Note from the

Editors � 6W\� [QVKM� \PM�LIa[� WN � ¹+ITTQWXuº�PI[�+ITTQWXM�JMMV� QV� \PM�PIJQ\� WN � LM[QOVI\QVO� I� [XMKQÅK�“theme” to each issue. This evolution, or maybe devolution we should say, happened for two reasons: 1) themes are hard to come up with, and 2) themes tend to limit the variety of submissions we receive and accept. Instead, we have learned to unify our content (to the best of our abilities) through the use of color and motifs. However, for this issue, independent of any direction on our part, the work of a V]UJMZ�WN �\PW[M�_PW�[]JUQ\\ML�LQL�ZMÆMK\�I�KWUUWV�\PMUM"�IVO[\��AM[��Q\�Q[�_QV\MZ��IVL�aM[��_M�IZM�stressed, but still– we got some dark, lonely stuff this time around. We felt almost inclined to do with this editor’s note what the cast of The Wall did with their talk-back sessions. Concerning the layout of the magazine, then, this collection left us with a choice: embrace the angst, or attempt to alleviate it. We went half and half. The cover is our empathetic side; even our agendas, we realized, remind us of how little time there is in the day. But the rest of the magazine we LMKWZI\ML�_Q\P�JT]M[�IVL�OZMMV[��ÆW_MZ[��JQZL[��UW]V\IQV[��IVL�I�\W]KP�WN �V]LQ\a�R][\�\W�I[[]ZM�aW]�ITT�\PI\�[XZQVO�[\QTT�M`Q[\[��IVL�Q\¼[�[\QTT�KWUQVO��?M�PWXM�aW]�MVRWa�_PI\�_M�XZWL]KML��<PIVS[�\W�ITT�_PW�submitted.

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF HANNAH NASH AND EMMA MAGIDSONART EDITORS SABRINA ROBERTS AND CLAIRE COFELICEWRITING EDITORS CLAIRE GREENE AND EMILY OTTLAYOUT EDITORS HENRY DIXON AND TORI O’CONNORCREATIVE MUSE CHLOE ROSENFACULTY ADVISOR KELSEY GROUSBECK

STAFF NATALIE BEHR AND KATIE BUSSEY AND MONIQUE FISCHER AND RACHEL JANFAZA AND MARY MCDONALD AND TOM MORRISON AND CAROLINE PETRO AND JACK RADLEY AND HAMZAT RAHEEM AND SAMANTHA ROSEN AND SEPNCER THOMPSON AND ELISIELLE WILSON

Love always, Hannah and Emma

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Untitled [painting] Natalie Behr p. 4Adam Maria Maier p. 5The Student James Geary p. 6Damaged Emma Magdison p. 7Untitled [poem] John Cabrera p. 7Teacher Spotlight: Mr. Burr p. 8-9Muddy Water Hannah Nash p. 10Untitled [photo] Spencer Thompson p. 10Untitled [pastel] Natalie Behr p. 11Instagrams 12-13Forever Transforming Whitney Hazard p. 14Untitled [photo] Lizzie Trull p. 14Untitled [drawing] Elisielle Wilson p. 15Car Lights and Star Light Liz Furlong p. 15Theater Spotlight: The Wall p. 16-17The American Frontier Jake Atwood p. 18Untitled [drawing/painting] Elisielle Wilson p. 20Fifty Word Short Stories Helen Kirk, Dan Toubman, Belle Tuttle p. 20Untitled [drawing] Kirk Gulezian p. 21Morrison’s Music p. 22-23Back Cover Henry Bell

Natalie Behr

It was onceThat I lingeredBeside a winding cobblestone road,Atop a crumbling bridgeEyebrowing strips of emerald land.Underneath, undulant waters waveA river running untamed.This is where I sat,My solitude contemplative,My mind contained and engrossed,Where the intoxicating rush of the pinesAnd the gurgling of springsBelonged only to me.

This was my garden of Eden,Until she came across it,Treading lightly upon the grassAs if her feet had never intendedTo touch my realm.0MZ�KWVÅLMV\�[\ZQLM[�And effervescent air,Alone could silence me…Rasping my throat,Roughing my thoughts.

She would not turn to face me.Staring intentlyOn something awaiting her in the distance.A tree? A word? A world? I did not knowOf anything else but her eyes,Glazed over with a lustful innocence:A promised land-Diametrically opposed to mine.One I remember no longer,Since it dissipatedInto a thin tan haze.

I took to my heels,Trailing in shadowAs she winged her arms.This split second of realizationFilled in the space between us,Misunderstood seraphs,

Clutching to the fringes of divinity.

MARIA MAIER

5

James geary

Drew sat

down and was

ÅVITTa�IJTM�\W�[\]La�

Will as he searched for

something in his backpack. It

was hard not to focus on the stack

of ripped, out-of-order, backwards,

upside-down, and right-side-up sheets of

paper Will had been allowing to accumulate

in his backpack all year. Will was a naturally

handsome kid, but he put no effort into his appear-

ance. He wore loose clothes and had some facial hair,

something between a beard and that of a 15-year-old boy

whose dad still hadn’t taught him how to use a razor. His

hair was knotty, bushy, obviously unshowered. Tattered, once-

purple (now brown) sneakers clung to his feet. He unzipped his

forest-green hoodie, revealing a white t-shirt still wet with coffee.

Will caught Drew noticing the stain.

“Oh yeah, I bumped into a friend at lunch today. Kind of

annoying, but what are ya gonna do,” Will said lightheartedly.

“So... Did you have your test on linearization and differentials

yet?”

� ¹AMIP��1�\WWS�Q\�aM[\MZLIa��1�\PQVS�Q\�_MV\�ITZQOP\�º�?QTT�TMIVML�

forward in his chair and looked at a blank homework sheet, biting the cap

WN �PQ[�XMV��,ZM_�TWWSML�I\�?QTT¼[�[PQZ\�IVL�JMOIV�\W�\IX�PQ[�ÅVOMZ[�WV�PQ[�

messenger bag. Then, a man’s voice pierced through a tinny intercom.

“To the owner of the navy Jeep Cherokee, your car has been

\W_ML��AW]�KIVVW\�SMMX�XIZSQVO�ZQOP\�QV�NZWV\�WN �\PM�[\IQZKI[M��M^MV�QN �aW]�

are late.” Will laughed through his nose and shook his head.

“Mr. Pinkham will always be on my back. He hates when I park

there,” Will said as he continued to snort.

� ¹AW]�KIV�OW�\ISM�KIZM�WN �\PI\�QN �aW]�_IV\��1�LWV¼\�UQVL�º

� ¹6W��1¼TT�LMIT�_Q\P�\PI\�KZIX�TI\MZ��1\¼TT�JM�ÅVM�º�?QTT�KTMIZML�PQ[�\PZWI\�IVL�

returned his focus to his math sheet, waiting for Drew to ask what his next unit was.

john cabrera

Heard from Afar– it was Anger– it was RageA Punch– a Stab– a Shot–Killed the Man murderous IntentA Murderer begot–

Trembling– like freezing ColdHis Body seeming cold–Fear festering in your BloodA Murderer’s Tale told–

Now come– young One– to Hell– you goNo mercy for a sinner–Cry as you may– you took a lifeNo mercy for a killer–

UNTITLED

EMMA MAGIDSON

7

The word on the street in 2013 is that God’s presence in

our lives is being entombed by our world, a world increasingly

focused on materialism, the emptiness of achievement, or a

variety of distractions that cannot sustain us. Yet we continue

to plunge into those distractions hellbent on soothing a

certain longing that has haunted our entire lives. We wind

XS� H[KDXVWHG�� XQIXOÀOOHG�� DQG� H[DFWO\� ZKHUH� ZH� VWDUWHG��America’s waiting room is overcrowded. What seems to

be harder and harder for us to imagine is that the medicine

we seek is more available, easier to access than we could

ever imagine, and faith takes imagination. It takes belief.

We are not our circumstances, we are our possibilities.

0\�GLVWDQFH�IURP�*RG�HEEV�DQG�ÁRZV�due to my inattention. I forget, I get

distracted, I lose the truth of the gift

of each moment. But then I have a

GD\� OLNH� \HVWHUGD\�� D� GD\� RI � ÁDW� VWLFN�interaction with so many who helped

me close that distance by enabling me

to spend time with them. It was like

Christmas. It was Christmas.

Lord, thank you for these days.

PHOTO OF MR. BURR

Coffee with

Chris BurrI spoke with Mr. Burr about his life and

life in general. He allowed me to publish

the following excerpt from his journal

and our conversation (on the facing page).

Henry Dixon

8

Would you say you try to have an impact on your students? What role do you try to play in their lives? Who knows? Mystery is a central ingredient

of teaching. I’m never sure what I’m accomplishing.

Sometimes I think things have gone well in class, and

other times I think it’s been a disaster. But, I’ve come

to accept that I’m probably wrong in both instances.

In terms of building relationships, I try to do

what I say to my advisees. “I’m not here to pry into your

life. I’m here to appreciate your life.” That is what I try to

do as much as I can. I love getting to know the students I

teach and coach and those I don’t teach and coach. I try to

learn something about their lives, who they are, what they

do well, what they struggle with, what their interests are,

and what makes them laugh. I’m just fascinated by their

lives and grateful to witness these formative years. I am

primarily guided by curiosity, appreciation, and gratitude.

Spending time with kids is a central blessing of my life.

is your high school experience similar in any Ways to those of your students or is it completely different? In terms of the adolescent life, I don’t think those

things have changed a whole lot. I do wonder, in watching

you, and in watching this present generation, about the future

of community. I wonder how people will interact in the

future. If education is about the building of relationships,

what happens when the relationships of children are

grounded in remote, faceless exchanges? I wonder if your

generation is growing less and less comfortable with what

you and I are doing right now (having a conversation),

and more and more inclined to isolate themselves and

communicate with people they are not in front of. I wonder

in the lives of our students. What is interesting is how

schools like Nobles have responded to the ingredient of

faith. It’s awkward, they don’t really know how to handle

it, they’re not comfortable with it. In some cases, the

faculties at schools like this are populated by people who

are either hostile or indifferent to religion. It makes sense,

in certain ways, because the academic world tends to be

how that is going to play itself out, and what it is going to

mean to this small community and to America. Can we be

sustained as the United States of Connectivity? All of this

is relatively new and very powerful. I can’t know what it

means, but I think about it a lot. I wonder if this tsunami

of technological communication has produced a new,

unintended, but perhaps dangerous depth of loneliness.

What do you think the context - or the importance - of prayer is at a school like nobles? It’s impossible to know what role prayer plays

what happens when the relationships of children are grounded in remote,

faceless exchanges?

driven by deductive reasoning, logic, and illusion of being

DEOH�WR�ÀJXUH�HYHU\WKLQJ�RXW��)DLWK�DQG�SUD\HU�DUH�DZNZDUG�relatives in a family of secular schools. It’s my hunch that

there are a lot of kids of faith in this school, and I wonder

how they feel about all of this. If you believe the statistics

that say 85% of Americans believe in God, some god, what

is it like to be student in a school where the majority of

the faculty ignore any discussion of faith’s possibilities? I’m

big believer that you teach by omission. There are courses

that study faiths, but is that the same as living one’s faith?

do you regret the particular progression you took - from teaching to business and back to teaching? I’m greatful for my time in business because it

enabled me to learn things I would never have known.

Ultimately, what I found in business which discouraged

me over a period of time - when I was interviewed to be

hired, in almost every instance, I was genuinely interested

in the people I was talking to. What I came to understand is

that, in business, in every conversation, there is money on

the table. When there’s money on the table, that changes

every conversation. Even if I were being considered to sell

a big piece of real estate, I was authentically interested in

the people I was in front of, and I think they kind of liked

that, and I think I got hired a lot, perhaps because of that.

Those conversations wore me down after a while because I

realized I coukldn’t penetrate the understandable suspicion

when there is money involved. The conversations that I have

with you, or with kids now, or with other teachers - there

is no money on the table. Those are pure conversations,

much more pure conversations, than exist in business.

faith and prayer are awkward relatives in a family of secular

schools.

9

Ildi paced past the group towards a crib in the corner. She picked up the noiseless baby, and with him tucked under her arm, she looked back at the students, standing like sheep in the center of the room, and waved her hand at all the cribs– please, go to the babies and hold them, she wanted to say– but either they couldn’t understand or couldn’t move. Refusing to waste time, however, Ildi brought the infant she carried over to the changing table, where like a machine she stripped him down, cleaned him up, and applied a fresh diaper in a matter of seconds. She took XZQLM�QV�\PQ[�[XMML��M^MV�_PMV�[PM�\PW]OP\�[PM�[PW]TLV¼\��JMKI][M�IN\MZ�VQVM�aMIZ[�I\�\PQ[�RWJ��[PM�I[[]ZML�PMZ[MTN��[PM�LM[MZ^ML��IVL�NWZ�PMZ�KWV[KQMVKM¼[�[ISM�[PM�VMMLML��\W�ÅVL�XZQLM�QV�[WUM-thing. She picked up the baby and in one swift motion handed him off to one of the students, hoping in that way to convey her message– hold the babies, play with the babies, give them faces to look at, give them people to love– before going to the counter to prepare bottles of formula.

Muddy waterHannah Nash

SPENCER THOMPSON10

Ginny had never seen eyes like these before, these baby eyes that looked like veterans’, like deep JZW_V�ZWKS[�_Q\P�VW�UWZM�TQNM�QV�\PMU�\PIV�U]LLa�_I\MZ��;PM�Å\�\PM�QVNIV\�QV\W�\PM�KZWWS�WN �PMZ�elbow, trying to imagine this one like ones she’d held before, like the squirming, spitting, giggling babies with eyes that sparkled and hands that beat the air. Her classmates walked around her, some approaching other cribs and some still too hesitant, but Ginny stood frozen for a long time.That little boy lay in her arms like a weight, smelling like soap but not the good kind, and for a UWUMV\�/QVVa�NWZOW\�\PI\�PM�_I[�I�JIJa��JMKI][M�PQ[�MaM[�_W]TL�VW\�UW^M�IVL�PQ[�Å[\[�_W]TL�VW\�open.

NATALIE BEHR

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bohemianlovesong

sabrinaraeroberts

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spencahh

8

I am the product of the people around me,A consequence of a give and take with each one I encounter.<PMQZ�QVÆ]MVKM�[PQN\QVO�UM�UWUMV\�Ja�moment,Forever imprinting their mark on my spirit.Their traditions, customs, actions,Becoming intertwined with those of my own.Their characteristics, attributes, favorites,Combining with mine with each second we’re together.

But life is not simply a balance between people of give and take,The relationship rather that of a dance, of a kiss, Movement together, the push and pull,<W]KP�IVL�[MXIZI\QWV��MaM[�IVL�ÅVOMZ[�Hand in hand, face to face, soul with soul.Swirling, curling, twirling, Breathing, heart beating, blood rushing,.MMTQVO[�ÆaQVO��MUW\QWV[�ZQ[QVO�Together, forever, together.

But in all truths, these triumphant moments,1VÆ]MV\QIT�XMWXTM��\QUMTM[[�XTIKM[��open spaces,None of these can capture all that I am.For I am not only the strong one, the loyal one, the hard working one,But I am the broken one, the piec-es falling, slipping out of reach.

But yet I tell you now, we must cel-ebrate every aspect of ourselves, For our imperfections are as much a part of us as our strengths.Fear not the pain that comes with facing our weaknesses,For every struggle belonging to you is as good as that which be-longs to me.

And do not worry; your broken pieces are not that of yours alone,For we have shattered side by side,And only together may we reas-semble the elementsAnd pick the remnants of our-selves up off the ground.

We are a collection of moments, Pauses in time, Turning points piled onto one another, Building.Producing unique beings, Particular in every way,Shaped by those before us, Shifted by the events of our life.Compiled of imperfections,Collections of shortcomings,But forever transforming,Only touching upon the potential of time to come.The world in front of us, The lines on the pages of our stories, 2][\�_IQ\QVO�\W�JM�ÅTTML�

Forever Transformin

g

Whit

ney Hazard

Lizzie trull

At night, I sit at the window, face in hands on the window’s ledge. The bracing and biting of winter is lost, replaced by a gentle brush of coolness that noses at the exposed skin of pruned palms and pad-LML�[WTM[��)�KITU�KPQTT�KIZM[[M[�\PM�KTMVKPML�RWQV\�WN �Ua� RI_�IVL� NWVLTM[�]X� \PM� TQVM�WN �Ua�KPMMS�JWVM�to the depression of my temple, mollifying the pain and the heat that tethers itself to discomfort. The car lights on the road are visible, obscured by the dribbling of trees, but visible to the lazy-tired stare of my eyes. I try to count, there are too many, go by too fast. The noise of cars is lulling, a peaceful kind of droning. I rock a bit, could be the lack of sleep. I suspect there is a swishing quality to the sound that is familiar, familiar like a memory, but deep like an instinct. I let the noise carry me, and I try to rock as I look at the lights, red and yellow, and white. My lids are heavy, thick with exhaustion, exertion

CAR LIGHTS &

STAR LIGHT

LIZ FURLONG

1�UW^M�\W�KTW[M�Ua�MaM[��J]\�I�VM_�KWTWZ�TQOP\�KI\KPM[�Ua�I_IZMVM[[��*T]M��.TI[PQVO��*T]M�IVL�:ML�IVL�ÆI[PQVO��The gentle whir of the cars is marred and breaks off as the lights cease to move. The cars halt in anticipation for \PM�JT]M�IVL�ZML��<PMV�UWZM�JT]M�IVL�ZML�ÆI[PQVO��\PMQZ�TQOP\[�_QVS�\PZW]OP�\PM�\ZMM[��JTQVSQVO�WV�IVL�JTQVSQVO�WNN��)XXMIZQVO�IVL�LQ[IXXMIZQVO��<PM�KIZ[�PI^M�[\WXXML��I�VM_�SQVL�WN �VW\M�ÆWI\[�QV\W�\PM�IQZ��\PM�ZM[WVIVKM�WN �exhaust meeting cold night sky. The sound of stillness and apprehension. We watch the blue and red, following the violent ring, which trails them, to the place where their siren abruptly shuts off. The blue and red lights are alone now. I see only a dark mass of indiscernible entities where the blue and red has stopped. I lift my head from my hands and turn my ear to the screen of the window. I struggle to hear voices, voices of people and not ma-chines. Only the exhaust of cars and the noise of waiting growing into impatience. I put my face down, back into its cradle and look up to the glowing night sky, dark and yet teeming with energy like the lights on the ground.

<PM�VQOP\�Q[�KWTL�IOIQV��[\QÆQVO�QV�Q\[�IJQTQ\a�\W�V]UJ�Ua�[SQV��5a�LIUX�PIQZ�\PI\�PIL�NMT\�TQOP\�WV�Ua�JIKS�Q[�]VKWUNWZ\IJTa�XI[\ML�\W�Ua�VMKS��1¼U�SMMVTa�I_IZM�WN �\PM�JIZMVM[[�WN �Ua�NMM\�WV�\PM�KWWT�\QTM�ÆWWZ��1�TWWS�back at the lights of the road, still unmoving except the red and blue. Its awfully cold tonight. I close my eyes IVL�WXMV�NI[\��IVL�JTQVS��I\\MUX\QVO�\W�Æ][P�\PM�QUIOM�WN �TQOP\[�NZWU�UQVL��5a�MaM[�J]ZV��[\QVO��I[�\PMa�LW�after a long cry.

I shut the window.

Elisielle Wilson

15

18

“We were so in our own world [during rehearsals], so to see how other people would respond was game-changing. And not everyone responded positively, which makes the overall work more meaningful; the play had a real effect on people.”- Jack Radley, Class II

“The themes portrayed were powerful, because I do know people who are going through similar situations. I was questioning the way they were portrayed, though, because there seemed to be no underlying positive message at all.”- Matt DeAngelis, Class I

“Never worry alone.”- Jordan Brown, Class I

16

1917

“Sometimes, after rehearsal, it’d take a while for your character to leave your mind.”- Mikey Southworth, Class II

“Somtimes we try to sublimate the idea that everyone gets a cup of paint in life, and this was a show that sort of pulled the masks down and let us emphatize a bit.”- Ms. MacQuinn, Faculty

“It was heavy, but the reason it was so heavy was because of how good the music and the acting was, so there were a lot of emotions involved.”- Lucy Lyons, Class III

Jake Atwood

Westwardly, I wander through mountains, des-erts, and plains,Westwardly, I author and sire my own path,My destiny is born not from the creations of others, nor the vogues of costumed society,My destiny is born from my own resolutions,I maintain only the simple democracy of my-self,0WTLQVO�[QU]T\IVMW][Ta�\PM�ZWTM[�WN �R]LOM��R]Za��and executioner.

I awaken each day robed in glorious rags of my own discovery and weaving,I tumble to a grassy bed each night and slumber to the lullabies of crickets,Here is the wild,All here exists untamed, surviving only through nature’s benevolent mercy,None here is bound by chains of iron, bronze, WZ�_PQX��\PM�TI[\�KW\\WV�ÅMTL�PI[�TWVO�[QVKM�LQ[-solved into the horizon),I am not bound by chains of others’ words or LZMIZa�R]LOUMV\[��MQ\PMZ�

18

Arielle D’Angelo

19

I�ÅVL�QV�Ua[MTN �\PM�LZMIU�\W�UW^M�_M[\�It is the dream of freedom,It is the dream to know and understand free-dom and see it in all and everything,Only now can I see freedom in the salmon that swim against the loose, racing water of a river,1V�\PM�ÆIVVMT�PW\MT[�WN �\PM�;QW]`��[\ZM_V�IKZW[[�plains resting free from the soil,In the wild winging words of children who know well of hickory and oak and dismiss them both, In the aspen spore, carried by swift winds miles from its sisters, which plants its roots in forests of needly spruces,In the hearts and souls of sailors and explor-ers in search of farther shores and continents beyond myth.

I wish to reach Oregon not for furs, lumber or gold,I travel only in search of the riches inside my-self,1�\ZI^MT�\W�KWVY]MZ�Ua[MTN �QV�WZLMZ�\W�ÅVL�Ua-self,As the sky grows larger, my soul expands with it,;MTN�I[[]ZMLVM[[��KWVÅLMVKM��_Q[LWU��IVL�NZMM-dom are the treasure chests which from \PQ[�RW]ZVMa�1�PWXM�\W�WJ\IQV�IVL�\W�WXMV�<QUM�IVL�M`XMZQMVKM�JMQVO�ÅZ[\�\PMQZ�UIX[�IVL�TI\MZ�\PMQZ�UIOVQÅKMV\�OWTLMV�SMa[�

So for now, Oregon remains a while away,And may it remain for a while longer.

HELEN KIRKWith two hands over his eyes he can’t see much. Light

splinters fragment the warmth of dark palms. He

imagines that light can dance and play, dizzying himself

away from the empty table. He forgets the warm milk

and lonely sandwich.

“Can I sit here?”

Squinting, nods.

Dan toubman+H�ZDONHG�XQGHU�WKH�ÁRUHVFHQW�ODPS�WKDW�ORRPHG��crooked, like a hunchbacked old man. The light illumi-

nated the dark street just enough that you could barely

see his face through the shadows. He was laughing.

Nothing was funny, and it was dark, and he was alone,

but he laughed anyways.

Belle tuttleMy father is folding towels in the living room onto

WKH�VRID��KXPPLQJ�D�7UDIÀF�WXQH��5HG�ZHQW�RQ�WRS�of beige, green on top of red. I had nothing to fold. I

watched him from the kitchen, reading silently, squint-

ing against the harsh white light of the computer.

Fifty-word SHORT STORIES

Elisielle Wilson

20

kirk gulezian

Casmir Pulaski Day - Sufjan Stevens

Song of The Wonder Junkies - Countless Others

Guarantees - Atmosphere

How We Land - P.O.S.

Million Dollar - Middle Brother

Deer Drop Forest - Daisuke Tanabe

Story Of My Life - Astronautalis ft. P.O.S.

Get Free - Major Lazer

Morr

mu

Doodles by

This Is Our Science - Astronautalis

Night After Night - Laura Marling

To Be Alone with You - Sufjan Stevens

To Be Alone with You - Sufjan Stevens

A Month from Now - Stophouse

Daylight - Aesop Rock

Dear Boy - Paul McCartney

Secret on Our Lips - Astronautalis

ison’s

sic

spencer thompson

22Noble & Greenough School . Vol. 1 Issue 2 . Winter 2013