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JANUS Williston’s Literature and Arts Magazine Volume 65 Spring 2020
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JANUS Editor in Chief: Lila Schaefer Managing Editor: Ruby McElhone Yates Faculty Advisor: Sarah Sawyer
Members Michael Curtis George Spence Brodie Fazio Sarah Markey Elsa Frankel Nicholas Heafey Na Kyung Lee Lily Ann Vengco Sumner Kissane Melissa Baseman
Table of Contents The Biggest Avenue Went Quiet—Melissa Baseman …………..…… Cover Return to Narnia—Bailey Schiff …………………………………………………… 3 Leaping—Michael Curtis …………………………………………………………….. 4 Flower by the Cottage—Elsa Frankel ……………………………………………. 5 Quiet Catastrophe—Lila Schaefer ..………………………………………………. 6 Prints: Greed & Gone Fishing—Charlie Blumberg …………………………. 7 Social Class Gap in Brazil—Melissa Baseman …………………..…….…….. 8 Past—William Gunn …………………………………………………..………………. 9 Capsize—Lila Schaefer …………………………………………..……..…………… 10 origami—Abigail Belfer ……………………………………..………………..…….. 11 SOFTWARE—Charlie Blumberg …………………………………………..…….. 11 Photos: Butter Lamps & Prayer Flags—Shez Zangmo ………….....……. 12 Bus 72—Sarah Markey……………………………………………………………….. 13 Flamingo—Yijune Hong ……………………………………..……………………… 16 Project Uncomfy—Bailey Schiff …………….……………………………………. 17 Marathon In The Neighborhood—Lila Schaefer ……….………………….. 18 Untitled Photos—Melissa Baseman ……………………………………………. 19 Untitled Drawings—William Gunn ……………………………………….……. 20 The Final Word—Anaya Akpalu ……………………………….………….…….. 21
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Return to Narnia Bailey Schiff
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Leaping Michael Curtis I rise, with the snow-capped mountain. I admire the trees, thin and vain, towering, green, veiled by rising steam. I rise with the trees and the mountain, with the crowds below, their icy breath, their car-exhaust, as my companions. I see them run beyond me, recede before me, and I am content. I see a billowing chimney, a colossal smokestack, spewing steam congratulatorily. I look to the sun; I rise, ever higher. I see the interstate, from above the clouds. I see it cruise, I see them fall and spin, turn and run. I see the headlights falling down a hill, in orderly procession. I have my God beside me, and we are equal. I have my people below me, and we are the same. I fall. I feel no fear. I fall with the snowflakes cascading, and the starlight shimmering. I fall. The mountain falls before me, steadily dropping down behind an ancient stand of trees. I slide down the hillside, flanked by snow-frosted spires and crenulations of rock, and trees. I see the lake, pummeling towards me; I feel the frozen water, embracing my body. I stare up at the streetlamps, shining sunlight, from the icy depths, and I close my eyes.
I rise again, for I have fallen, but not died. 4
Flower by the Cottage Elsa Frankel
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Quiet Catastrophe Lila Schaefer There are things you’ll forget— Dripping drawings in car window condensation The way calloused hands melt into water Dresses leaving red marks The good parts The way the earth really spins How everyone noticed You deflated once you came home. Splintery screen doors Ice frozen into sword-shapes and chopsticks Some people are real, true, And some are just experiments— Strangers claiming religion each Sunday. Always impossible to ignore; impossible to adore— A back pocket pressed sturdily Riding a worn-in school mascot, Smaller than it really is under Layers of colored chemical shell And the light pollution of a small New England town just off the highway.
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Imagine, things that never happened: Bare feet on scalding pavement The dull thud of a closing car door Boxes of birthday cards forgotten beneath your bed the new old watch by your bedside An unsupervised trip to somewhere better The smell of massive infection Ruminating in the back of your throat. Remember a quiet catastrophe.
Prints by Charlie Blumberg Greed Gone Fishing
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Social Class Gap in Brazil Melissa Baseman
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Past William Gunn Past the building in which I learned who I am over an‌ interesting two-year stretch Past the building in which I learned that I hate history and love to draw Past the lights that never burned over my head Past the bridge, the turf, the glassed-in plastic box, dorms, dining halls, libraries I remember what it means to not know what time means. I remember what it means to not know what it means that you won’t know what you have got until it's gone. I remember billowing snow, burning tar, rain, hail, sleet, thunder, lighting. I remember everything that I forgot to remember. Those nights with friends that I passed up, games I didn’t go to, events I should have attended. Past fallen houses, past buildings growing day by day, because screw science I guess Past broken panes of glass that mean nothing to nobody Past burnt out patches of grass that should really be dead by now Past lawn chairs that will never again call me their friend. I remember the beginning of it all. I remember being stuck in the body of a fat little 7th grader. I remember a coach who looked after me when I failed to finish the first warm-up of my very first season. I remember doing what I set out to do at approximately three o'clock on an innocuous Saturday when I took down Thor and screamed my lungs out. I remember doing something that had not been done in a decade, in a manner never before seen. I remember letting him down. Past brick buildings that housed people that I loved but could not love me Past mile markers 9
Past red plastic that stained and dimpled my hands for five years Past warm, dry, and now empty spring evenings I remember. I remember it all. I remember days I wish that I could forget. I remember days that I wish I could live in forever. I remember the burning taste of blood, the crunching of molars, the smell of sweat on metal. I remember. And I hope that at least one someone else does just the same
Capsize Lila Schaefer
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origami Abigail Belfer
I want to fold at the edges with fingertips outstretched, I want to lay flat and assured as paper I want to be symmetrical, I want to reflect across my axis and come back and back as I am call it what you want, this elemental process of chasing someone else’s Eden mine! not mine!
SOFTWARE Charlie Blumberg
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Photos by Shez Zangmo Butter Lamps
Prayer Flags
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Bus 72 Sarah Markey After 24 years of driving Bus 72, Gus had begun to think of himself as part of the machine. He was an extension of the steering wheel. His hands were programmed to turn right at the rotary on Garfield Avenue as automatically as the wheels rolled. If passengers had happened to notice him, which they never did, it would have been difficult for them to find something to remark about other that how utterly forgettable Gus was. The only benefit of being invisible, believed Gus, were the conversations he overheard. It seemed to Gus everyone else was moving on with their lives while he was sidelined in the driver’s seat of Bus 72. He was stuck in the same perpetual cycle— same peanut butter and cheese on Wonder Bread for lunch, same black New Balance sneaks, same dress pants that fit uncomfortably snugly around the hips from too many years of sitting. And same blue city-issued polo that hadn’t been ironed since his wife left him 12 years earlier. In his imagination, he played a heroic role in every conversation he overheard; he was a man of action. Still dwelling on the what-ifs of his marriage, he slid into his usual habit of eavesdropping… “I’m leaving,” she said. “It’s not fair,” he said. “Hon, I’m too tired for this tonight.” “After all the work I put in?” “I know we committed to it, but I’m sorry it just really is not worth it.” “I was the only one trying. What am I supposed to say?” “Tell them it was me, not you.” “You don’t understand what it’s like to work your ass off for something and still fail—to care when no one else does.”
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“I’m sorry, I know this isn’t what you want, but it’s what’s best for me.” “But what about what’s best for me, why is no one thinking about that?” “I promise this is not about you.” Chills shot down Gus’s spine. He grasped the steering wheel for dear life. There he was on November 13th, twelve years ago. They were prepping for his family to come for Thanksgiving when she said it, when she told him she was leaving. She was taking the cat and her new Crockpot, and she wasn’t coming back. That she was tired of him. That he was a mistake. That he was a wimp of a man. That everything he’d been insecure about was true. And what had Gus done? Sat there in silence. At least this man had the nerve to fight back. Why hadn’t Gus stood up for himself? Why couldn’t he have been a hero? Here, today, right now, he decided it would all change. Today would be different. For once in his life he would be the superman the world needed. Gosh, how he wished he’d stood tall and strong and confident when his wife walked out. Today he had been given a second chance. He would take it. He would do it for love. He would save this love. He would save this marriage. Gus, the programmed machine, changed his routine for the first time in 24 years. Taking his eyes off the road and stomping the brakes, he brought Bus 72 to a screeching halt smack dab in the intersection of Union and Belmont Streets. A cacophony of horns blared around him, but Gus didn’t care. He was a man on a mission. The horns kept blasting. To Gus they sounded like the Olympic Fanfare. He imagined himself a boxer striding into the ring for the fight of his life. His foe was heartbreak. He would vanquish it. Gus turned smarty and faced the fighting couple. “Just tell Janet and Mark that while we are ever so grateful for their invitation to get drinks tonight, I’m just too worn out from work. I 14
love you, Sweets. I’m leaving the office now, see you at home,” said the woman, phone pressed to her cheek. “Mom, I know, I wanted to do better too. You think I’m happy with a 75? But I swear to God, I was the only one who put any work into the presentation. Group projects just straight up aren’t fair… Anyway, I’ll be home soon. Love you,” said the boy, phone pressed to his cheek. Simultaneously they saw the driver, who was bearing down on them with a strange look on his face. “He’s gone insane,” she said. “I’m calling 911. The bus driver’s gone absolutely insane”. “Hey, you freak, what are you trying to do, get us killed?” Shouted the boy. Oh, how wrong he had been! What a fool he was! Why had he ever thought he could be a hero? How could he have forgotten he would always be the loser in a wrinkled polo shirt? At that moment, Gus had never hated himself more. And then the moment passed. In an explosion of glass and metal, the moment and Gus’s remorse were obliterated by a gray Honda Civic which slammed into Bus 72 at high speed. In the paper the next morning, a headline screamed the sad story: “BUS BLOCKING INTERSECTION CAUSES CRASH, KILLING MOTHER OF FOUR”.
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Flamingo Yijune Hong
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Project Uncomfy Bailey Schiff
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Marathon In The Neighborhood Lila Schaefer You run past the crack in the cement that shows what the sidewalk looked like before you moved in, past the tree that dusted your sick cousin’s Honda with pollen every time he came to visit, near the dark cement shape that fills in the road that you always thought looked like the outline of a coffin, and wondered who was buried there, past the swing in your neighbors’ front yard that you spent each childhood afternoon on, taking turns with your friends—feet skimming the ground until the grass became mud and the mud became dust—and leaping over the drains you and your sister used to unclog with the taped ends of hockey sticks whenever there was a fall rainstorm, when you would wade in the street water as it seeped into your boots until your mother told you to come inside because something—a dead bird or used condom or some sort of fecal matter—was circling the drain, then you pass the family in the blue house on the corner of the block who always talked about making a treehouse and then actually did it, ducking your head under the branches of the tree that blooms pink flowers outside your bedroom window each spring, the one whose leaves you grip between your bare toes as you dangle your feet over the windowsill, waiting for things to be the same as they used to be before passing the houses at the end of the street that all have garages full of dusty deflated innertubes and outgrown bike helmets packed around parked cars you can’t remember how to drive because there’s nowhere to go. You run past the crack that stretches all the way down the middle of the street: you follow it for the last mile. The skin on your feet feels like it’s being rubbed off and you wonder if your nails have been fully hammered into your toes, but this pain is comfortable. It's the same kind of torture that people bring upon themselves when they think so incessantly about something that happened to them—a dead pet, a missed opportunity, a heartbreak—for too long. The
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kind of comfortable loneliness that brings you to a park after dusk, eyes watering at the sight of a rusted fence and bench you once sat at with a friend. The familiar kind of frustration—haunting, like the sight of the back of your eyelids as they filter red light on a summer day, or the feeling that comes when you say the name of a stranger over and over. It feels like you’re pouring yourself down each street drain you run over, cracking the whip of each step on your own back.
Photos by Melissa Baseman
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Untitled Drawings William Gunn
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The Final Word Anaya Akpalu   I have dedicated hours To this maze of a body I created a map To help you find your way Until you decided your journey No longer intersected with mine And I had to learn to be ok with it It never was a reflection of myself As much as I attempt to hold myself responsible For things I have no control over This time I get the final word I am proud of how Secure I am in so many parts of me One of my most crowning achievements Was the discovery of the potential Energy Dormant in my vocal chords As small as I stand My diction can fill an ocean So for the new being that has emerged From that pain On that day I still yearn to say this I deserve the final word:   I hope One Day You realize Every being is a puzzle
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We fit into all other parts of ourselves Intentionally For God or a Big Bang Or the love of a mother's womb Dedicated time to you The end result may resemble Monet's Impressionist Waterlily Pond Or Neo-expressionist of Basquiat You are a true work of Art Remember that beautiful things Take time to create And admire I never want to forget the day I realized how complex you were And I was so eager to learn Everything that made you different All your intricacies and nuances Made you worthy of an expedition I am forever grateful I took. It helped me realize My own worth.   Our cells regenerate every 7 years Truly take time to appreciate each one Before they perish and Are no longer a part of you Learn the complexity of your emotions so One Day You learn to fully give yourself to another being Become two paintings In One Exhibit 22
In The Metropolitan Museum of Art I know my worth It continues to grow as the years pass And my heart beats This heart taken for granted By ones claiming to care the most I deserve to feel resentment Toward the parts of me I gifted you In return to a ticket to a heart That never came in the mail But I will not love myself in fragments I will not discard parts of me in return for anyone's praise I've already taken time to be secure in the way I love Hurt in the end or not I will love you into A chrysalis So you take time to grow like All beautiful things I'll keep the memory of you in a shadowbox Along with the other beautifully intricate things That just need time To learn to love themselves first So here lie my final words:   Take Care.
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“If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment.” - Henry David Thoreau
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