room Molly Wazna-Blank

What’s Your Favorite Part of Nature? Annalina Lowden

The Aftermath Liana Soria

Index

Solidarity Megan Spegar oil

Girl with Blue Veil Natalie Razera oil

Ode to Salt Kai Langen-Wong

Dear salt, in your crystal shaker, Fine white cubes, You form a snowy slope of preservation, A culinary mountain down which to ski To a resort of flavors, Brought to life by your Artful chemistry. Unexplainable, How you bring forth subtleties Absent till your arrival, Perhaps, like a close friend, Elicits laughter at a party.

Joanathan Julian Luger ink

The Singing Lark Jensen Lee Once under the light of dawn There sat a singing lark The lark sang of the night before And of the day to come It sang under the rays of the morning sun And will sing again when the day is done When the day is done The lark will sing again of dawn Waiting and anticipating the rising sun Upon the rising sun, there will sit a singing lark Singing again of the day to come And repeat the cycle from the day before Just as before When the day is done The lark will come And sing to the light of dawn Then flies the lark Into the morning sun The passing cycles of the sun Come and go as they have before And night after night, comes singing the lark The lark is soon spent and done But another one will come like the sun at dawn And it too will come and come

This new lark too will come And like the first, will sing to the sun It will stay, like the first , from dusk to dawn And like before Its life will be open and done And there will be a new singing lark, We people, like the lark Will come and come and come And we will live until our life is done Each one of us will again face the sun And like each one of us before We will again see the dawn Out of the sun Like the one before We face the dawn

Gratitude for the World Jack Mahoney

Thank you for the trees, They have brought me such joy, their calming presence and admirable beauty shine throughout the world. Thank you for the ocean, It has allowed me to clear my mind from time-to-time The waves crashing bring me towards mindfulness, its size and presence remind me of mortality. Thank you for the clouds, something to look to when lost. They are familiar yet always different, The clouds give me inspiration, the drive to want to be inspired. Thank you for the world, Thank you for the trees.

Wild Horse on Marble Mountain Prema Wishart linoprint

The Mountain Trail Ananda White

In the morning I awake and pack my bags for the mountain trail; I drive for what seems a thousand miles To return to the wilderness at last. I walk in the shadow of some mountains For about half a day, and find a spot to rest my back In a pretty glade with streaks of sun. And when again I lay my feet on the path of sticks and stones. I walk and walk and walk, till I reach my destination: A majestic rock overlooking an alpine lake, Where I set up camp and gaze upon the stars. I am of no consequence to them. And when I wake, I watch the dawn, Pack my bags, and Return from whence I came.

A Study Evan Lee oil

C.Z.U. Lightning Complex Fire Kai Langen-Wong I lost my house in a blaze of glory, I’m not sure of the glory, but I can confirm the blaze. Other stuff was lost that day, Mostly unimportant, things I should have sold. There are things I miss however, Things I used more often, A motorbike, ridden every weekend, Equipment for archery, a sport newly returned to. There is one thing I lost that I am glad for: The guilt from having all the things I should have sold, And hardly ever using them. That guilt is gone, now I only have things That I will miss if they get set adrift.

Untitled RJ Johnson torn paper

The Man with the Black Fedora Liana Soria

There was no sun in December, but the streets were unusually busy; something to remember. Lights shone throughout the city as people waited for the clock to strike midnight, and welcome the new year. But there was something – someone different in the mix of people — a small, black fedora. A man stood, newspaper tucked under his arm, waving and greeting every passerby. He was never there before, and never seen again, the man with the black fedora.

Untitled Logan Weening colored pencil

Healing Begins Ananda White Healing begins When a sapling peeks out of a stump, When a gecko’s tail grows back, When emotions are quieted after the storm. From this we know we will recover. How long? That’s the hard part. Hurting is key to moving on, Like forest fires burning through the underbrush Clearing out space for the old titans. Sooner or later we’ll get back what we lost, For us, our grandchildren or the seventh generation, Or we won’t. The loss will teach us.

Self-Portrait Grace Lipson pencil

Samsara Jensen Lee

From one life to the next, I lived In one, I wore slippers of the finest silver Perfume, attendants, candles and all I could want Books of art, money for cards, I knew I had life made, I had all I wanted — Then I died. In one life with a hat on my head Backpack and flashlight in hand, I wandered the mountains with belt and bible in church, I prayed I prayed for a life, family, community So I could stop wandering the mountains — Then I died I saw the difference in the world The ripples and how they spread, How avalanches happen When one touches another, another, another How my lives touched another How living one, killed another, another, another, I died.

The Plague of Darkness Logan Weening colored pencil

Opa Valentine: An Ode to Fortitude Prema Wishart In one of my last memories of my grandfather, he gave me a gold pendant on which was engraved a symbol of fire and strength. This pendant was more than just a beautiful gift; it was a representation of all the stubborn courage he bestowed on me. My grandfather was a man of iron. Opa, I’d call him, a man with a face chiseled out of stone, the man who never spoke, but whose presence filled the whole room, not ending at the sharp edges that defined his physical body. Opa, the man who rarely smiled, but whose heart extended to every being, whether they were a neighbor or a stray cat at his door. With no words available, a result of two strokes, my Opa never sat me down and told me to be determined; how he handed me his wisdom remains a mystery, as it often is with role models. Perhaps it was passed down through blood, or perhaps I copied him out of admiration. In any case, from a young age I aspired to have that resolute uprightness that he exuded; to stand up for what I believed in with the same unwavering confidence. As a child, I made sure that everyone knew I followed my own rules. Now that I’m older, my Opa inspires me in a more meaningful way, to find my own values and uphold them in every aspect of my life, and to reach out a hand to whoever needs it, just as he did. These qualities of his are my highest goals: I work towards them each day. I wear that gold necklace now as a reminder of my Opa, for his true gift to me was a seed of strength to stand up for my own truth.

The Handsome Devil Generosity Samas torn paper

Faust Kaia Garcia-Vandegrift In this world a man once lived Wrapped in verse and holy text. Seeking more, his life untaken, With a devil’s deal was vexed. To serve in death a thing unwanted, Cast asunder by its kin, Returned in life with evil flaunted, Served by guile and sin. Through life’s pleasures he was led, His mind and senses unaffected Until a girl on his path tread And lust took over mind afflicted. Through scheming plots the two were joined, Sharing each other’s company. Though pure of heart this young girl was A darker influence was seen. Her judgment clouded by her lover A child she bore unto this other And took its life after her mother These devilish deeds indeed.

Racked with guilt from murdered brother Her once clear spirit, ripped asunder She lost her way for she was under The power of Mephistopheles. Though this evil was his to bear The man kept searching, unimpaired To find his time of satisfaction And at that second death take action. At the man’s concluding moment He was betrayed, the deal broken. A grave was dug for him still living And hell’s maw opened, yearning, waiting. But a host of angels then descended Warding off the ill intended. Through holy will or the love of the girl The man was saved and brought above. And the devil wallowing in self pity Remained untouched by love. And so concludes this tragic fable A man led down a darkened path But through a deeper love was able To find his peace at last.

Untitled Natalie Razera oil

Summer Days Grace Lipson acrylic

Spring Dance Molly Wazna-Blank The forest hums along as the fairies sing. Mushrooms dance their favorite dance, and the flowers sway, faces lifted to the sky. All living beings rejoice, ah! The spring. Wind waltzes with the leaves, happy as can be, And the air is electric with magic. For this is the time of magic A time when all the critters sing, and life is how it is meant to be. The fairies begin to dance about the love they have for spring, and heat from their pointed tip toes lifts them towards the sky. No one loves the seasons as much as beloved Sky, Whose simple presence is the essence of magic. This lover of seasons is so joyful during Spring, That its great blue expanse also begins to sing. Clouds all in a flutter, do a floating dance, and all bad things in this world, for today let them be.

Soon enough the sun retreats and night time comes to be. The moon and all their sparkling friends are united in the sky. The cool light of the moon does not stop the mushroom’s dance, and they hold hands with the fairies, whose wings glow with magic. The tune begins to change, quietly they sing about soft things and cold nights, the wonders of Spring. Fireflies glow and the crickets spring and jump as they chirp. Silence cannot be heard in the forest, while they sing. The stars too, as they shoot across the sky with voices eerie and inhumane, thrumming with magic. Spinning in cartwheels, bodies alight as they dance. Woodland creatures’ feet begin to tire from the dance, and they give their last prayers and well wishes to Spring. The fairies carry many home with magic. Wind flits through the trees, hushing all to be softer, and quieter. Wind tells the land and sky how nice it will be to rest their head and dream to sing. The forest of magic has completed its dance and many could not help but sing for spring. Love all, their dreams say. Be like the sky.

Warm Lilianna Roman colored pencil

Woman Sewing Ben Sarig scratchboard

A Tired Mother Amelinda Origunwa

She is exhausted. Sitting on a bench, Leaning against her son’s bed, She is fast asleep. She couldn’t keep her eyes open The bed-time story she read for her son, Worked far better on her. Against her will, She has fallen asleep. A tired mother, With much more to do, She has fallen asleep. Will she regret it? Wish she powered through her fatigue? Or will she be thankful that, Finally, she got some rest too?

Escape Coralyne Taylor oil

How Insignificant We Are Piper Aweeka

One of the first times I experienced the sheer power of the natural world occurred during my first surf excursion, six years ago. I had just caught my first wave. The ocean, crashing beneath my hand-me-down board glided me smoothly across the electric blue waters, before slowing and overturning my balance, depositing me into the sea. My body plunged into the warm water. My feet flailed aimlessly and made contact, not with each other, but with a covert sea urchin. Its inconspicuous spikes successfully found my right big toe, marking its territory with big purple poke marks. An ache slowly infiltrated my lower body, flowing into my foot and up my leg. Three years later, my dad and I jumped into the frigid waters of Sand Harbor, Lake Tahoe. The water was ice cold and the color cerulean and crystal clear. Off we swam across the small cove. Our destination was a cluster of protruding boulders, smooth and popular for jumping off of. As we reached their vicinity the wind began. Underwater I couldn’t tell. Beneath the surface it’s calm, the only is disturbance the light that filters through, flickering and illuminating the crowds of minos, skittering around. Above water, the waves began to crash. I tried hoisting myself up onto one of the boulders, but attempt after attempt my strength failed and as I slipped, scraping down the rock, the white water filled my lungs. That fateful day of the sea urchin, the water in Waikiki was turquoise and calm in Lake Tahoe, it had been dark and unsuspectingly inhospitable. At Myrtos Beach this summer, it had been a hybrid between the two. On Kefalonia, the water was more beautiful, its color bluer than any I’d ever seen in my life. Rich Mediterranean azure against white shores. But where its appearance was more enticing than Waikiki, the water’s attitude could be foul and angry. The waves broke directly on the shore, made up of uncomfortably large pebbles. The breaking of each wave was loud, so loud I could barely hear my brother

or my dad speak. In I ran. I timed my dash perfectly between the breaking of the furious tides and ran fast so my feet wouldn’t have time to register the pain. Once I was in, the familiarity of the warm water soothed my racing heartbeat that seemed to jump out of my chest. That is until my brother shouted, calling out, “rip current!” The swell seemed to intensify along with the rising panic, both building resistance against my efforts to return ashore. I paddled frantically. I landed, attempting to minimize the damage of the next violent impact. My feet returned to the rocks and, in agony, led my body, charging, away from the water’s edge. The throbbing of my feet has ceased but the blood blister from my running on the rocks is still, today, stamped on my left heel. Everyday we hear about natural disasters. “Landslide Kills Ten,” “Boy Lost at Sea,” “Earthquake Devastates Mountain Village.” These news headlines are so common, yet it took personal experiences like those above for me to realize the vigorous might that the world around us employs every day. In the grand scheme of things we are insignificant. I am a blip in the time continuum. One in 7,900,000,000 people living on this planet. I will live to 122 at most, on a planet that has existed for 4,543,000,000 years. I find comfort in this epiphany. It makes me realize how little the things we worry about matter. Sea urchins will still jab the flailing feet of tourists, wind will whisper across the clear water of Sand Harbor, and the waves will continue to pound the monstrous sands of Kefalonian beaches, years and years after we’re gone.

Sailing Colette Coleman scratchboard

The Hands Pita Elhauge-Roniger colored pencil

Rocky Paths Mari Garcia-Vandegrift

Love and I have walked a rocky path: I gave up my first love for a love that was never mine. I lost my second love and I lost my mind. I did my best but I guess he didn’t mind losing me. Is it loss if it was never wanted in the first place? If so don’t tell me, It will mean he didn’t lose me, He simply let go And I’m forgotten. Can you lose yourself? I think you can. I was lost for a while. Not that anyone missed me But I missed myself. I lost my love But I wasn’t lost for him. What is sadder than that?

River of Flowers Skylar Henderson scratchboard

The “L” Word Vivian Molesworth Love is a word that comes easy to me. I love many people, places, things, and moments. I never thought of it as a big deal, or something I should be nervous to say. I tell my mom, dad, and siblings I love them every night before going to bed: “Goodnight, I love you!” and when I’m hanging up the phone with a friend, “Love you– bye.” I throw the word around not because it’s unimportant, but because it is something that I want them to know and to feel. Sometimes I wonder if saying the word so often makes it insincere. Especially when it’s texted or commented on social media nonchalantly. Am I really being truthful? Do I really love them or is it just coming out like a “hello” or “goodbye?” I’ve been taught to use the word to express the emotion whenever I feel it. But not everyone’s family is the same, and not all generations are the same. A friend told me the other day that she never says “I love you” to her family, and I just didn’t understand it. Maybe it’s the family I have but it also might be the generation I’ve grown up in. “I love you” is thrown around on Instagram posts or fading messages, not always face to face, and I wonder if this has made it easier for people to say it when they are in person. However, it was different with my paternal Australian grandparents. Whenever I was on the phone saying goodbye to them, I would say “Bye Nana and Pop, I love you!” and my Nana would respond with “Okay bye now,” in her thick Australian accent, and hang up. Were they afraid to say it back to me? Was it something they held sacred just between the two of them? Has social media made it easier and more casual to say? The word love can be used lightly, but it also holds a lot of meaning. I babysit a four year old boy and one day we were walking home from playing baseball in the park and he looked over at me and said “I love you Vivi,” and it was in that moment that I truly felt how special the word is and how beautiful it was to know a child understood the true meaning of it.

Saying it to specific people isn’t always as easy. I’ve always felt pressure in romantic relationships to say “I love you,” but what if the other person doesn’t say it back? What if they don’t feel the same way? I’ve found myself grappling with these feelings because it is easy to say to friends and family members, so why should it be different with another person I love? Maybe because this person makes me feel butterflies when I look at them, and I don’t want to be left hanging. Being alone in loving someone feels like you are a fish out of water, floundering around on a cement ground waiting for safety– the safety of mutual love. When those words do come, the simple and sweet “I love you too,” it is like a breath of fresh air, a sigh of relief. But if the words don’t come, then there is a sad ache through your whole body. This four letter word holds so much power and I don’t know why. To me the word “love” is like a warm hug: comfortable, heartwarming, and happy. But to others, it is a source of fear and anxiety. Risking saying the “L” word might lead to rejection or an abandoned feeling. I want everyone to know how it feels to be wrapped in a warm blanket of love, so I will continue to say it.

Morning Routine Abiene Larkin

The lights have flickered on, and the room is not bright. Grunting in annoyance I pull up the covers so I stay out of the light. The sound of heavy footsteps tracks across the floor. My father kisses my head then exits out the door.

The Devotee Flouts Nature Mikal Ennis collage

The Things Left Behind Jeremiah Saks

The things left behind In the center of the room, A book wide open Begging to be read Though no one is there. A pair of hiking shoes Walked many miles over many streams, Valleys, mountains, and trails Sitting in a corner. Hollow. Empty. A deck of cards Has many colors and Built many houses. Played once A great game of war Now left united, in peace In the drawer.

Self-Portrait Ally DiDomenico pencil

A Broken Picture Frame James Beckman-Maldonado

A deck of cards lies far up on a dining-room table A picture frame’s glass is scattered on the floor And a piece of a broken crystal is collecting dust by a locked door. A stranger strolls in and places her hat and jacket on a coat hook She takes off her shoes and slowly leans down and picks up the picture frame from the ground She stares and stares as hours pass by Until the moon gleams through her window Then she lays the picture of the two girls back down on the floor As if keeping it here, waiting for someone. Then she snatches a flashlight and puts on her boots And wearily walks out into night’s serenity She trudges through the forest, looking completely drained Yet she keeps on moving forward, forcefully yelling the same name Eternally waiting for a response that she’s never going to receive.

Reflections Haven Frombgen oil

Sheep By The Sea Mari Garcia-Vandegrift

White wool, gleaming gold in the light of the setting sun, Soft curls ripple in the wind while the cool breeze brushes the sheeps’ noses. The little pink flowers sense that it’s closing time. The crashing waves haven’t seen the shadow yet. Birds cock their heads to listen to the soft purring conversation of the sheep. The white water whips the towering boulders And the sun begins to sink lower. Soon, darkness will come over the family and the sheep will drift off to sleep, Huddled together to keep warm.

The Town Square Generosity Samas ink

Never Together Again Mari Garcia-Vandegrift

They met in the square when the snow fell thick Their eyes locked and the clock tower went tick. They didn’t know each other but they knew that this was it, They had to be together, they had to act quick. The crowd began to shift and they fell out of view, They searched for each other, what should they do? They didn’t meet again that day or the next, They looked and looked and looked but the search was too complex. They searched all over but New York City is so big, And with 8 million people they would have to dig. It seemed that this was it, they would never meet again Until two years later they both got coffee and then… They sat at different tables and they both looked up And when their eyes caught they dropped their hot cups.

Untitled Pita Elhauge-Roniger colored pencil

Summer at the Ballpark Julian Lehto It’s late on a warm summer night, and the whole stadium is on edge. There’s a runner on base and with the game tied and the Giants catcher Buster Posey at the plate, a win is within reach. The throngs of Giants fans in attendance and I are hoping for a game-winning hit, while the thousands of fans who have traveled across the bay to support the Oakland A’s are praying for another inning. All of the energy I’ve watched drift through Oracle Park for the last four hours- the cheers, the laughter, and the hum of movement- are now concentrated on the field. I’ve always felt alive when I’m at the ballpark, like I’m part of an adventure. Baseball is a game full of traditions and routines: strikeouts, Cracker Jack, and ceremonial first pitches. Though most games are similar, they all unfold in ways that make them memorable and unique. Tonight’s game is particularly important to me and the Giant’s community because it is the first time in almost two years that the ballpark is fully open. As I enter the ballpark and walk along the concourse, I’m reminded of the patchwork of personalities that make Oracle Park so special to me. On the surface, there’s the park itself: the smell of garlic fries and grilled onions, the giant Coca-Cola bottle, and the dozens of flags that fly along the rim of the stadium and above the scoreboard. What’s more important to me is the people who are here and the things that will happen. As I get to my seat, I can see the veteran usher who starts cheers with his ringing whistle throughout the game. His infectious spirit never fails to make me smile. As the first pitch approaches, I experience the pride of standing with thirty-thousand other people for our anthem, and the feeling of sheer excitement and joy I get every time I hear the starting lineups. Once the game starts, food vendors roam the aisles, loudly encouraging fans to buy their “ICE-COLD BEER!” and “CHURRRROS!” The ballpark settles into its rhythm as the innings pass by; foul balls fly this way and that, people talk and shout, and applause rings out for every hit or out. After a few innings, the Giants are behind. The possibility of losing is one

of the reasons I’ve always been drawn to the game. There is never a guarantee that my team will win, or even that they will play well. Baseball can be very frustrating to watch and I oftentimes find myself slumped in my seat wondering why it’s so hard for the Giants to get on base. I can feel that energy around me too. Everyone is hoping that their shouts of encouragement will help, but it often seems like they don’t. Batter after batter comes up to the plate and fails to make something happen. The A’s fans are more and more excited, while everyone else tries to stay hopeful. Then with one swing, the game is tied! I jump up and high-five with those around me, all of us smiling and cheering. Lou Seal, the Giants mascot, jumps up on the dugout and runs back and forth, dancing and pointing in the air. The ballpark feels full of new life, even as the standard nine innings come and go with the game still tied, and we head into extra innings. The A’s fail to score, and as we move to the bottom of the tenth inning, the whole stadium is on edge. I can feel the excitement in the summer air, and it seems like everyone senses that something special is coming. With the winning run at first, Posey, who has failed to hit the ball all game, comes to the plate. On the third pitch he sees, he hits the ball down the foul line into left field. Everyone around me flies out of their seats, shouting and yelling as the runner sprints towards home. Safe! The ballpark erupts with cheers as the Giants storm the field to celebrate their hero. I smile past the floodlights towards the city sky as we all high-five each other one last time and wish one another goodnight. The fans start to filter out of the stands and the grounds crew begin their work. All of the things I have seen and felt are coming to a close: the highs and lows, the smiles, the cheers, and the groans. The culmination of all these emotions is very special to me. That feeling, along with the sound of Tony Bennet’s “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” echoing through the ballpark, leaves me feeling truly happy.

Sunset Logan Weening colored pencil and pastel

Puzzles in the Snow Anya von Wolff digital photograph

The Stories of Forgotten Things John Gorelik In an empty room lie things now forgottenA writer’s journal filled with love and care Only to be observed from afar Never to be read again… ForgottenA crystal ball stands motionless Cards spread maniacally all aroundJust a bet in a losing game ForgottenA brown wooden music box that hadn’t been touched in years Its shattered tunes belted out in a fit of rage UntilSilenceForgottenDistant memories in assorted piles Waiting to feel the soft touch of a human

Bigger Than Black and White Lucien Bieber torn paper

Forgotten Friends Kai Langen-Wong One day I ventured off to the stream, A lovely place in the shade. From over rough paths, through brambles and trees To where it passed through a glade. Once I had reached the burbling water, I took out my rod, line and hook, And when I had two fish and released the one smaller I settled myself down with a book. Upon lengthening shadows I took my leave, Meandering back from whence I came, And as I walked among tall trees, I met a friend with a forgotten name. We stood awhile within the woods, And talked of things long past, And then remembering my fishy goods, I said I must return home—and fast. Upon reaching home it came to mind, There was one question left unasked. Where we could the other’s dwelling find Should one of us happen past. Unfortunately (or perhaps it’s good), Because of cosmic circumstance, This saddening lack of information would Leave further meetings up to chance.

Untitled Luca Goldthorpe ink

Grim and Gray Jensen Lee

The sky is filled with gray chimney fire smoke The buildings are covered with grime and soot As are the people Some stand shirtless by the pump, Hoping to wash their faces of sweat and dust Some come walking, cans in hand Ready to do the same And on the ground, someone has scrawled their name Thom Anshutz A man in front flexes his muscles While two behind him brawl

A Still Life Logan Weening colored pencil

Solitude and Lemon Water Sadie Ashourizadegan Being home alone is completely freeing. It is unlike being alone in a public place, where your state of aloneness is just by chance and can easily be interrupted; it is a purposeful solitude that is ended by the expected return of the other inhabitants of the home. I feel most connected with myself when I am home alone. The familiarity of my home allows me to enter deep within my mind, without interruptions from my surroundings, and extract my innermost thoughts. The moment when I gaze around me and feel completely and utterly unjudged and unnoticed provides a particular peace that I have not discovered elsewhere. There are stages to being home alone. In the beginning of my aloneness, I’m excited by the possibilities of what I can do. I read a book, one that I have already read ten times, and let my mind rest. A state of complete relaxation overcomes me. This peaceful state ends after an hour or so when the coffee machine beeps or the dog whines to be let out. After I return from attending whatever rouses me, I decide to be productive. This second stage lasts for a mere fifteen minutes, most of which is spent thinking about what productive thing you can do that requires minimal effort. I finally decide to wash dishes, letting my mind wander as the hot water scalds my hands. I think of the possibilities of the day: movies to watch, food to eat, naps to take, and songs to belt out loud. I turn off the tap and decide to watch a movie. Choosing a movie when I am home alone poses challenges that I would not face if someone were there to watch it with me. Horror movies are out of the question, as being home alone and terrified don’t mix well. Romantic movies are a viable option, but it depends on if you are comfortable crying without the comfort of another human being similarly crying next to you. Comedy movies are always a safe bet. I put on Bridesmaids and enjoy the feeling of being able to appreciate the dirty jokes without the judgment of my parents. At a certain point of my time alone, my feeling of freedom is replaced by a

kind of passive boredom. A desire to invite someone over creeps in but is shoved aside as the prospect of having to actually get dressed enters my mind. I am bored, but so lazy. Too lazy to even get off the couch. I sit. Thoughts of potential activities float around in my mind: baking a cake, painting a picture, taking a walk. But none of these ideas can be done while sitting on the couch, so I veto them and watch another movie. After the fourth hour of sitting passes, a feeling of deep disgust enters me. A sudden need to feel healthy and productive overwhelms every cell in my body and I spring from the couch. I decide lemon water and kale are healthy, so I dash to the kitchen. A kind of frantic need to feel like less of a slovenly creature fuels my kale sauteing, and the kale ends up too salty, inedible. The lemon water is quite refreshing, however, and accomplishes the restoration of my feeling of health. I make myself another glass and decide to work out. This “health spree” of sorts ends abruptly when I realize that remaining motivated while working out alone is nearly impossible. It’s already late in the day, and my wonderful solitude will come to a close soon. I want to end my time with myself on a good note, so I decide to cook myself a big dinner to end the day. Cooking by yourself is advised. There are no limitations to what you can make, since you are the only one eating at home tonight. I make pasta with lots of cheese and basil, have a third glass of lemon water to reverse the feeling of eating pasta, and settle down once again on the couch. This time, however, I watch something nostalgic. I cry a little bit into my noodles while I watch Gilmore Girls , feeling sort of lonely for the first time that day. Suddenly, I hear the keys in the lock, the door opening, and a burst of welcome noise enter the home. I greet my family, lie about how much time I spent on the couch, and feel my nascent loneliness disappear. That night, when the lights are off and the house is quiet again, I reflect back on the restful day I had, and appreciate that I won’t be alone again tomorrow.

Untitled Griffin Engels veil painting

Broken But Still At Home Skylar Henderson Ink

Samba Till Morning Natalie Razera I never thought much about living somewhere else, I was always where I was meant to be. It was only later that I realized Brazil wasn’t just our destination to visit family or our vacation spot, it had become part of me. Returning to California, I would remember the barbeques, wishing they had come home with me because I could taste the well-cooked meat, savor the wafting smell of rice and beans being prepared in the kitchen. These were the irreplaceable memories of each Brazilian summer with my family. After having our hefty meals, my cousins and I would jump in the ice cold pool and swirl about as if we were mermaids going into undiscovered waters. We would play games, throwing each other in, to see who could make the biggest splash. Then we would eat ice cream until our teeth chattered, our brains froze, and by the end, our faces were somehow completely covered in green corn ice cream. Sometimes on those nights, I would rebel and stay up later than I was told to, telling my parents I couldn’t sleep just so I could watch my mom and dad dance samba while traditional music played, and my abuelita made some sort of treat for everyone, as she always did. Completely enchanted by the rhythms and beats of the music, I marched up to the dance floor and attempted to imitate whoever was dancing. My arms would be flaring around, my feet moving as fast as I could in all directions and trying to be the star of the night. By the end, my dad would grab my hands and tell me to look at his feet and follow each movement he made. Of course I didn’t do this very accurately, but he made me feel like the princess of samba. After each visit, when it was time to leave Brazil and head north, I always wondered why everything was different at home. It was duller, not filled with music or echoing with my family’s laughter, and we hardly ever danced. My mind and heart became confused every time. It wasn’t that my parents didn’t make a great life for me in California, they did. I was involved in school, we camped as much as we could, and in the early years I took ballet lessons, gymnastics, and

aerial arts too. I was happy, I had my friends, my dog, and my parents, so what was it? I missed that feeling that ignites in me when I’m over there, and is simply not present here, in Santa Cruz. If you asked me when I was younger, I would tell you that I was jealous of my cousins, but it’s not jealousy I feel. It feels like a spark, a light inside my heart that immediately turns on when I set foot in Brazil, and fills me up with joy. It is the feeling you get when dancing and running in the rain with someone you love, it is the warm sun shining through your window to wake you up, and it is the feeling of when you are embraced by your mom, in the safest, most welcoming, loving space you can be in. It only happens in Brazil, and for years now I have not discovered why. I sometimes sit and wonder if anyone else has the same overwhelming feeling that they are supposed to be somewhere else. Not that they don’t belong to where they are, but maybe a longing for exploration takes over and they find themselves saying that a completely different culture, more than just a change of scenery is what they need. Since my roots stem from Brazil it might be obvious that I would be compelled by it, but I really think it’s something deeper. If I were just wanting to know where I came from, I would gain total satisfaction of that longing every summer when we go. Home used to be the walls, roof, and floor we lived with as a family, then for a while I transferred the definition of home onto a person because I thought that if you love someone enough, nothing of material matters and your love and that person become “home.” In the end, I’ve come to realize that home is where you yearn to be and to me right now that home is not for walls, not a person, but somewhere I have never lived. It is the place where the rhythms of Brazilian samba reach my ears, and my family’s laughter is spread through the air; Brazil.

Battle Prayer Kota Salinas

Flaring stars create another star And while the stars dance in the sky One will die, and another will be born. And while the circle of life continues, Peace opens, rises, and accelerates, And goes on until blocked by the song of war. O, Athena, divine goddess, Protect us during the battles of our fears And at the end of the day, May all of our fears dissolve while trust walks in And protects us from the temptation of our negative emotions.

Sunset, 8:23 PM Piper Aweeka

oil

Pear Blossom Hwy Ananda White

The driest place in the USA, Where CALIFORNIA 138 and Pear Blossom Hwy intersect: “The Great Mojave.” Its beauty is hidden behind the enormity and the litter, But, take time to look at a creosote flower Or a cactus blossom Or a Joshua tree Find the beauty of this magical place, My home away from home.

Loon Diving Chesna Pelka

linoprint

Just Go Molly Wazna-Blank

Without a single knock, you come in bursting through the door, And instantly start yapping about what you came here for. You’re telling me to listen as you drone but I can’t think, When my angers ‘bout to boil over, almost at the brink. What, you might ask made me So absolutely angry, When all you’ve done is shove on in And demand my attention. Then as you turn to leave I think that I’ve made my escape But you, the fool, just walk right out and leave the door agape! I know this may seem dumb, and it should not cause this much woe, But why can’t people close the door? Just pull it as you go.

Untitled Jackson Belanger veil painting

Intermission Shoshana Priel

The screen turns off And the lights turn on, And the people shuffle away And they bring with them their rustling, And whispering, soft chewing, And they leave behind a ringing in my ear, And fallen popcorn, And empty cups.

Untitled Aurelius Costa scratchboard

Scene de Rue (five a.m.) Liana Soria

five a.m. A mother and her child just said goodbye to the man behind them. The sun has already begun to rise, only visible to the mother’s eyes. No people are on the street – only six pairs of feet. They just bought a loaf of bread for their long journey ahead; to the marketplace in the distance, to see what they could get to provide for their family. Every day they wake and walk through the cold, winter air, here again, at five a.m. will be the pair: mother and her heir.

The Wave Pita Elhauge-Roniger colored pencil

You Blow My Mind Annalina Lowden

I was five and my cousin was seven. We were staying at our grandparents’ house in the Oakland Hills, and we decided to drag our shiny Disney princess sleeping bags into our grandparents’ walk-in closet. We also, against our grandparents’ rules, snuck in a couple of handfuls of sour candy. We were careful not to get the sticky candy on our grandmother’s soft and colorful clothes as we told many stories with all of the childish embellishments, shushing each other when we heard a creak of the floorboards, then erupting in silent giggles when our secret remained safe. Then we drifted off, the smell of baby powder from our Grandma’s clothes reminding us that we were safe and sound. Jasmine and I have always shared with each other our dreams, our wishes, our biggest fears, our darkest secrets and our crazy experiences. And although we saw the world differently, we shared a special bond that I believe can never be broken. You could see our bond when we would grab the VHS tape of The Secret Garden (1987) and watch on our grandparents’ bed, our chins cupped in our hands, sharing a bright pink blanket. You could see our bond when we would swim and dive like mermaids at the Hills Club in Oakland. You could see our bond when we would sing to “Hey Soul Sister” in the car, grinning ear to ear when the chorus began. When we were little we didn’t know everything; but we didn’t know nothing. But when I was little, I believed Jasmine knew all the important things. She knew when the fairies would come out of their little house in our grandparents’ garden and when the Ghost of Chelton Lane would haunt me in the bathroom. She knew how to survive the perils of middle school, and passed along her knowledge in a little booklet she made for my twelfth birthday. She knew how to dance like no one was watching. I always had unwavering trust in her. Every summer, for one week, our family would stay at a cabin at Donner Lake. I remember Jasmine, my dad, and I went canoeing at a river about an hour away. I remember us screaming and giggling when our toes would touch the squishy mud

on the bottom, my dad rolling his eyes at us. Afterwards, when we all went out to sushi, Jasmine and I had our own table, like a girl’s date night, stuffing sushi in our mouths and taking teriyaki sauce shots. It was after that week that we started to grow apart. I began middle school, Jasmine started high school, and we started to live even more separate lives. My mental health started to deteriorate: my anxiety, depression, and eating disorder rose to the surface and tore me apart. I became quiet, reserved, and turned into myself. But when I saw her glowing smile, her ever-changing hair, and her contagious confidence, it kept me hopeful we would become friends again. It was when I was sent to residential treatment that our friendship sparked again. We sent letters to each other and she sent me pictures and trinkets she picked up on her adventures. I always cried when I saw I had received mail from her, then the rest of the day I would dance around with her words clutched in my hand, showing everyone how beautiful my cousin is, and telling them animated stories of our past adventures. Her support kept me motivated to work the program so I could give her the tightest hug. And come my graduation from the program, she cried with joy to see her little cousin finally smiling, and I had some happy tears slide down my cheeks as well. Jasmine has taught me too many things to count. She taught me to laugh loudly. She taught me to keep my chin up and that nothing is impossible. She taught me that I don’t need to take the traditional route in life to be happy. But most of all, Jasmine taught me that it is okay to not be sure of myself right away. Her style and the way she holds herself has been ever changing, like a story with no end. These days, we go on adventures every once in a while, laughing, complaining, and reminiscing. I feel safe with Jasmine to show my silly, loud, and obnoxious personality with no judgement. We share advice with one another, we make future plans, and we teach each other things we’ve learned. Jasmine, thank you for showing me my worth, for showing me I am worthy of love. Thank you for showing me the beauty I have inside me, and for showing me it is okay to be myself. You are a one-of a kind, beautiful being who deserves all of the good this world has to offer. Your positive energy glows around you, it’s contagious. Your bright, goofy smile can break any bad energy like the first sunshine rays through storm clouds. Your creativity continues to inspire me, and blow me away. Jasmine, you blow my mind.

Cool Lilianna Roman pastel

The Comic Strip John Gorelik colored pencil

A Thief Sarah Van Brakel The morning after a wedding, two chairs sit in the middle of the room, scattered gifts and items strewn on the floor: a bible from the ceremony, the groom’s top-hat, a wedding photo. Flashlight and hiking shoes lie there as if to beckon for an early morning stroll. The bride and groom are still asleep. Quick jump through the window, but don’t step on that stair! It creaks. Take an apple and an orange for the ride, now get that watch and those high heels! They could be worth a lot. A lace shawl hangs by the door, grab it, quick! A music box of sentimental value, and a rose quartz crystal It can’t do much harm to take them can it? A yellow mug from a late night coffee, with a newspaper beside seems strange for a wedding night, but it could have been grandpa alright! A glance at the clock it’s time to go! Exit quietly now, out we go.

Self-Portrait Ella Wade pencil

Days Like Mine Amelinda Origunwa

Wake up, BART to Muni, school, volleyball, Muni to BART. Wake up, BART to Muni, school, volleyball, Muni to BART. Wake up, BART to Muni, school, volleyball, Muni to BART. I repeat this process every day, Thinking about how different any day might be from yesterday. But really, the biggest change Is whether I’ll ride the K or the M And if both are delayed I’d be forced to take the S. Sounds depressing, I know, and it is, But I’d like to think It could be a lot worse than, Wake up, BART to Muni, school, volleyball, Muni to BART.

In Hopes Of Vivian Molesworth oil

Towering Redwoods Jack Mahoney

I shall arise and head to the great redwoods. The great miles of towering red, red that rises above all else. Until the only thing above, is the universe itself. Yes, these trees may be large and tall, but they still do not compare, to the complexity of the human soul.

Compassion Prema Wishart sculpture

The Room Molly Wazna-Blank

A candle flickers Its soft light reflected on a fallen cup Quiet, dainty, the music box unwinds Cards that hold greasy evidence of recent play, Flutter as they fall like leaves carried by the wind. The candle, goes out. Silence. Only the patient tick, tick, tick, of a pocket watch. Only the wind whispering, lifting pages of a book Worn and filled with memories Lace glows luminous, white, Visible only because the moon was curious about this room, And moved closer to Observe.

What’s Your Favorite Part of Nature? Annalina Lowden acrylic

The Aftermath Liana Soria

Fear dissolves and trust walks in, weariness and uncertainty fade, leaving a fresh, new bud, ready to bloom.

Index Sadie Ashourizadegan (12th) Solitude and Lemon Water 59 Piper Aweeka (12th) How Insignificant We Are 31 Sunset, 8:23 PM 66 James Beckman-Maldonado (10th) A Broken Picture Frame 43 Jackson Belanger (11th) Untitled 70 Lucien Bieber (9th) Bigger Than Black and White 54 Colette Coleman (9th) Sailing 33 Aurelius Costa (9th) Untitled 72 Roxy Dayon (12th) What Do You Hear? Front and Back Cover Ally DiDomenico (11th) Self-Portrait 42 Pita Elhauge-Roniger (10th) The Hands 34 The Wave 74 Untitled 48 Griffin Engels (11th) Untitled 61 Mikal Ennis (12th) The Devotee Flouts Nature 40

Haven Frombgen (11th) Reflections 44 Kaia Garcia-Vandegrift (12th) Faust 21 Mari Garcia-Vandegrift (10th) Never Together Again 47 Rocky Paths 35 Sheep By The Sea 45 Luca Goldthorpe (9th) Untitled 56 John Gorelik (10th) The Comic Strip 78 The Stories of Forgotten Things 53 Skylar Henderson (9th) Broken But Still At Home 62 River of Flowers 36 RJ Johnson (9th) Untitled 12 Kai Langen-Wong (10th) C.Z.U. Lightning Complex Fire 11 Forgotten Friends 55 Ode to Salt 3 Abiene Larkin (10th) Morning Routine 39 Evan Lee (11th) A Study 10 Jensen Lee (10th) Grim and Gray 57 Samsara 17 The Singing Lark 5

Julian Lehto (12th) Summer at the Ballpark 49 Grace Lipson (11th) Self-Portrait 16 Summer Days 24 Annalina Lowden (12th) What’s Your Favorite Part of Nature? 86 You Blow My Mind 75 Julian Luger (9th) Joanathan 4 Jack Mahoney (10th) Gratitude for the World 7 Towering Redwoods 83 Vivian Molesworth (12th) In Hopes Of 82 The “L” Word 37 Amelinda Origunwa (10th) A Tired Mother 29 Days Like Mine 81 Chesna Pelka (12th) Loon Diving 68 Shoshana Priel (10th) Intermission 71 Natalie Razera (12th) Girl with Blue Veil 2 Samba Till Morning 63 Untitled 23 Lilianna Roman (10th) Cool 77 Warm 27

Jeremiah Saks (10th) The Things Left Behind 41 Kota Salinas (10th) Battle Prayer 65 Generosity Samas (9th) The Handsome Devil 20 The Town Square 46 Ben Sarig (9th) Woman Sewing 28 Liana Soria (10th) Scene de Rue (five a.m.) 73 The Aftermath 87 The Man with the Black Fedora 13 Megan Spegar (11th) Solidarity 1 Coralyne Taylor (11th) Escape 30 Sarah Van Brakel (10th) A Thief 79 Anya von Wolff (12th) Puzzles in the Snow 52 Ella Wade (11th) Self-Portrait 80 Molly Wazna-Blank (10th) Just Go 69 Spring Dance 25 The Room 85

Logan Weening (10th) A Still Life 58 Sunset 51 The Plague of Darkness 18 Untitled 14 Ananda White (10th) Healing Begins 15 Pear Blossom Hwy 67 The Mountain Trail 9 Prema Wishart (12th) Compassion 84 Opa Valentine: An Ode to Fortitude 19 Wild Horse on Marble Mountain 8