stone-cutter s
Journey Issue
spring 2009
Staff Editors in Chief
Erin Bilgin Ava Kofman Eli Petzold Catie Yagher
Staff Errol Bilgin Jason Mohr Jennifer Chan Candice Navi Jeffrey Dastin Michelle Nosratian Spencer Horstman Phoebe Singer Rachel Katz Jacqueline Sir Gaby Leslie Myles Teasley
Faculty Advisor
Ms. Raphael
Front Cover: Walking Girl by Candice Navi Back Cover: Winter Road by Gaby Leslie Special thanks to the Chronicle, Vox Populi, and Jennifer Bladen.
Stone-Cutters is a Harvard-Westlake publication for prose, photo, and art. The font in this issue is, more or less, Tahoma. Printed by Enigma Creative.
Table of Contents 1994 by Max Ritvo Day Three by Jarred Green Doorway by Gaby Leslie Drawing in Charcoal by Charlie Fogarty Fence by Rachel Katz Ferris Wheel by Joe Girton Last Letter to a Perfect Stranger by A.J. Calabrese Lost Boy by Eli Petzold Mark One by Will Hellwarth Mark Two by Will Hellwarth Mirrors by Jacqueline Lee Mouth by Nicola Kronsdat Moving Away by April Rosner Pelops by Max Ritvo Ping Pong with Einstein in the Rain by Ava Kofman Rays by Alexander Jaffe Red Arrow by Ava Kofman Rigorous Mortis by Will Hellwarth Shrinking by Caitlin Croft Some Streets by Phoebe Singer Spidercubes by Lily Einstein Strangers by Jack Mankiewicz Talking about the future by A.J. Calabrese The Door by Myles Teasley The Stranger by Allegra Tepper Train by Oliver Doublet Tribal by Nicola Kronsdat Untitled by Allison Kalt Vacancy by Chelsea McMahon Waiting Room by Myles Teasley waking dream by Eli Petzold Waterfountains by Sarah Tither-Kaplan Why Not Take a Chance by Spencer Horstman
5 8 20 7 28 23 10 18 11 12 8 23 26 22 3 2 29 6 17 12 16 13 31 21 24 19 6 27 4 9 14 30 6
--Alexander Jaffe
2
Ping Pong with Einstein in the Rain ill write you a poem and it will be about the rain in Bath but not about the sound because everyone knows that the rain sounds like a thousand baby fists pounding on marble archways and it won’t be about its appearance either but for no particular reason except that if talk about such things i won’t have the time to tell you about the rain that fell down today when i was playing ping pong with albert einstein by the tennis courts and how the droplets smoothed down the hair around his face like a giant white sticker upon his forehead during matchpoint (11 me, 9 him) and how during the second game when it started pouring hard our high socks got so wet that our shoes squished every time we moved around to take a shot and the wrinkles in his clothes sank beneath the weight of the water so that they looked brand new so that the only resemblance of his former self was the inability to spin a shot until the sun came out later drying his hair and shrinking his clothes so that when the ball got stuck in the mud his shadow waltzed away never knowing of the sodden hour without an outline of frizzed hair --Ava Kofman
3
1994
--Chelsea McMahon
In 1994 my ukulele picked the last sunflower seed from between its teeth and fell over neckwards and put its leg between its tails. It was like the death of so many of my good intentioned things in those days; harmonicas and a potter’s wheel and balsa wood planes- or at least it should have been. But it wasn’t My uncle- the one who was a commando in the Israeli army and who mom said (and mom said a lot of things) had killed with his bare hands, he gave me that ukulele. I didn’t care that it was a geographically incongruous gift, or that there was a slutty topless silver hula girl etched into the side of the interior- so you could only see her if you pressed your forehead into the strings and twisted your neck- all I cared about was that all you had to do to play C was stick your finger- just one finger on the third fret of the last string. It was the only chord I learned but I was so fucking proud. 4
So of course, when it broke everyone else was very gratefulbut I wasn’t. I think about that ukulele a lot- I think if I still had it maybe I could earn some bread with it. I’m not overly ambitious about it, I mean I can’t think of any ukulele stars and its not like I expect to sell CDs or be on T.V. or anything. Just earn a little dough relaxing on a park bench, and maybe have some kids gather around and listen to me play- and a Dad putting his little blond princess on his shoulders so she can see better. And maybe once word got around I could play at a hotel or an airport or something, and people would smile and relax and smile at me. And then the manager would give me a warm handshake and a neat little wad of bills, and invite me to come and play again soon. Ukuleles cost upward of eighty dollars, jus so you know- instruments are expensive so unless that street performer is banging a drum that is literally just some dog-shit with a plastic bag stretched over it he’s probably just some rich guy goofing off. The guy told me that some people make their own ukuleles with cigar boxes and that then it would only cost me enough for the strings if I had some cigar boxes. I told him I had plenty of cigarette cartons and a few rubber bands and did he think that would work. We had a good laugh- he was a good guy- we laughed and laughed but then his boss come and glared at me till I left. I’d buy me some cold cuts, and a new sleeping bag, and a decent lay every now and again. That’s what I’d do. --Max Ritvo
5
Rigorous Mortis His feet beat On unpaved street. He crossed the threshold Of the inn of Ill Omen, His heart beat ten fold Faster than most men. Rain slicked, feeling most Indefinitely fatigued, He pressed the host to bleed him a measure. The barkeep complained That his vessels were bled. And without disdain, He bade him thus To sleep, For his hourglass ran too late. And so he conceded To his dormant fate. --Will Hellwarth --Nicola Kronsdat
Why Not Take A Chance Drifting above, On edge of my leaf, I stare down at my humble abode. An old man kneeling, A child squealing. Why not take a chance and enter a world unto its own. I seem to think its all over, But there’s always time for one last go.
6
“He took the plunge,” they’ll shout, Unaware of the truth: All I did was clear the path, So someone else could. --Spencer Horstman
--Charlie Fogarty
7
Day Three (Lines taken from Oedipus by Sophocles) 985 971 936 994 851 883 780 761 764 770 910 1008 1081 1117 1171 1181 1191 867 898 902
Never again will I go I will never let you go Trust me They are dying As I go through all this I will tell you Listen to me I think you’re insane I’d be insane, you know it I will tell you, I respect you Look me in the eyes I beg you I live in fear You were a gift I want the best for you I’m afraid that from this silence The moons have marked me out I had to make my move I killed them all I am the man
--Jared Green
8
--Jacqueline Lee
In the Waiting Room Thoughts, engraved, envelope your brain, Of terror, of anguish, of black eyes and pain On plush satin, you sit and stare straight ahead At a black and white portrait of words left unsaid Moments turn minutes turn eternities (Time is a sickness with no remedies.) Then the door opens wide and a frightened boy leaves He trips on the carpet and falls to his knees As vice-grips on shoulders emerge from the gloom, Two machines, emerging, with hearts made of stone, And the boy looks up fearing, skin withers away Shows clockworks of emotions and no shades of gray The boy nods and he rises to unspoken commands Now, mechanical, he takes their two hands. Moments turn minutes turn eternities (Time is a sickness with no remedies.) From beyond office doors, a voice calls your name “David Hart, please step forward into my domain, Bring all your worries in with you, leave nothing out I’ll help with all your problems; I’ll help with your doubt. And by the time we are done here, I assure you this: You’ll be a whole different person with nothing amiss.” Uneasy steps forward, leave the ever tense gloom Of the drama you’ve witnessed in The Waiting Room. --Myles Teasley
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Last Letter to a Perfect Stranger Strike me with just one name that rings true Just one that ties the ceiling to the floor While I lounge alone in ringing loom Years before a certain war As I lay I stay bent like an arch Toward voices nudging the footsteps down the street Soon I know I’ll need to join that march I’ve heard that jingling shortchange of defeat But don’t mind me, I was just leaving. Before I couldn’t say I’d witnessed much I ran through streams of ideality ‘What a scam, a trick, a shabby crutch Bein’ sucked in truth, seein’ reality!’ So if by now these words are turning stale Fire them at your strangers through a wire If not, perhaps you’ll see me by the mail The sublimation of desire But don’t mind me, I was just leaving. I’ve found it hard to just let things pass through me Though I got nothing against a hearty fight I see just what my eyes elude straight to me And alone that robs my pillow every night
10
So tell your famous guests and unknown queens I’ve learned it all and grown what’s left to grow ‘Tis better shocked by others’ electric dreams Than tempted by what only you can know But don’t mind me, I was just leaving. Do they have their frozen names to guide them? Do they know who now must take the dive? Don’t their muted smiles show they are happy? Does it mean they are alive? Until I see myself in all their faces I’ll always be indebted to their health When common people claim such different graces So undoes the history of myself But don’t mind me, I was just leaving. --A.J. Calabrese
--Will Hellwarth
11
--Will Hellwarth
Some Streets Some streets Down towards sundown, golden on the sidewalk, We walk, thinking He walked here before. And, Not knowing his name, Rename his steps and one more Our steps, Our stops, The stories we have in store. I’d like to see what part of me Is the man who went before. 12
--Phoebe Singer
Strangers He walked across Union Square last night. Laughter bled into the cobalt sky until the clouds began clutching their sides, gasping for air. He reached into his pocket, accidentally spilling some coins in the street. They skittered across the pavement, coming to rest against a sea of granite. She picked a quarter off the ground and brought her eyes toward the stranger. They were filled with gray gold as she smiled. “Is this yours?” “Yeah...thanks.” Her face fell sideways. The night air hummed as he slipped back into the cluttered, concrete ocean. He glanced backwards as her features came into sharp focus. Her profile hung on the night air, creating a permanent, indelible image where it had been. I walked across Union Square last night, back to the spot where I’d seen her. Her face was still there, swaying back and forth on the ripples of the warm night air. I reached into my pocket and slipped some coins through my fingers. They hit the ground with a hollow thud, spreading out to fill the square. I picked up each coin one by one until I was ready to collapse under their sheer weight. The quarters were heaviest. --Jack Mankiewicz
13
waking dream
i have a recurring dream; in the daytime; wide awake: i am clothed only in skin surrounded by nature, untamed, unbound. clothed only in skin and briefs and black ribbons tied to my wrists and to my ankles. they stream through air, thick with little stars of moisture as i run along a cliff’s edge jutting from a white and restless sea.
i run, but i do not tire. past dead trees whose claws scrape the fog. vines climb the cliff; the winds pick up:
i find myself beneath an old lighthouse, battered by the storms of my grandfather’s years. alternating red and white spiral up to the brilliant light, which, despite its great strength, cannot pierce this fog. there is a door; rickety and slanted at its foot. it opens with ease and a creak like a song. one hundred violins in unison greet me: i am in a ballroom lit by a thousand jack-o-lanterns. a masquerade; men and women waltz, holding masks to their faces: one-two-three, one-two-three. a girl comes to me, a long and white fur coat hanging over her arm. she slips my arms into it, ties it around my front. i feel a warmth like brandy drip down my spine. her mask is of a pretty girl with a soft face and blue eyes. her hair towers towards the sky-painted ceiling like babel or perhaps like marie antoinette. she comes closer to me, pulls the mask from her face.
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what is this, madam dear? may i ask who you are?
she pulls the mask away from her face and beneath are those same blue eyes, that same soft face. with a cold hand in mine, she leads me to a vast mirror wrought with gold. i stare at her eyes’ reflection and she stares back at my reflected eyes. she releases my hand from her grasp, bringing her cold and long fingers to my eyes. she closes them. i feel her tie something about the back of my head. a mask. i open my eyes, look in the mirror, expecting to see – but the mask bears my visage. she smiles and pulls another mask from off her face. still that same soft, cold face. another, another. they fall to the ivory floor beneath. another, another may i ask, madam dear? still gazing at the mirror, i see her reflection kissing mine. i look away from the mirror and she is not kissing me. i look back and our reflections are still embracing, kissing. i look away and now we are kissing.
madam dear, may i ask?
i untie her mask as we kiss. i do not think she notices.
may i ask who you are?
i pull it off.
i am running. vines climb the cliff. dead trees scrape the fog. black ribbons trail behind me.
somewhere, i hear a mirror shattering.
--eli petzold
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16
--Lily Einstein
Shrinking (3-27-08) (5:54 AM) I’ve never particularly been interested in being interrogated before. But somehow he has a way of making me feel like I’ve decided to come to him. He has me thinking that I want to be here, telling him my life’s story. The more I tell, the more pathetic I feel. Still he sits there. Taking notes. I still can’t decide if he’s passing judgement or just doing his job. Either way, I can’t sit in one spot for too long for fear I might become rooted there. He is understanding enough. With a habit of guessing what I’m trying to say when I can’t quite verbalize it. While he sits there with his notepad and his degree, trying to figure me out, I sit on the opposite side of the room, trying to figure him out (degreeless and without writing materials). I wonder if he’d be opposed if I brought my own notepad, to even the playing field. Here are some things I’ve noticed about him: He listens to good music with the exception of some random artists. He always gives me the same look when he wants to get something out of me. He wears a sport coat over jeans every day. He’ll look up from his note-taking for just an instant in an attempt to read my expression
if I’m reluctant to tell him how I feel about something. He only crosses his right leg over his left. (Never the other way.) Here are some things he’s noticed about me: I am a perfectionist. I am impulsive when I am insecure. I think too much. I’m obsessive compulsive to a degree where I don’t need meds, but it hasn’t gone unnoticed. When I start feeling uncomfortable, I start to babble, and my sentences become more incoherent and rushed. I cannot sit in one position on his couch for more than a minute before I begin to feel tense and have to move around. I try to distract him sometimes by discussing music and promising to burn him CDs. He is unfazed by my antics. It’s hard not to like the guy. He has a sunny and unassuming façade. I still haven’t figured out if that’s what he’s really like or if he’s just paid to act that way. It’s been hard to keep from analyzing him with my cynical side. I’m sure by the time he’s compiled enough information on me, I’ll have just as information on him. In the meantime, I will continue to spend my sessions trying to determine whether he’s the shrink or I’m the shrink, and which one of us is being “shrinked” or “shrunk” or “shrunken.”
--Caity Croft
17
lost boy
18
he doesn’t remember packing. he doesn’t remember the books he left, now collecting dust high on a shelf in a room he does not remember. he does not remember the music that once resounded on the thin, wallpapered sides of the room from his phonograph; or the several records he leaned against his bedside table. the sounds of their lyrics and instruments would not bring back nostalgic memories; no memories of winter’s first snow, summer’s first firefly; no memories of his first kiss. he doesn’t remember the kitchen, nor the coffee brewed there in the chipped carafe. nor does he remember the mother who served him the warm cookies she baked there in his youth. a youth forgotten. he remembers the train. he remembers how it lulled him to sleep. he remembers the weather, but not the month. it was grey and foggy through the window; rainy, and cold. he doesn’t remember why. he remembers train station after train station, their red bricks dyed darker by the rain. the towns became smaller with each stop. grass overtook brick; nature enveloped the towns. with the slightest of jolts he was awoken. the last stop. he doesn’t remember why he left. he remembers stepping onto the platform, feeling the broken heavens rain upon him. he doesn’t remember the other passengers running for cover from the pouring rain. he remembers allowing himself to become soaked. he remembers enjoying it. he doesn’t remember the perplexed looks of the travelers as they watched him smiling, alone, in the rain. he doesn’t remember loneliness. he doesn’t remember walking through the few and narrow streets of the town. he remembers the green hills open before him as he reached the town’s edge. he remembers seeing the eaves of the woods line the horizon. he doesn’t remember packing and he doesn’t remember what he packed. he remembers the clothes spilling out of his suitcase as he let it roll down the hill. he remembers seeing the forest draw nearer and nearer. he remembers the vividness of the green leaves against the grey sky.
he remembers crossing the threshold of the woods. he remembers succumbing to nature. he remembers how simple everything became. he remembers forgetting. he remembers forgetting why he left. he remembers journeying further and further in. he remembers laying his head upon the softest grass. he remembers the ease with which he fell asleep. he wakes up. he lifts his body up, feels the softness of the grass. he makes a note in his head to remember his dream. and then he remembers the way the town he called home seemed to grow smaller and smaller through the train window. and then he remembers and then he regrets that there was no ‘why.’ --Eli Petzold
--Oliver Doublet
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20
--Gaby Leslie
The Door Let my dulcet tones be the door Through which you view my yesterdays Let me take you, let me harken back, And tell you of a burning yearning And let my eyes read your face ‘fore your mouth begins to speak So I know where to go before your words Demand I get there. Harsh words and shattered glass unwilling, Shoved down innocent throats and shrill voices flaying Eardrums with sonic booms of cruel words and the lies, Yes the lies, too much to handle . . . So bad I wonder what Truth is. And on pins and needles, Somewhere between one dragon and another, I dream of wind rushing through open windows, Of a silky-smooth Base and a jazzy saxophone playing while Speedometers measure out cruising speed and song Filling my ears as life-sounds whiz by And I dream of impossibilities. --Myles Teasely
21
Pelops Absentmindedly; caught up in her grief and mellerdrama the Goddess sipped some of my cartilage and gristle. It’s fine, you know, I was dead- and couldn’t feel a thing. And now I have scapula that smells of India spittle and is whiter than caterpillar shit. I am often asked, “What was he like?” They expect tales of mad arrogance- the arrogance that sandblasts pyramids or makes Africans believe that night was a quilt woven to keep them from the moon’s cold. Or else they expect tales of cowardice that borders on comedy- of a man who would lamblike, carve his son into or out of a rock because of a practical joke whistled in his ear by the wind. I am also often asked what it is like to be dead. I’m always rather surprised by this question- I should think it would be much more interesting to ask me what it is like to be born. It felt, being born, like a cup was placed beneath my skin. And like an incision was made in my skin, above the cup. And like wine, and then beer, and then barley, and then mashed potatoes, and then some sticks and some stones were dripped and then drizzled and then poured and then dumped through the ever widening incision. And by the time I was full, the incision had gaped so far that I began to breathe through it. It was not so much that I took breaths but that I simply couldn’t help breathing through it- it was just so yawning as to invite a gush of air. My father was not any of those things. He was slight and meticulous. He smelled like latex gloves. His hands were exceedingly gentle, but very deceitful. I often mistook for warmth what was really a delicate and precise measurement- an assessment of some sort. When he exposed my neck, his thumb loosened for a moment on my jaw-line, and began to stroke my cheek. I wept, for I could see no practical application for the gesture. --Max Ritvo 22
--Nicola Kronsdat
--Joe Girton 23
(The Stranger) Two Skyscrapers linger in a blur of Black and white. I call them out. But the cold Steel forms stay grounded. They are loud, but do not respond to my cries. Two foundations Too small To hold up a Revolution. A deep night sky shields suffocating waves From the terrified victims ashore. What they don’t know, The seaweed is softer than the Arabian mane. The deep night sky reaches over the Cascading foothills, made not Of neither earth Nor water. The music sounds like war The enemy marches to An unfaltering beat. A commotion of crashes Ends the battle, but the fight is Everlasting. Machine guns’ barrels grace me, And feel like snow. The white winter wraps around me Like a straight jacket at The Asylum of Affections. A blanket of summer. Don’t let go.
24
(He waits.)
(He stands.)
(He roars.)
(He embraces.)
Deep wells are filled with ice picks, Honest blue. Twin planes fly overhead, Like synchronized swimmers in an Empty lakebed. A pair of sadistic scarlet snakes slither Across a chiseled rock. They creep up without A sound, then hiss their demand. They bite, but never to slay, leaving Intoxicating venom behind. It’s addicting. Plunging waterfalls cover the Smooth rocks, a veneer Impermeable. They thunder too loud for one to See the crystal beauty Underneath. Unknown, untouched, Unappreciated. A dust bowl at the top of The universe engulfs me From the other side Of the world.
(He stares.)
(He speaks.)
(He hides.)
(He leaves.) --Allegra Tepper
25
Moving Away Four years ago, we moved away from our old house. We packed up the knick-knacks, our treasured books and toys, and the bits and pieces of memory lying around into big boxes. White ones – my mom says white is the color of rebirth – which we labeled neatly in stark black sharpie. Sweaty indifferent men slung them into the back of a hulking white truck and slammed the door, hiding our white boxes from the light. My daddy called, but I lingered, not wanting to leave the house where I grew up. I paused in the kitchen, once all scintillating furniture and bright tiles, our very own 50’s diner. That day, the walls were bare and white – only the tiled counter remained. I passed through the dining room, warm and elegant. Honey colored, home of dinner parties and staying up late, fancy desserts and grown-up conversation. Stopping in the sun porch, I remembered the long hours of hard play, learning how to share toys and clambering over my father’s cold and heavy exercise machines. I looked out through the big glass windows, met too often by a flying super ball and stared at the deep green foliage of the spreading oak that shaded half of our forest of a backyard. I hesitated in the living room, place of cartwheels between coffee tables and polite conversation. I looked up at the ceiling, thinking of the many balloons lost among those high rafters, and danced a last few steps in front of the bare wood where speakers used to sit. Heading downstairs, I slid down the cold black banister one last time, and clattered through the wood-floored hallway. The den, room of entertainment. There used to be a TV on that wall, and the computer on the desk in that corner. The huge black armchair - the one that was so big I could curl up on it like a bed – should be there, opposite the TV. At least the warm wooden walls haven’t changed. There will be no more Saturday morning cartoons here, no more winter night reading till my eyes blur, and no more lazy days out on the balcony in the sun. Back through the hall I went, poking my head through the doorway of my parents’ room. It still smelled of lemons, promising to banish midnight fears, and a safe haven for those in need. I smiled at the closet door, remembering secret hideouts built and disregarded, and frenzied moments of hide-and-go-seek tag. Through the comforting green tile bathroom, site of baths where, often as not, there was as much water on the floor as in the tub. My room. No matter who moves in next, this room is my room. That’s where the bunk bed I share with my brother went. From my top bunk I could touch the sky-blue ceiling sitting down.
26
The eastern window’s still there, waiting to wake other sleepers with the sun. That’s where the bookshelves should be, double rowed, and still overflowing. My dream catcher used to hang on the wall above my bed, and the dressers along that wall. My room, dwelling of soccer in the house, and reading under the covers with a flashlight, years of homework at my blue desk, and falling asleep between the padded arms of the rocking chair that was in the corner. Refuge from anger or sorrow, fort, playhouse, library, the room that echoed with laughter. I turned
--April Rosner
--Allison Kalt
27
--Rachel Katz 28
Red Arrow there’s this dirt pit at the end of the road with a bunch of arrows in it “they’re olga’s” carl tells me as we ride past the wooden weeds back to Market I buy two large cans of soda and some vegetables because lola says to her mom is a doctor and sewed up my knee when i fell off the swing and split open my hand our bikes lean against the fence and carl scrawls “Don’t” so we know they won’t get stolen. then Olga comes over after dinner and we watch the fourth episode of ‘Killers’ distracted when Carl makes funny faces at the serious part where Marlon reunites with his family until he gets kidnapped next episode the veggies are stale so we talk about Barber’s Wife and teleradios while i steal an extra serving of soda and Olga pretends not to notice I forget to ask her about the arrows and what will happen to them because in april the snow gets really heavy and it’ll cover up the whole dirt pit so you can only see the red tips pushing through like dragon claws carving your name --Ava Kofman in the fog
29
30
--Sarah Tither-Kaplan
Talking About the Future In twenty years I will call to have lunch Only you’ll think I said ‘launch’ Our accents will be very different What with global warming and all You’ll get there early And stand there waiting Until I come in covered in dirt and screams And neither of us will say a word as we sit down Our lives will be summarized there In deli chips and carrots As you twirl your hair like spaghetti And say you’re losing your faith I ask why And you give some morbid reason Like global warming And I laugh because that’s the least of my worries --A.J. Calabrese
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Journey Issue Spring 2009 “A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.�--James Joyce, Dubliners