Sisyphus by SLUH

Sisyphus Winter ’21 Table of Contents 1 chalk pastel by Nathan Rich 2 acrylic on wood panel by Nathan Rich 3 Accutane and Adderall by Philip Hiblovic photograph(s) by Patrick Zarrick 4-5 Fifty Dollars by Nathan Rich pencil drawing by Nathan Rich 6 A Toast by Brendan Smith ’91 oil Pastel on Paper by Brendan McLaughlin 7-8 The Colors of Kells by John Kavanaugh “Christ Enthroned,” detail from the Book of Kells (Wikimedia Commons) 9-12 Self Portraits by Cody Cox photographs by Jack Janson 13 photograph by Nicholas Sanders 14 art by Nathan Rich

acrylic by Nathan Rich

Accutane and Aderall Philip Hiblovic Accutane & Adderall I throat with my coffee, black & poured freshly in the morning sun, beaming through the window panes, illuminating the kitchen sink— I tapped for the water to make said coffee. Before, I was tired, but now I’m just wired, & I’m still just as weird but my lips a bit drier, my brain a bit bigger, my legs a bit shaky. Why in the Hell is my lower back achy? I don’t really know. Is it the fútbol, the Adderall, or the burden of it all? I don’t really know. Is it the ball & chain, the Accutane, or the mountain of the mental strain? I don’t really know. All I know is the grass is still green & the coffee’s still good, & I’m still just angsty & misunderstood.

photographs by Patrick Zarrick

Fifty Dollars Nathan Rich

blame Ulysses S. Grant. After all, it was his gruff face that adorned the crisp new addition to my wallet. Folded gently in my back pocket, the fifty dollars started yelling the moment I saw her. She was hunched over, barely distinguishable from a pile of used clothes. Sitting comfortably behind the steering wheel, I peered through the windshield, watching carefully as she shuffled through the black bag at her feet. Her hair whipped around in the wind as she searched. Normally I would

have turned away then, minding my business, but something fixed my focus on her. I blame Grant. She clutched the street sign tightly for support as she stood back up, now armed with a half-empty water bottle. Rising slowly, her eyes turned from her bag to the long line of cars waiting to turn onto the highway. She squinted in the sun and surveyed the row, moving up and down the cars. When her gaze passed my unassuming blue Toyota, we made eye contact for a brief second,

pencil drawing by Nathan Rich

and I swear she saw Grant, too. Even if she hadn’t seen him, she must have heard him. How could she not? He was nearly screaming at this point. As his voice continued to rise, calling out to me, my gut sank. What did I owe her? Surely something—Jesus had taught me that much—but fifty dollars? That seemed a steep price for moral high ground. Plus, I’ve been told before that randomly giving money to homeless people is not the best way to help. Grant didn’t see it that way, though. He tugged my gut tighter down, and I slumped further into my seat along with it. Well, what would she use it for? A good question. Maybe a new coat? The one she was wearing looked old and worn, even from far away. The yellow flannel pattern, which I imagined once stood boldly against the grays of Kingshighway, had been reduced to a dirty beige. It didn’t look particularly soft either. The clean white sweatshirt that I wore, with the fuzzy interior and strings that hung perfectly equal across my chest, suddenly felt too heavy for that sunny October day. Fifty dollars could buy a nice coat, probably. A coat would be nice, but... What would I use it for? A better question, one that distracted me from my guilt. Well, what would I use it for? I certainly didn’t need the money. In fact, I couldn’t think of one non-food item to spend it on. But fifty dollars could, in fact, buy a lot of food. My wallet burned in my pocket and I felt a significant decision coming. Unfortunately for me, I am notoriously bad at those. Something needed to change; I needed out of this situation. Answering my call, the stop light flashed green and the long line of cars lurched forwards. Yes! Moral dilemma resolved. But then… Green left almost as soon as it came. Yel-

low flashed and my driving school instincts hit before I remembered what I was running from. I didn’t even realize my position until after I stopped. First in line, I had a perfect view of Forest Park, BJC, and… the lady in the beige flannel. The siren in my pocket was deafening. She was less than four feet from me. I didn’t know what to do. For just a few seconds, my finger hovered over the window button and Grant stopped shouting. Time froze around me. In that moment, I was alone in the universe with no one but Grant and the lady in the beige flannel. My finger twitched over the switch as my sweaty palms slid slowly towards my pocket. But… I couldn’t bring myself to push it. I sat, staring directly forward, still in my seat. I slid my arm away from the button. From the corner of my eye, I watched her, now with a sign in her hand, sway calmly back and forth. We hadn’t made eye contact yet, but it was inevitable. I needed a way out again. In a moment of less-than-divine inspiration, I lunged forward in my seat and jabbed the touch screen on the dashboard. For several seconds, I fiddled meaninglessly with the radio of my car, searching for some station to justify my stinginess, to block out Grant’s scream. I found none. When I sat back up again, she was gone from my side. I glanced up in my rearview mirror and watched her walk further down the row of cars forming behind me. I sighed heavily. It was over, I had made my choice. When the light turned green again, she was far behind my car, though I still did my best to distance myself from her. Grant didn’t stop, though. The whole way home he spoke to me. By the time I was home, it was only a faint whisper, but I could still make out the question he posed. What do you owe her? Apparently not fifty dollars.

A Toast Brendan Smith ’91 First you are bread then you’re toasted. ’S what you get when you’re cut and then roasted. I spread you with butter, One jam or anudder, You’re the breakfast I like to eat most-ed.

oil pastel on paper by Brendan McLaughlin

The Colors of Kells John Kavanaugh

The Book of Kells is an illuminated Gospel Book dedicated to St. Columcille completed by 800 at a monastery founded by that Irish saint on the Scottish isle of Iona. The book was later moved to a monastery at Kells (along with the saint’s relics and shrine) during the Viking raids sometime during the 9th century for protection and preservation. Considered by historians and scholars as a masterwork of medieval Christianity and Irish artistic genius, it now resides in the fabled library at Trinity College, Dublin. From whence did they come, The colors of Kells? Berries or insects? Nuts? Shells? Powdery soot? Ashes of bones? Probably not. Their pedigree stems From powerful elements, Otherwise poisons: Orpiment, gypsum, Verdigris, gall. Intoxicating toxins Transcendently bright Pulverized oak apple, Iron sulfide; Purples from lichen,

From indigo, blues. Inked in the vellum Divinest of hues. Sacred script aflame! Animated, historiated, Illuminated names. Ink aglow, Tincture ablaze. Incantations divine Prayers in pigment, Colors that rhyme. From cruxes and chis Spring insular etchings, Spiraling eddies Like the swirls in the Boyne. And perched in the margins Or nesting in letters Peacocks and eagles, Salmon and otters, Lions, wolves, calves, Cats chasing mice, And all of creation Vivid, alive. But the colors that make The deepest impression, A mark that won’t fade Despite centuries of time, Paint the face of Christ as a Celt, A Celt as Christ— Golden locks curling, A beard thick and red. The book is a mirror The colors unfurling The face of a savior Alive, not dead! As hearty and stout As a warrior or chieftain Or champion at hurling; The face of the Irish Calligraphers, scribes Who crafted a book Unbound by time.

Self Portraits Cody Cox

f I had minded my own business, stayed within my friend group, and played on the blacktop like all the normal kids, I might never have noticed her. Even though my school was so small—in its entirety, it had fewer than 150 students— and even though she was in my very own grade, Katie was practically invisible. She was forgettably pretty, of an average height within my class, with shiny, nearly-black hair that fell in a perfectly straight curtain down her hunched posture, deep brown eyes, and a pale, melancholy, circular face with a spray of freckles across her nose. Katie was nearly always alone. She was constantly focused on her binder, or the floor. In the winter, she wore a huge coat, even in class, that obscured her face entirely, and even though that was against school policy, she was not reprimanded for it. Even the teachers seemed to avoid asking her questions. Maybe like us, they felt guilty at the prospect of listening to someone not thought to have a voice. However, Katie was a pretty good student, earnest and hardworking. She had neatly color-coded binders and an impossibly sharp, chewed-up jet-black pencil she constantly took notes and scrawled tiny doodles with. She had Post-It notes all over her desk, and she was so concentrated on her work that when her hair would collect around her eyes, she would never blow it out of her face until we were given a break. Olivia, another girl in the class, made some kids laugh when she pointedly remarked in front of Katie that she probably needed surgery on her nose to detach it from her binder. Other kids chuckled when they heard Owen say that her uncle was probably part of the

Chinese Communist Party because she was Asian. I may not have laughed at any of these cruel jokes, but I didn’t stick up for Katie either. I was having a hard enough time fitting in with my own social circle, because I had different interests than most of my friends and constantly clashed with them. She rarely showed any expression beyond concentration. She never seemed bothered or saddened by her exclusion from the class, just lonely. Although she was made fun of, no one paid her any real attention. If everyone ignored her, they wouldn’t have to recognize her as a person at all. Early in grade school, I had few friends in my class, so I had spent time with Katie. We used to call each other often, but it was hard getting her to open up about her home life, and at the time, it didn’t seem worth it. By the time I was in 7th grade, we had stopped calling each other, I had stopped occasionally sitting with her at lunch, and we had different interests and extracurriculars. So it came as a bit of a surprise when, on a random Thursday in the spring, she invited me to a midtown art gallery in the city that coming Saturday. I remember receiving the invite over email and thinking, Why in the world, would Katie, of all people, invite me, of the 7 billion people in the world, to an art gallery, of all things? I should be the one person she wouldn’t want to see. Does she like me or something? My puffed-up middleschooler brain went pole vaulting to that conclusion when she asked if I could keep my answer private and not to talk about it at school. Is she really that scared, I thought with an exasperated inward sigh, that she doesn’t

have the guts to tell me in person? It’s not like I’ll tell. I contemplated my choices for a moment. I’ll answer yes now, and I’ll let her down easy if I see her after school. The next morning at school, I fell behind after most of the class left in order to tell Katie that I wouldn’t be joining her. As Katie clutched her binders to head to the next class, she tripped over her untied shoelace at the doorway, sacrificing her binders in order to save herself from face-planting the floor. Her papers flew out of her composition binder. I saw one of the papers, an incredibly detailed eye drawing. Tears welled deep within its corners, and it was covered in illegible small messages. Confused, I reached down to help Katie up, before my eyes flicked to her now

rolled-up sleeve. Deep, inflamed scratches centered inside bruises covered the inside of her forearm. I managed to avert my eyes fast enough in order to avoid suspicion from her, as she flushed for just a moment before picking her papers up, taking my hand. Quickly letting go, Katie darted across the hall. The deep scratches on her wrist, the impossibly sharp pencil, the troubling eye she had drawn. The classroom spun rapidly in my vision as I tried to make sense of the things laid out in front of me. Was a possible crush really the only reason she wanted me to go to the art gallery? I didn’t know for certain. Saturday arrived in a flash, but even as I got ready to go, putting on my most comfortable clothes, a long-sleeved green shirt

photograph by Jack Janson

and blue jeans, I was anxiously itching. Even though it was a warm day, chills ran up and down my spine as I walked into the glassy building containing the art gallery. Katie wore a dark green sweater, even though the room was warm. The paintings hung imposingly over us, their sense of value, authority and preciousness clear. Katie gave me a look of surprise when she saw me, beckoning me over to the painting she was looking at. “Thanks for coming,” she said in her high pitched, soft tone. “I wasn’t sure that you would show up. “Of course,” I replied, “I like art history and I love art galleries.” I wasn’t lying, but I was more interested in why Katie had thought of me when she thought of whom to invite. “Who drove you here?” I asked, because Katie’s exchange student cousin had a busy schedule, and often required priority from Katie’s parents. In fact Katie’s parents often said when asked if Katie and her cousin were sisters, that they had one child, and also happened to birth Katie. Katie was seen as less smart than her cousin, and had to study in order to match the effortless A’s her cousin earned. “I took the bus.” she replied, wincing as she fidgeted with the fabric of her sweater. She looked back up at the painting in front of her, gently shifting her weight from side to side. An awkward moment of silence passed. She chose to speak up first.“You know? I love self-portraits a lot. People really hate their self-portraits: they think they’re the worst.” I looked at her. Did she know how conflicted I felt about being here? “Well, if people can make their worst this pretty,” she grinned, “then their best must be beautiful.” I faintly appreciated the sentiment. Katie suddenly turned pale, and her fingers that had previously been fidgeting at the neck of the sweater were now scratching at the sleeves. I helped her sit down on the rough wooden bench nearby, breathing

heavily. She began to silently tremble, as I stood next to her, dumbfounded. She looked at me, wincing in pain. “Give me a moment.” “What’s wrong?” She didn’t seem to pay me any mind, her eyes darting frantically. ”I’m having a panic attack,” she breathed shakily, “and I just need someone to help me calm down.” I sat down next to her, and held her wrist as she began to take deep breaths. I stared at the floor, and waited for it to pass. When I heard her breathing becoming more steady, I looked at her wrist. She had cuts running up into the shadows of her sweater. The realization of why she was wearing a sweater inside a warm gallery on a warm day hit me so hard, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I was sinking into the ground. “Katie? Have you been...hurting yourself?” It made perfect sense to me, even though my heart dropped into my stomach just thinking about it. Her parents expected her to be studious, but they also ignored her. No one at school was any better. They ignored her, and when they did talk to her, it was only to make fun of how hard she tried to earn those grades. She was constantly trapped, and there was no friend, no safety net, no support to fall back on. Katie didn’t say a word. She just leaned in for a hug, and we sat there in friendly silence until she let go. “You should know,” I said, “that I will try to be there for you. You don’t ever deserve to hurt yourself that way.” She nodded, giving me a grateful look. The reception desk’s phone buzzed, helping me to remember our surroundings. “So what exactly did you invite me here for, besides the art?” Her tiny smile dissolved. “I’m not stupid,” she said flatly. “I know people make fun of me. I wanted to thank you for being kind. You haven’t made fun of me. You just helped me through something pretty embarrassing. Thank you.” I

photograph by Jack Janson

was speechless. I had thought only of myself when I had decided to come here. The best that could have been said about me was that I had tried to let Katie down gently. She had been having such a hard time making friends, and had done some unspeakable damage to

herself. And now here she was, telling me how kind I had been. I looked down, deeply ashamed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you sooner.” I whispered. “I know,” was her nonchalant reply. We had fun together as if for the first time, looking around the rooms filled with all sorts, sizes and styles of paintings. We went across the street to a little café and laughed until our sides ached over bubble tea and muffins. I began to see what I had been missing out on, even feeling some pangs of regret when I finally had to go home. I felt like I had changed, that my mind was a little more open to helping others after befriending Katie. When I reminisce, some of the smaller details get a little blurred. I no longer remember what we were laughing about. I no longer remember what people asked me when they wanted to know about that weekend. But I remember becoming closer to Katie again, the eagerness in Katie’s eyes as she talked to me about her day at our next lunch back at school, the reassurance that my being, my self-portrait, was more beautiful than I thought it was.

photograph by Nicholas Sanders

LITERARY EDITORS Harrison Beardsley Philip Hiblovic Taggart Arens Alex Preusser Christopher St. John Austin Wald ASSISTANT LITERARY EDITOR Alex Wentz ART EDITORS Brendan McLaughlin Nathan Rich Owen Rittenhouse Jack Janson LAYOUT EDITORS Carter J. Fortman Jack Figge Luke Duffy George Henken MODERATORS Frank Kovarik Rich Moran

Art by Nathan Rich