St. Luke’s School
377 North Wilton Road New Canan, CT 06840
203.966.5612 pendulum@stlukesct.org
Cover artwork:
Front cover: Josephine DeMarco, Shards, Mixed Media
Back Cover: George Foster, Untitled, Digital Photograph
Artwork on this page: Josephine DeMarco, Ballerina Nightmares, Acrylic on Paper
Reality is constantly shifting. In 2020, everything we took for granted irrevocably changed. The reality we knew would no longer ever be the same. Now, our reality is changing once more. With the invention of powerful AI to write essays and create artworks, what was once the subject of science fiction novels have made their way into our society, causing many to question what images or writings are real and which are generated. Everyone has a unique opinion about and experience with these changes, a specific viewpoint that shapes their reality.
But what do we define reality as? Plato would say that material reality is ever-changing, so nothing, in reality, could be perfect or everlasting. Eternal truths exist in the realm of ideas rather than in the physical world. What the writing and art within this magazine claims is just that: There is no one perception of reality because reality is ever-changing and can be interpreted through a multitude of lenses. Whether the art and writing “makes sense” is not a question that requires an answer.
The theme Realities was meant to evoke an understanding that there is more significance in basic objects and late night thoughts than nature allows us to see. Even more importantly, that there is no single significance to a thought or symbol.
In winter, I stare out the window and wait for spring. A season of renewal with jubilance and glow, The air thick with anticipation and excitement
For warmer months to come. I stare, and wait for The cherry trees to fully bloom, For the slight breeze to pick up And push me towards happier times. I wait for the colorful traditions, The festive atmosphere; Hoping to receive spiritual energy
From the warming sun. I wait for spring to blossom, When there is no need to use imagination at all. Nature’s finest form becomes a reality. I wait for months and months, For this honored place in my mind To come to life.
Maggie Fluette
I watch the gulls and pelicans soar, Skipping along the glistening sea; I hear the cool breeze blowing by, As if it’s whispering back to me.
I see the waves crashing at the shore, In the finest symmetry; They rise and fall, splashing about, As if they’re calling back for me.
I lay in the warmth of the beaming sun, Gazing at the cloudless sky and shining sea; I watch them join at the horizon, As if they’re smiling back at me.
And I sat there on the picturesque beach, My heart overflowing with glee; As I gazed at its astonishing beauty, Nature had spoken back to me.
Lachlan MacLean, Snow Dunes, Digital Photograph
I thought about killing a butterfly and how easily I could crush its body by slapping it with my hands, as if applauding myself, a murderer. Or by clenching my fists together, like the controlled breathing practices we do, letting out all my stress onto its shell, so that when the cave of my hand envelops this butterfly, it will bear the weight of ten thousand times its maker, and from dust return to dust, a gooey ball of trashy gloop in my hand that I will wash off later.
I could crumple its beauty, all its colors, and mash it into this crunchy, stained pastel, ripping its wings like the death of a paper airplane tearing it down the seams carelessly, violating its fragility, a love rendition once more, painting a purpose so that its colors live again, a self portrait with this bloody yellow-red mix, a mark of violence, brutal intrusion, an abuse, I committed, because I love this butterfly. The tip of my brush are its antenna, so that it can smell again, forever reborn into a Picasso-esque identity statement.
I thought about killing a butterfly destroying its will to fly far, far away shattering its neck, so that it can never fly again, not a meter again, so that it will never rest on other trees where it will be unappreciated, stolen, overlooked, unnoticed,
like teardrops in the ocean. It will be a shadow of a second thought. But I will save it, I will smother it, I am not afraid to ruin everything because its colors mean too much to me.
I want this moment all to myself.
Today I went to kill a butterfly to essence forth its homecoming to grace a new life over its wings under every valley and ember hidden, to grasp all its purpose in my hand and to clench so tightly that it crushed its skull under my fingers, so that its paint would spill out, letting me adorn it once more.
I went to hunt this butterfly with unrequited pride and tore its little heart in two, three, seven, ten. I poured all my love over this mushy corpse and cried.
(Inspired by William Wordsworth)
Laurel AronianA pale mild morning, Looking back it might as well have been spring, When we walked over dirt paths never tread Discussed abstract concepts far from schedules. Space left time to fill my frightening brain. The poison I stow for midnight crises Had time to seep in and find my free mind.
No restrictions set upon the bare trees That copied the arteries in rivers. I ran for my life to escape it all! Unaware that it was caught inside me.
On a faded hill with sky behind it, I laughed to hide from universal truths Until it struck me she had disappeared. Hasty to escape the existential, I had disregarded the tangible. Fear and death alive in nature’s power, Capable, compelling, inescapable, No longer my theoretical. Yet the growing light kept out the fear; The endless grasses cooled me, kept me calm. So this is death, I thought to myself, maybe: An endless hill with sky behind it.
Balancing and wandering on the edge, I was renewed, awake; content with that.
It was the wrong north star, Her voice cuts through cavernous trees, a plea for help. Intensity, like the brightness of her eyes and The light of her laptop camera forecast bleak projections. Will she succumb to this extreme law?
Northern, imprisoned, alarming. She hasn’t paid her maintenance fees. Unqualified for the cold.
Frenetic, is this why you’re always tired? Don’t call, run, or alarm - need balance.
With no conviction, she can no longer debate. A crop with too many infections to find groundedness.
A naive migrant, all she will ever know is Crazy wind, making the wheat dance. Beautiful, alarming, shaken and inescapable.
Lachlin MacLean, Lumières de Montréal, Digital Photograph
Blinding. Brighter by night, Darker by day.
Made to lead and to save. Misunderstood. Shunned.
Shine into the dark For long enough, And you are mistaken for it.
Perceiving is believing.
Josephine DeMarco, Fog of Memory, Digital Painting
Elusive, I wake, A placid look on my face. The sillage of pine, Eunoia that this forest is mine.
My gem to roam, All I know as home.
But they encroach, Our antlers – their brooch. And with my trees brutalized, I can only bare to fantasize. Of times before inure, If only we remained so pure.
Yet their weapons dominate, My own mother served on a dinner plate.
They merely scoff her down, Neglecting the dismay for which I am bound.
So there I weep in isolation, In a state of despairing contemplation.
Sweat is a badge of honor, At least in my mind, body, and soul
The trifecta of power
Pushed by the need to win gold I never like to sleep
Bedtime procrastination becomes habit for me
And when I finally lay down quietly My mind shouts WAKE UP!
Obsessed with possibilities
Real talk though, People tell me my mind needs a break Saying, nothing is everything
Telling me I need to search for peace
EMBRACE IT! They say But still my mind roars back
100% focused on goals my mind remains
An arsenal of thoughts in my head
John Rosseel
I am not awake.
Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. There goes my alarm… I’m floating,
I n a nd out
of words I go.
Birdsong drags me back.
Katey Charnin
Pride comes before the fall, But to fall, you must be Above everyone else. As you fall, you see the world below you. A stunning view. For a few moments, you are still. Above all otou plummet.
Danny Gall
I’m me in my dreams, But sometimes I become Not me.
I might become Mario or Luigi, but I usually start as me.
Anonymous
In my ideal reality, I am a writer And a thinker.
Sometimes I think about problems And try to conjure solutions, But sometimes, the problems Begin to fester, And force me to dwell on their benefits.
Megan Case, Jasper, Digital Photograph
In my dreams I’m all kinds of things. A sorcerer or a shapeshifter A person who travels to the end of time. In my dreams I’ve lived in glass castles And rescued a fallen star.
In my dreams I am trapped
Lost in an ever-changing maze, Unable to do anything but watch As the world grows old without me.
In my dreams I’ve flown around the world And floated in oceans reflecting the sky. I’ve danced on the beach in flowing gowns And met spirits twice my size
But the world moves so slowly. What am I trying to get to? To get away from? Will I ever be able to know?
To be, or not to be, that is the question: To accept this knowledge buried within, Or to shove it aside for others’ comfort, Knowing I’m not quite me. There’s a sense of safety in my role as a doll–Better to be a monster’s plaything than become its next meal. But somewhere along the line that argument lost its appeal. I’ve stared at countless mirrors; I know what gazes back. A figure of flesh and blood and bones and skin, A form I’ve shaped and toned and beat and bludgeoned In some pathetic attempt at self. But never quite myself.
A walking contradiction, formed by half-truths and backhanded compliments. Unapologetically me in every way except the main.
I bought a new turtleneck. The colors matched the ones within The yellows and purples and whites and blacks
That I’ve never been brave enough to show. Maybe some shades, I thought, are better to cover up and hide, Too saturated to let free, too shocking, too much. I feel them sometimes, desperate to come out, Radiating off me so strongly it’s a wonder only two people know. Every other color throughout my life I’ve worn proudly
What’s stopping me from doing the same now?
I’ve been hiding these shades for too long, Only freeing them when no one could see. But in the end, I think I’d rather be loathed for who I am than loved for what I’m not.
Let’s find some garage
And paint the walls with posters
Of stars we desire
To someday become.
We’ll cover the floor
With a grandparent-rug
And hook up the equipment
With wires untucked.
I’ll burn all my textbooks, We’ll break all our phones and Duct-tape up the windows
To block out the sun.
I’ll sell all the items
I’ve gotten for Christmas
And buy a Volkswagen
That gets the job done.
We’ll practice from Mondays
To Thursdays cause Fridays
Are days we’ll drive out
In search of any crowd.
We’ll put out some singles
And sing something simple
That match with the cymbals
That crash really loud.
Before that, we’ll format
A name they can call us—
One that isn’t taken, And sounds kinda odd.
That way they’ll remember
How bitter it rolls
Off the tips of their tongues
Like some flavorless gum.
After some measures
No tape measurer
Could measure all of the greatness That we have created.
We’ll dodge paparazzi
And act all annoyed
Even though it feels nice To know they are not jaded. Our fans will bring tents And sleep out in the street
Just to get front row for The shows that we headline. They’ll mistaken mistakes That we make on stage For unique acts of beauty; They’ll all likely cry.
But maybe we let Our minds wander too far Cause things like this don’t happen In our nameless town. We’ll probably try, But for each step we climb, We’ll shift into reverse
And climb two more steps down. We’ll watch MTV
And see all of those people
Become the stars
I dressed as for Halloween.
But stars will explode
Into dust and will show
That those dreams were too lucid
And too out of reach.
It was a cold and windy afternoon. The trees mumbled aggressively in the cold: “Give me a coat.” There were no coats made for the trees, so they just stood there, in the rain, wishing that they were humans. A boy underneath a sturdy branch threw up his coat, hoping it would land on a sprig or two. Caressing some leaves, the coat soared and then fell softly to the ground like a feather. The sturdy tree never had a chance. One of the older rotting trees was irritated by the boy’s presence and collapsed onto him. He generally disliked humans due to their deforestation tendencies and sought retribution. The older rotting tree, an oak, winked at a nearby thriving maple as if to say, “At least the kid won’t be bothering you anymore.” The other trees held similar sentiments and congratulated him on his heroic achievement.
Eoin Mueller, Cottage in the Clouds, Digital Photograph
The brightness of the fluorescent kitchen lights dazzles my eyes as I struggle to shut the door to the night sky behind me. The large package in my arms is disproportionately heavy. Perhaps that is where the newest E-Positron Digital Assistant, Emma, gets her smarts from; some big brain inside those wires.
I slice through the bright red “E” logo upon the white package. Emma, unlike previous models, is pre-assembled. She blinks up at me with endless eyes, smiling.
“E-Positron have outdone themselves,” I say to Emma. She laughs with a pretty, tinkly voice. “I owe them my life. Thank you for purchasing from E-Positron, Mark.”
“The best products of all. Why don’t you turn in for the night? It can’t have been too comfortable in that box.”
Laurel AronianThe night deepens quickly as I drift away into sleep. Dreams fill my head, images of the most recent E-Positron advertisement.
“How soon will you release the model?” Inquires a news broadcaster.
“Less than a week, as our committed customers already know,” says the gravel-voiced CEO of E-Positron. “All the bug fixes are complete; everything is going according to-”
“PLAn” A crackling voice breaks into my nightmare, apathetic and chilling. “Everything according to plan-a-an” The voice shifts and distorts. Groggily, I rise from bed, picturing the TV playing. I hasten to the kitchen to shut it off.
“One wire there, negative and positive, here- ah, there we go.” A young man’s voice echoes from the kitchen. A click. A bang.
“That didn’t turn out the way I planned.” *Silence*.
Muffled footsteps echo closer through the recording.
Muffled footsteps echo closer in the kitchen.
Muffled footsteps echo closer from outside the front door.
Emma walks out of the kitchen like a poorly constructed toy soldier. Her eyes are empty of any life that existed behind the metal. She wails words in the young man’s voice that rebound throughout the house:
“Boss, I can’t meet the deadline. There’s a malfunction in the-” I frantically dash to the kitchen and seize Emma’s manual, skimming it frantically. From the corner of my eye, I see her crumple slightly and pull herself back up. Her moans morph into a deep, gravel-like tone.
“Do you want your blasted job, Dennis? Deadlines are called deadlines for a reason.”
Emma pauses, teetering, and emits a few clicking noises like those of a mouse. I find I am clutching Emma’s receipt instead of the manual.
Emma voices her final words in a strange, tinkly manner, merged with Dennis’ resigned tone: “It’s shipped, public, ready to go.”
She collapses on the ground, convulsing. The front door bangs open. Emma falls still. Three catmasked, uniformed workers rush through the door.
Emma’s final message upon sensing self-destruction alerted the authorities successfully. I am suddenly aware of the receipt in my hand. No, this didn’t turn out the way I’d planned, not at all.
As a veil is pulled over my eyes, the large “E” logos on the workers’ shirts are the last things I see.
Rushing out, parting ways from the restraint, The moral, in which good patience relies; No, relied, on the affirmation; paint The walls of this pound with flame, banish lies.
No longer with the fire, light to let shine, But rather, the gray ash left to convulse; Repugnance left to dwell, chagrin intertwine At fault of the clock, ticking to repulse
Yet from the ash rises the brilliance, Phoenix- possessed; to be never burned out. Resistance, desire-invoked, for the chance To prove competence, achievement throughout.
Despite Icarus, light remains the aim, And despite being burned, I transcend flame.
Sapphire glimmers in the brush Just beyond the treeline Crawling, clawing, cheeks of blush, Whispers surround, speech is hushed. Reaching upon approach as voices warn in mind: “Whate’er this may be, may not be mine to find.”
Critters sneak and creatures jeer; Human encroaches, surpassing straint. Creeps and shivers, “Welcome fear!” Cerulean gleam, advancing near’r. Scraped and bruised accepting fate, Shut eyes see the pearly gates.
Moments before impending doom, With the extent of a pinkie finger Contact is made, flowers bloom Light consumes, Conscience resumes!
Eyes awaken, is all gone? Here I am, tucked into bed, Absent is the forest. With fear ‘longside my morning yawn, Strange pounding in my head, not the skull, but the mind the sorest.
Megan Case, The Pool, Digital Photograph
Abandoned Birch Howe
A collection of socks; Abandoned. Hats on a mirror reflect back on an empty image
Sophie Dekker
They walked that day through the purest springs from golden birth to death. Ten feet trekking through the mud of our lives. A herd of moose watches through the glass. The newest exhibit: a family of Five.
Mother’s bear spray swings from her pocket on a silver carabiner, Because the valley hides beasts in erosional forms.
Lost in the black obsidian mountain of emerald pines, Three children swim naked in the trickling streams. Golden beams slash across their tummies, As they soak in the lustrous blue. It mends their wounds.
Birch Howe Snakes; Low to the ground. Unholy. A being made to sink.
“NO SHOUTING!” Yelled Dad from the basement. I told him it was going to be loud, but I guess his hearing was better than I expected it to be. Bang! The basement door slammed against the concrete wall. The cheesy bread returned! “Why must you continue to follow and torment me oh cheesy bread?!” I shouted. The cheesy bread did not speak but remained staring, its eyes locked with mine. Being made of cheese, it had no real recognizable features aside from its bright, mesmerizing, unblinking blue eyes, which were disturbingly bloodshot, and seemed to pierce through my soul. “Is the cheesy bread back again?” Dad yelled. “At this point, it’s over so often we should just adopt it.” I told my dad I enjoyed being an only child and I wasn’t about to sacrifice my joyful solitude for a bloodshot loaf of disturbingly abandoned cheesy bread. But after all, who would abandon such a delicate feast?
It all started when I accidentally picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport. I could have sworn it was mine until I heard a shifting from the trunk on the drive home. I opened it and a small person climbed out and ran away into the abyss. That was my last fairy sighting before I was kidnapped by them. Despite the stories, fairies are neither majestic, cute, nor sparkly, much to my disappointment. I mean, really, what was the point of getting kidnapped by them if they weren’t even sparkly. They didn’t even make good food! This was no tinkerbell adventure let me tell you. As we made it to the exit gates, the lackluster fairies hoisted me onto a chariot covered with cobwebs. They fastened me in and the chariot prepared for takeoff until suddenly, out of nowhere, a jet took flight. The horse piloting it shouted down to us, mocking the fairies for their antique, dilapidated ride. I tried to call out for help but it just called me a jet-less loser. I’ve never been particularly fond of horses. The fairies decided to get revenge on the horse, and they started to push the jet straight up into the sky.
Ultimate peril set in…godzilla-sized rats leaped from catastrophically large trees. Tumbling over each other in their frenzied attacks, they screeched and nipped at anything that came near. The nuclear powers of the world launched warheads at the rats, but the metal morsels were too scrumptious for the rats to resist. While the rats feasted on aluminum bombs, the fire ants attacked. They merged into one gigantic ant and besieged the city. I ducked behind a truck that read “ant repellent..kill those darn pests”. Before that day, I had publicly defended the clever bugs, but once they took control, I was the first to run for my life. As the world seemed doomed, the billionaires heroically fleed Earth, leaving the rest of humanity behind.
Ultimate peril set in… godzilla-sized rats leapt from their hiding places in catastrophically large trees. They jumped and tumbled over each other in their frenzied attacks, screeching and nipping at anything that came near. The American government launched a program to create a Godzilla-sized cat to defeat the rodents. But like many government programs, it had little impact. The rats swarmed the enormous cat, taking it down, and the government had no money left to spend on fighting the rats. The United States as well as the other nuclear powers like India and China decided to launch warheads. Unfortunately, the rats ate the warheads and they gave the rats superman-like powers. One could often see them flying around, shooting lasers from their eyes, before descending to ravage grocery stores in search of any
leftover cheese. As the world seemed doomed, the billionaire Elon Musk heroically chose to flee to Mars, leaving the rest of humanity behind.
Around that time the fire ants attacked. They merged together into one gigantic fire ant and besieged the city. I ducked behind a truck that read “ant repellent..kill those darn pests”; I had grown fond of the clever bugs until one spotted me. At least they weren’t giant spiders. Quickly I picked one up and ate it. I took care to chew it, lest I swallow it whole and it eats out a hole in my body. I’d seen that happen to my friend Paul once. Not fun. The wandering beast had not come alone. 5 more gigantic ants peaked behind the truck. I couldn’t eat them all! I had just finished a giant loaf of cheesy bread. What was I going to do?!
Sophie Dekker, College, Mixed Media on Paper
Josephine DeMarco
Jacqueline Cecil
Marta Napiorkowska
Jeorge Yankura
Katey Charnin
Danny Gall
Samantha Gerber
Ephraim Gilrain-Lennon
Alex Holtzapffel
Birch Howe
Margaret Lange
Aviva Moss
John Rosseel
Matthew Seale
Alex Sheinkin
The editors are the leaders of The Pendulum staff, overseeing all activity within the publication. The editors are chosen by the editors of the previous year, based on their demonstrated literary and artistic talent, as well as leadership skills. They work closely with the English and Art departments to seek out work for The Pendulum.
At the start of the school year, the editors encourage Upper School students to join The Pendulum staff by attending meetings, conceiving of an annual theme for the publication, and contributing their critique of submitted works. The editors host weekly meetings during which they facilitate discussions about art and written submissions. The editors record staff votes of approval and disapproval of each piece, considering its part in the final publication. Outside of meetings, the editors encourage the Upper School to participate in The Pendulum by submitting their work and promoting the club through the publication’s social media, which they curate. The social media promotes the bi-monthly contests the editors host based off of the magazine’s annual theme. Ultimately, the editors make the final decision of admission of work to the magazine.
Advisor for Literature: Dr. Marta Napiorkowska
The faculty advisor for literature serve various roles. She sets a tone for what is “good,” analyzes literature, advises the staff about all written works, and promotes an environment conducive to constructive criticism. She also provide the staff with a variety of student works from classes.
Faculty Advisor for Art: Jeorge Yankura
The faculty advisor for art guides the staff on all visual matters. She facilitates discussion on the theme, lending an essential knowledge of how to create and translate our theme visually into our finished product. As a teacher of photography and digital design, she encourages her students to submit work, helping fill holes in the magazine that might otherwise be left empty. She is also extremely involved in the ultimate layout of the magazine, supervising and enabling its final development.
The typeface used in this volume of The Pendulum include Playfair Display and Adobe Hebrew. Playfair Display Italic Bold and Playfair Display Italic are used for for headers, titles, author names, individual artwork attributions and page numbers. Adobe Hebrew Regular and Adobe Hebrew Italic are utilized for text bodies.
Playfair Display is a serif-style typeface from the Playfair Project, led by Claus Eggers Sørensen, and is inspired by both the Scotch Roman typefaces and similar designs of John Baskerville, both from the Eighteenth Century. First released in 2011, this typeface features relatively consistent vertical height in both capital and lower case letters, making it ideal for printed material. The bold bodily shape and delicate hairlines make this typeface easy on the eyes and attractive for the reader’s experience.
Adobe Hebrew was created in 2004-2005 by John Hudson of Tiro Typeworks. This serif-style typeface was specifically created for contemporary Hebrew business communications. The Pendulum staff was attracted to the shape and crisp nature of the letters in this type family, which allows for ease of readability by the viewer.
The Pendulum layout and design was created using Adobe InDesign from the 2023 version of the Adobe Creative Cloud. The Pendulum was printed with a Kodak NexPress ZX 3300 Digital Production Color Press at Impression Point Printing in Norwalk, Connecticut, by alumni parent Robert La Banca. It uses Enhanced Dry Ink that produces a consistently high image quality, providing vibrant colors, consistent spot color matching, smooth flat field and gradients, and the unique ability to match the ink gloss level to the substrate being printed. The paper used is Accent Opaque 80# for cover and text.
