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The anonymous issue

The art and literary magazine of

the Derryfield school

Xxxvi, issue I

Winter 2012

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~

Dedication

~

Front Cover - “Water”

Back Cover - “Femme Cowboy”

Title Page - “Leave No Trace”

To Mr. Craig Sellers,

Head of the Derryfield School

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Staff

Celine Boutin Managing Editor

Madeline Hodgman Editor

Emmie Lamp, Kate Ridinger Art Editors

Maxine Joselow Business Editor

Mia Sobin Communications

Jamie Cordova, Chelsea Kimball

Publishing Editors

Lily Karlin Jim Larson

Lindsey Matheos Megan Dillon

Ms. Josephson Staff Faculty Advisor

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Table of Contents

Higher Highways (poem) …..…………………………………..6

Collage ………………….………………………………………...9

Essay ……………….……………………………………………10

Sketch …………………..………………………………………...12

Dance (poem) …………………………………………………13

Once Chance (poem) …………………………………….……14

Portrait …………………………………………………………...15

Hell (poem) ………………………………………………….... 16

Painting………………….…………………………………….…22

Beauty (poem)………………………………………….……….23

Portrait. .………………………......……………………………….25

The Seat (poem) ……………………………………………….26

Pursuit of Happiness (story) ………………………………27

Painting…………………......……………………………………...29

Gray Cardinal (drawing)……...……………………..…………30

Poem ……………………………………………………………31

Sculpture………………….....……………………………………32

Mile (poem) …………………………………………………….33

Essay ………………….…………………………………………35

Sketch …………………………..………………………………..37

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Wandering Evermore (poem) ………………………….……38

Poem …...………………………………….……………………...40

Painting…………………..……………………………………….41

Sketch …………………………………………………………..42

Grandma (poem)………………………….……………………..43

Sketch …………………..………………………………………..44

Don’t Bother (poem) ……….………………………………….45

Thoughts (poem) ………………….…………………………..46

The Bridge (poem)………………….………………………….47

Painting …………………..……………………………………...48

Poem ….……………………….………………………………….49

The Arms of America (story) ….……………………………50

Painting………………….………………………………………..56

Insanity At Its Finest (essay) …......………………..…………57

Sketch ………………….………………………………………...60

The Rapture of Self (story)…………………..………………61

Poem ………………………………..…………………………….68

Colorful Christmas (drawing) …………………….…………69

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Higher Highways

I slow, then stop…then look behind me.

People are zig-zagging

On the criss-crossing highways

Co-mingling and dispersing

And if I stand still I see flying colors.

It seems no one stops for a minute to catch up on who

they are,

Not to update their data chip or re-charge their

battery.

Meanwhile I’m still figuring out who I am, what I am.

I’m not just another Facebook status, a single emotion

newsfeed item.

I’m more like a range of emoticons, and you’ll have to

use them all for me.

I can’t hurry around like an Energizer Bunny, like an

aimless robot,

I have purpose and I don’t plan to waste it.

What do you see when you whizz by me,

On those rainbow freeways?

You can’t possibly see anything good, right?

Too fast to see color, too fast to see beauty, too fast

to see anything but that small sliver of light up ahead

of you that you never ever will reach no matter how

long your strides are.

You just keep going, going, going …aren’t you tired?

Stop.

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Come stand with me for a bit.

Look at all of them.

Such fools, such fools.

Can you believe we used to not see either?

They think they have it all figured out…

Groups of friends, family, pets, sports, free time,

laughing, giggling, getting high, drinking…

Their happiness is complete I suppose.

But I don’t want to be all figured out,

To be able to describe my life in a single double

spaced page…

I want my history to go for a hundred miles,

For my influence to touch a thousand people

For my words to be ingrained in one million minds…

and to still not be finished.

People ask me what I like to do, and I say everything,

because I want to try everything and experience

everything.

What do you do?

I smile, I cry, I laugh, I whisper, I wonder, I sigh, I

regret, I hope, I dream, I puzzle over, I finish, I doubt, I

scream, I yell, I leap, I dance, I fall…and I try again.

I can’t be described.

Don’t even try!!!

You can’t be described either.

Trust me, you’re too complex for words.

Want to know why?

A minute ago you were scraping along with the rest of

them, being pushed from behind, going at a mind-

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boggling pace, until I pulled you out.

Your eyes were glazed over, blind, uncertain…Now

they’re wide open.

See all that? That’s the world.

Look at all that possibility.

Until I pulled you over, you didn’t know how fast you

were going.

Until I gave you a ticket, you didn’t know you were

past the limit.

Your limit.

Drive more carefully next time…got it?

Don’t let it all get ahead of you; don’t let your world

get caught up in the details.

Slow down.

See who you can be.

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untitled

I am sure I appear to be the ultimate teenage

stereotype: a skinny, blonde, class president who is

dating the football captain. How original. To add to the

cliché, I ride horses, live in an upper middle class

suburb and attend a selective private school. For most

people being high school Barbie would be easy, but for

me being bendable plastic was not enough. I had the

growing desire to add dimension to my neatly

packaged life.

The flavor I craved came in an unexpected

form. The casual knob-twisting began innocently;

when my peers’ choice of music –Hip Hop- began to

all sound the same, I started the search for a new

radio alternative. Country music satisfied me for a few

weeks, and then 80’s rock the following month.

However, I was still left with a hungry ache during my

thirty-five minute commute to school; it was as if I

was craving coffee and could only get ahold of decaf.

One day this fall, while idly pressing the scan button

on my radio, I found the cure for my indelible yearn-

ing. My fulfillment came from a most unusual place –

an anomaly in my conservative world: National Public

Radio.

Initially I was ashamed of my newfound love. I

began lingering, incognito, in my car until the first bell.

I longed to discuss what I heard each morning, but was

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too afraid of being scoffed at to mention it to my

immediate group of friends. Yet, my façade began to

slip. During a class debate pertaining to a national flat

tax I quoted Renee Montaigne, a reporter on Morning

Edition. I blushed hoping no one knew who she was. A

girl sitting to my left piped up with, “Oh, I heard that

too!” My heart swelled – at last, someone to share in

my love of Science Friday on Talk of the Nation! I

knew that this girl was a liberal, yet I never would

have guessed that she was a secret nerd like me – or

in her words, an “informed citizen.”

My partner in crime’s self confidence wore off

on me. I began to mention what I heard on NPR at the

dinner table and in class. Slowly my inner liberal

emerged. I started to bring my lunch to school,

complete with a cloth napkin, metal spoon, and tofu.

My car, to which I snuck out every day during lunch to

listen to Word of Mouth, acquired an Appalachian

Mountain Club bumper sticker. Wait, Wait…Don’t tell

me” began to define my weekends. My conservatism

was irrevocably tainted, and I became a more multi-

faceted version of myself.

I still ride my horse, I am still dating my football

player, I am still skinny, blonde, and class president.

However, I am now a latte-drinking, Volvo-driving,

NPR listening, tofu-eating liberal…and proud of it.

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Dance

Spirits.

Lights.

Little sprites.

Dancing,

In the moon lights.

Joy upon

Thy face.

I will sing again.

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One Chance

I felt the sun on me, smiling down,

Curled my toes and lips, embracing the sand.

He called me his princess, gave me a crown,

Jumping the waves, my daddy took my hand.

My childhood passed, my innocence was lost,

I took from him, betrayed every day;

His pain and his tears were not worth the cost.

I became a monster, and he was my prey.

I moved far away as soon as I could,

Never called or visited; I was done.

Little did I know, I misunderstood

That he was precious; goodbye had begun.

Now that he’s gone, my memories crush me.

And when I miss him, I think of the sea.

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Hell

You have to understand

This is what I think

Of Hell

And of you

Two nouns

Not synonymous,

But maybe they are

First off, Hell

Dante says there are nine circles

I say there are none

Hell is a comfort zone

In a sense

A realm of numb

A state of being

Maybe deriving from an

Uncalled for

Unwanted

Cataclysm

That has derived from you

But please,

Let me finish

My thoughts

On Hell

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In Hell,

Memories follow

(And are known to sporadically attack)

You like a swarm of bees

How vicious

A person in Hell can be

Surrounded

Or enveloped

By the entire population of Hell

And still, they will feel

Completely

Utterly

Alone

Upon entering Hell,

One will find

That socializing has become

Quite the challenge

A challenge that,

Perhaps,

Can only be compared to scaling the

Great

Mount

Everest

After one night in Hell,

It might be found

That it isn’t easy anymore

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To sleep as per usual

Periodically,

Almost methodically,

One will wake up and not be able to find

The blatant comfort

Of deep sleep

Occasionally,

Hell delivers you a care package

Of razor blades and vodka and pills

What did you expect from Hell?

Seeing as one may be

Uncannily

Bored and

Uninteresting and

Unmoved and

Unmotivated by anything else

Hell may offer,

The care package seems alight.

Please, put down the razor

Put away the vodka

Don’t swallow those pills

My final thoughts about hell

Come in the form of a warning:

Watch out; Hell will

Willingly

Devour

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Everything

On to you,

Many of my thoughts on you

Are probably

(Most likely)

Too crude

(Impolite)

To put here

So, reader, remember this:

The rest of my words are written with

The utmost caution

Discipline

And, most importantly,

A strict filter

You

Put

Me

In

Hell

You dragged me down here

While you looked for your own escape route

Me, caught by surprise

By somebody I

Trusted

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To be fair,

I had hurt you

But now,

You’ve hurt me too

Rewind,

Back to before Hell,

Before I screw up

And kick-start our decline

We were happy.

But nobody could tell,

I couldn’t tell,

That you really weren’t

Hell had already delivered you that care package

I wish I had noticed

I think this daily

Routinely

Too often

Fast forward again,

I’ve already screwed up

You’ve already forgiven me

Thus begins my

Slow

(And at first, unnoticed)

Descent into Hell

Present day,

We’re not talking

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Your choice

I had no say in the matter

(But not for lack of trying)

So, this has been my toast of sorts,

To Hell,

To you dragging me there

Pity

It took me so long to see

How absolutely terrible

You are for me

Still, I’ll be waiting in the wings

You can’t act forever.

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Beauty

Long legs,

Chameleon eyes,

Glossy hair,

Perfect eyes.

Why would anyone notice me,

without such grace and symmetry?

I wish, I wish, I wish I might,

Radiate an equal light.

I look into a funhouse mirror;

It distorts my being-- only flaws are clear.

Dark circles,

Lifeless locks,

Pudgy tummy,

Nails like a hawk’s.

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My confidence boosts are insincere,

Self-deprecation is what I’m programmed to hear.

I seek reassurance in every eye.

“Someone, tell me I’m pretty!” I want to cry,

But somewhere I know that the mirror tells lies.

The distortion is invisible to all but my eyes.

French nose,

Soft, clear skin,

Forget-me-not eyes,

A winsome grin.

This is the painting that others see,

Crafted with skill and a steady hand,

“She walks in beauty.”

Each curve, each pigment, each stroke is dear,

This is the girl who looks back through the mirror.

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The Seat

The cold, blue plastic seat.

How uninviting and reserved!

But it is still warm from where you were sitting.

In that cold, blue plastic seat, the warmth embraces me,

both delightful and sickening.

I can still smell the faint aroma of your lavender-rose

perfume.

The smell surrounds me,

both delicious and nauseating.

A single strand of your long, golden hair imprints its

shadow on misty windows. Through the mist, which

distorts the image of the outside world, colors and

lights whizz like a surreal kaleidoscope perpetually

stirred by an infatuated child.

I am enamored, yet dissatisfied.

Your Love,

The man who sat in your seat after you left the bus.

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Pursuit of Happiness

A “normal” day of my future happiness would have

a combination of factors, which would all contribute to

my general well-being and development as an

individual in society. I would start my day off, waking

up at my own time, not having to bother with any

alarms to warn me of any pre-designate destinations.

I would have my favorite breakfast, boiled egg with

soldiers, while listening to my favorite music. Then I

would go on my customary meander around the

surrounding neighborhood, casually conversing with

locals about local trivial events and ideas. Returning

to my residence, I would venture out into my gardens

to sample some of my Persian poetry. Out in the

garden I would be accompanied by my collection of

majestic animals, each one showing deep affection for

their master.

I would eventually go to work at the American

embassy in New Delhi via rickshaw. I would

repeatedly stop off at local vendors to top-off my

favorite Indian drink, a mango Lassie. Upon arriving at

the embassy, I would be allowed (as usual) to select

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the meetings I wished to attend, based on my

interests, in connection to American politics. These

meetings, after one hour, would all be concluded with

a series of Bollywood dance routines, each explicitly

tailored to entertain.

Finishing up at the embassy, I would travel to

the local Hooka bar (near my residence) to meet up

with friends. I would consume Kalyani Black Label

until I became blissfully ignorant of the world around

me, not knowing whether or not my moral inhibitions

are at all restrained. I would be completely open to act

without fear of being judged, to allow my subconscious

to fully express its dormant desires.

Eventually I would awaken a couple of hours later,

finding myself lying within the chambers of my pavilion

on my personal Tempurpedic bed. To a degree I would

be sober and without any sign of a hangover looming

over me. To pass the time until I would eventually

return to sleep, I would sit in the gardens surrounding

my residence, drinking chai and entertaining myself

with a series of games and puzzles. I would eventually

start to doze off, and without any issue, I would be

able to bring myself, at a sloth’s pace, back to my

quarters.

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“Gray cardinal”

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Untitled

The phonograph’s voice is broken

in the shell of an empty room

(it used to sing of why, will be

‘til nevers began to play).

Why, will be (the greatest hymns

the phonograph hummed them, all by all).

The air they made sway both up and down,

then, stop, the nevers came.

The nevers killed the phonograph’s voice

in the shell of the empty room

(and now the air is flat and static

forever ‘til why, will be).

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Mile

As I walk along the path of life

I remember all the times we have laughed

But even as the laughs grew thin

We remained in the clouds

And the sun shone down on all

When the snow began to fall

And so did we

As time passed, daffodils bloomed

Yet the laughs were still thin

And I wanted more

I wanted him to joke again,

Play around and embrace the joy

High school only comes once.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy his current state of mind

But I think it’s time for him

To be a child more than once in a while

Even though he runs more than a mile

Sometimes it’s hard to find his smile

Amongst the books

I remember when I could catch him with jokes

But now he needs the most intelligent worm that

speaks to him in Greek

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Yet I still seek

Come play and work

Life has to be balanced

Find the balance and join us

We miss your inner child

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untitled

My nose. It protruded like a fisher’s hook

between my eyes and cheeks, creating a misaligned

midpoint through my circular face. Its sharp deviation

blocked the passage of oxygen almost entirely,

causing any attempt at breathing through my right

nostril to be impossible. My nose was my quirk, the

oddity that shaped me.

My nose was far from perfect. In fact, it caused

any equilibrium or proportion my body had to be

completely cartoon-like. Its odd shape jutted out from

the contour of my face for what seemed like miles. It

made me an individual. In most forms of literature and

cinema, my type of nose would be characterized as a

witch’s nose; the kind often associated with the villain

or villainess of any cartoon or adaptation of the good

versus evil story arc.

“Big nose Breanna,” they all called me.

Throughout both elementary and middle school, my

nose was the constant source of ridicule. I became

the classic school bully, the mean girl, in order to

seem more confident and instill a sense of power in

myself. I pointed out other young girls’ flaws to feel

better about my own. I took on the role of villainess,

fittingly fulfilling the character my nose was associat-

ed with.

My insecurities reached a pivotal moment when

I was in seventh grade. After convincing a childhood

friend that she was “too awkward” to continue our

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friendship, my class had an intervention. We were told

that our behavior was “unacceptable.” Everyone knew

who was to blame for this intervention, but I blamed

my nose. Perhaps this was cowardly of me to blame a

simple structure of miscellaneous bone and cartilage

for how I treated people, but I knew my true persona

was being masked by my biggest insecurity.

Much has changed since I was that awkward

and lanky thirteen-year-old girl trying to compensate

for my own self-doubts. Instead of trying to work

around my nose, which was seemingly impossible due

to its size, I learned to work with it. My nose became

a defining characteristic, a trademark. I was known as

the girl who had the bird’s beak of a nose, but I

accepted it. It made me recognizable. My nose made

me fearless of any criticism.

Now, I no longer have that nose. I underwent a

septorhinoplasty this summer because I suffered from

several sinus infections a year which interfered with

both my health and my ability to sing. Its shape

changed, and my identity changed with it. I have been

learning to cope with staring myself in the mirror and

not recognizing the girl before me. I miss my nose. It

taught me the most valuable lesson I have ever had

the privilege of understanding: appearance does not

define a person; yet the confidence that derives from

facing your flaws is timeless. My nose was a part of

me, but appearance is a small fraction of the person I

have become.

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Wandering Evermore

Twinkling lights,

Out in the distance,

Eyes misting

As I look at what

I’m leaving,

But, a wanderer I am.

Traveling

Is in my blood.

My bones,

Made of the rocky paths

I travel,

Hair,

Like rays of the

Dawn light,

A face made

Moonlight

As the final decision

Is made,

And I float off on

The wind.

With a non-existent body,

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A wandering ghost.

“For Evermore,”

The wind whispers.

“Evermore…

Evermo…

Ever…

Ev…

…”

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Untitled

A “Found” Poem

Using words from “The Masque of Red Death”

by Edgar Allen Poe

The eastern chamber hung in blue, vividly in blue.

The second purple. Tapestries, ornaments

and panes in the apartments.

Green, orange, white, violet and

the seventh,

shrouded in black.

Blood tinted panes

cause disconcert throughout the whole company.

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Grandma

Go Fish

She said with a twinkle in her eye

I have no words,

I say

As she finds the one I did not see

Go swim in the lake

And come in before dinner

Roast marshmallows and put

Some bug spray on

Awaken to rain

Roll a seven

The pennies keep dropping

Dream big my grandchildren

Be brave for you are strong

Move on even though

I am gone

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Don’t Bother

I cut.

There, I said it.

I cut myself.

On my left hip,

That’s where they are.

You can think I’m sick,

It’s true.

I need help.

Who else would hurt themselves like this?

It’s disgusting.

Big surprise;

I disgust myself.

No wonder.

I’m fat.

I’m ugly.

But if I said that to your face,

You would laugh at me.

So I won’t tell you.

It’s okay, don’t be worried for me.

I’m already broken.

You can’t harm me any further;

There’s nowhere left to break.

It’s all broken.

Every little piece, smashed to smithereens.

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Thoughts

The weather gets hot and then quickly gets colder

Bright rays of sun still shine as we grow older

Our thoughts change just as fast as our looks

Those thoughts bounce off the rocks of the

Rapid-moving brooks.

What go through our minds each and every day

Are simple words we might never have heart to say.

Or maybe it’s the right timing that

The words will not receive.

But say… perhaps the timing WAS there

Despite what you believe.

Would you take that challenge to say what you want?

Or would you shrink away and

Let the words continue to haunt?

That decision is not one I could make for you,

Or you for me.

Maybe you’ll take that crowded path;

We’ll have to see…

But it’s possible you’ll take the one

With fewer marks among.

With this choice you’ll be happy

You weren’t holding your tongue.

Either way, I’d hurry because the weather gets hot,

But then quickly gets colder;

Those bright rays of sun will still shine

But you will always get older.

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The Bridge

the bridge scares me.

not because i’m afraid of heights,

but because i see my reflection in the water,

beckoning for me to come play.

it whispers for me to jump and come down.

i’m scared that one day,

i might listen to her,

and i’ll go play with my reflection

in the water.

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Untitled

The wind is sharp

As I gaze upon your site.

A life full of wonder

Reduced

To nothing more than a few feet.

How will I know now,

What to do?

I need someone to talk to,

That someone was you.

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The arms of America

Anthony stepped off the bus and stretched. It

had been a long time since he had smelled the fresh

air, and the scent from the Canyon below was

heightened by Arizona’s intense heat. All around him

there were crowds of people; in his twenty-seven

years he had never seen so many nationalities in the

same place, except perhaps back in the army. The

tourists were milling about without a care, and

Anthony gave a sharp burst of laughter at their

ignorance.

He began to shuffle away from the group, and

Miss Newcomb barely glanced in his direction. It was

almost a confirmation that Anthony didn’t need those

people anymore.

He quickly made his way to the chain link fence

between photographers and their subjects, despite the

looks of aggravation. Leaning over the edge, he saw

the ribbed Canyon below and thought of his wife

Joanna. She would have loved this. He thought of her

perfect smile and how she would laugh melodically as

she peered over the edge. Mostly, he thought of her

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bright blue eyes the only eyes in the world who really

knew him.

His own eyes, a dull brown, scanned the Canyon

below. No danger. He adjusted his baseball cap so it

wouldn’t fall off. Ever since Vietnam, he’d needed

something on his head, and they wouldn’t let him wear

his helmet anymore. He used to be able to wield an

M-15 without clenching a muscle, but now his muscle

had melted away, and he clenched his jaw all the time.

He was still a soldier, and even though they had taken

him out of combat, the battlefield had stayed with him.

He jumped, suddenly aware, and turned to scan

the crowd. The Spanish family was still taking

pictures. The Indian family was fussing with a map. A

Swedish group was being led by a flustered tour

guide. Anthony relaxed: no danger.

But there was something…. A disturbance that

he was unable to name kept his murky eyes on the

crowds and clumps of people.

The people began to blur and swim together.

They became a fluctuating mass, constantly changing

and flowing like the swamps of Vietnam on a monsoon

day. Anthony lost focus; he needed something to pay

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attention to, something to grab on to before the

merciless tide swallowed him up.

He found it.

He had to look twice.

It was a small girl dressed in a blue checked

jumper with small mary-janes. She had tiny red lips, a

ski-jump nose, and sandy blond hair done in two

braids sealed with bows. But what Anthony was most

taken by were those piercing blue eyes that knew him.

The little girl tilted her head. Her face was

expressionless, but her eyes read, “Follow me.”

Anthony knew exactly what he had to do.

Just like he knew what to do when he came back

from the big white building. After four months there, it

had been easy to get out; all he had to do was lie.

They let him out, and he called up a taxi home,

thinking of his lovely Joanna. He remembered the first

return, after the war was over: Joanna was so happy

to see him that she cried. It would be just like that

with his second return.

But when Anthony got to his old house that day,

Joanna wasn’t there. She was gone. All her things

were gone. All of his things were gone too. But more

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importantly, their future was gone. Because Joanna had

left with their baby.

After the first return, the one when Joanna was

there, Anthony had done everything to protect her, just

like in the army. He’d hear the beep of what sounded

like a radio communication and jump on the alert until

he could make the call: no danger. It would happen on

subways, in restaurants, even in his own house with

the TV on. He was a good soldier, protecting his

Joanna. After a month or so, he learned he was

protecting his baby too, and it made him extra careful.

He had to protect his family - his future.

Then Anthony noticed Joanna crying more often

and making lots of phone calls, and then one day he

was in the big white building.

For four months he sat within chalky white walls

and dreamed of his baby. He just knew it would be a

girl. She would have Joanna’s bright blue eyes.

And there she was, standing in front of him in

her little blue jumper with her hair in bows. The crowd

swarmed and snarled around them, and he needed to

protect and save and hold onto his little girl before

they both got swallowed up. It was like Lieutenant

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Smith giving an official order: his body snapped to

attention, and he blindly followed.

It was that same drive, that blind following of

orders, which made him do what he did on his second

return. Anthony had realized what to do as he walked

through his empty house. It was a command, and there

was no other option, because Joanna had betrayed

him. As a soldier, you didn’t question. You just did.

You were the Arms of America. You followed the

Brains back home. You trusted your commands and

carried them out without fail. On the second return

Anthony knew that the memories had to go, and as he

watched flickers and then flames crawl up the walls,

he knew he had done right. It was fitting: they had

burned their dead comrades-in-arms in Vietnam, and

his comrade-in-arms was dead to him.

But their daughter was not. She practically

shone with life. She turned to him with a slight smile

and began to walk a little faster. And he followed her

because he had to.

He didn’t know where Miss Newcomb and the

others had gone, but that was okay because he didn’t

need them anymore. What he needed was the child in

front of him who was running towards the chain link

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fence.

He finally caught up with her at the edge, and he

was running fast, and he tried to grab onto her with

her braids and bows and jumper, but then she wasn’t

there. And suddenly, there was absolutely nothing to

hold on to.

“Where’s Anthony?” asked Miss Newcomb, as

the others in her care filed onto the long white bus.

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Insanity at its finest

I am, without a doubt, insane on all counts. This

is the best conclusion that I could arrive at after

considering the extremely intense and occasionally

dangerous situations I put myself through daily. Every

evening between five and nine, I push my body past its

physical limits, take harsh critique, and compete with

not only every other girl in the room, but myself. I

struggle day in and day out for a taste of perfection

and to feed an undying will to be the best, for myself

and for others. Some days I can actually hear my body

screaming at me to stop working so hard (cries that

are soon silence by Aleve and ice). Though mentally

and physically grueling, I have a passion for dance that

is unmatched by anything I have come to experience in

my life. I find so much joy and reward in the struggle

and fight with my own mind and body to produce

beauty and perform at my best.

Every day I knowingly enter a world that makes

me feel a little nutty, but I absolutely cannot live with

out it. I thrive on the critique and hunger for the

competition that keeps me focused, alert, and ready to

attack whatever is thrown at me. Dance is my passion,

and it has always been my outlet to express myself

and my emotions. Even in my darkest of days, dance

has always helped to shed a little light, and I’m a

happier person for it. It allows me a means to channel

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every stress and insecurity that has ever haunted me

and use it towards a positive outcome. Nothing has

ever come close to the feeling that comes over me

when I perform, that initial rush from entering the

stage to the evolution of my character, the story I’m

telling the audience, and my exploration of their

emotions as the story unfolds. I get the chance to

transform into whatever character I want to be and

express what I’m really feeling with total confidence in

myself. Perhaps it is not within the struggle and

competition that my insanity lies, but within my

unending desire and perpetual need to dance.

Every day, the itch to dance creeps through my

every nerve. All that I long for is to be at the studio

just living in my element and having the freedom to be

who I really am, devoid of the stereotypical, societal

confines. It can be challenging at times to try and fit

into the mold that society forms for girls nowadays,

but dance is my own way of breaking that mold in an

environment where quirks are desired and exceeding

boundaries is nurtured. For me, the best moment of

every day is walking through those studio doors into

that hot, humid, smelly room and stepping onto that

floor, drenched with the remnants of my heart and soul

from the day before, and just leaving it all out there.

At the risk of sounding corny or generic, I really

feel as though I have truly found my place, and I’ve

figured out what it is I am supposed to be doing with

myself. I’ve tried to imagine my life without dance, but

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I realized that I would be living in someone else’s

story. Dance has become a part of me, embedded deep

enough inside me that I have no choice but to pursue it

to the fullest. I’ve embraced the world of dance whole

heartedly, unafraid of what the future holds. I know

that with my drive and enthusiasm I can achieve

anything I set out to do.

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The Rapture of Self

He sat in the high-ceilinged kitchen, wrapped

with blue damask stripes along walls that cut into the

gray clouds, which were not actually gray but more of

a dead blue streaked with charcoal, the day after God

found him.

For he had cried unto the Lord: “Give unto me a

sign, that thou may be revealed.” And as he said this

(in more colloquial syntax), the Angels, Archangels,

Thrones, Dominions, Powers, Cherubim and Seraphim

clamored to form an encore, and they (the Cherubim)

clumsily clapped arrows to their curved bows, and

proclaimed that something ought to be done, as they

had never done before in the arched dome of the

heavens. And a dove down dove1 to the bed of him

(the man) covered (the bed) with damask sheets

drenched with hope and sweat.

By now the coffee2 (in the pot, in the kitchen)

had cooled, condensing, little bubbles forming on the

________________________________________

1 (Sic.) 2 Always drunk black

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inside of the clear pot. It was always the same amount

of coffee, never tea, caffeine needed to produce the

day, even as rain showers down itself upon thirsting

plans, while crusty farmers watch from their tin-

covered hovels and mutter among themselves, chills in

their bones as they lift aluminum pails into desiccating

troughs.

The sky shone brilliantly, actually, through the

kitchen’s morning light, more flowing in as he

continued to look. A contrast, he thought, between the

night, when it is only self, and God, and her, and them,

in the hypnotic beat. That night before, from which he

was now recovering, the night (after all the other

nights) when God found him, and he (the man) was

revealed to, that he (God) is there and manifests

himself3 in the munificence of her, under the pale black

light of not the night but of lamps on unadulterated

white.

For he had called upon God, and God answered

________________________________________

3 Or herself, for that matter, not that there really is a difference in

the gender of the ultimate being (isn’t there one – being), but if

there is an issue, assume that himself is really ‘itself’ or, more

hyphonetically, ‘his/herself’ 4 God obviously did not say this

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saying “Wanna dance?”4 twice as himself but through

the mouth of her, causing the seraph to cease their

song. How un-Angelic was she – for the hair was

long and black in the light, and shoulders around and

wearing white, and legs that receded away towards

the floor that was sticky and packed with the stress

and emotions of college and midterms and

preliminary finals, hot and cold and tall and short

crammed5 together out of some desperate need to be

alone with a partner in the midst of others. But the

legs and the eyes and the lips (all hers) moved and

said, “Do you believe?” and he did and he does as

much as he believes that it takes thirty-five seconds

to heat up a partially-filled cup of stone-cold coffee

in the little black microwave with the table that only

turns 3π/2 before reversing direction.

He had noted that he did not remember how

she became attached to him and could not remember

any of The Time before, but one is not supposed to

doubt God and doubt he did not. The television was

________________________________________

5 Actually, more attracted to each other like Cheerios™ in a bowl

of milk, just that the bowl is a dance-location

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on, and for the first time life in there (the TV) felt less

real than life then (dancing) or now, or was it now and6

then that he felt than7 then8. At that one point the

nexus of God’s influence coalesced around him,

emitting high-pitched synthesizers and electronic

noise from oversized, black gridded, mesh speakers

perched upon slender poles. The Gospel according to

him, then at that point, would most likely read

something like this:

“Hey.”

________________________________________

6 and/or 7 than, conj. Pronounciation: ( /ðən/ ; as a separate word called /

ðæn/ ) Forms: α. OE–ME ð-, þonne, (OE ðone, ðon); β. OE ðanne,

þænne, OE–ME þanne, ME þæne, ME þane... Etymology: Old

English þanne , þonne , þænne , also þan , þon ... Definition: a.

The conjunctive particle used after a comparative adjective or

adverb (and sometimes after other words: see senses 2-4) to in-

troduce the second member of the comparison; the conjunction

expressing the comparative of inequality (cf. as adv. 3). In use it

is always stressless, usually joined accentually to the preceding

word, e.g. more than, less than, other than c. Followed by that, or

by inf. expressing a hypothetical result or consequence. OED

Online ©2011 Oxford University Press. Easily confused with

‘then.’ 8 then, adv. (conj., adj., and n.) Pronounciation: /ðɛn/ Etymology:

Old English þanne , þǫnne , þænne , þenne , Middle English

þenne , þan , þen ... Definition: a. Demonstrative adverb of time.

OED Online ©2011 Oxford University Press. Please stop confus-

ing with ‘than’!!

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Wow what is going on wait why did I

“Hey.”

This is going completely differently from what I would

have previously thought

“This is really fun.”

Understatement

“…”

Uh oh no response does that mean I am wrong or is it

a good thing I hate ellipses

“…”

Thank God for ellipses

“Yeah. Dance?”

This is too easy

“Sure.”

No not complaining at all

“Cool.”

I cannot in any singular fashion reason at this moment9

“…”

________________________________________

9 Ironically a reasonable-sounding statement

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Did I say that out loud Need something to say

“Music’s pretty good.”

Oh come on that’s so weak you can do better than that

don’t hate me

“Yup.”

For God had heard and God had answered sending her

or her being sent for just fifty-five minutes of

unbroken St. Theresa-like revelation, that light bulb

moment in Algebra, jumping off the cliff when feeling

that tug in the diaphragm flipping over the edge, the

sensation of learning to fly and you know you can’t

stop but once it is over it will never be grasped again,

for you savor, breathing deeply, the stray hair in the

way of the perfume and the vision.

And yet the vision is all that remains in the room

with the blue damask walls with glorious shining light

poured in, coffee consumed metabolizing in his system,

slowly firing neurons and poking the brain, clearing the

fog10 of the room (last night) from the throbbing head,

not with a headache but with that beat-stamping like

they did over the great Khan’s grave.

________________________________________

10 More presumably condensed sweat

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For God had found him and had a sign handed

over. It came as a bolt of lightning, and he knew that

fleeting flash would float away as soon as she had

arrived. He (the man) did not lament or hold anything

against God or whosoever is up above, for they had

been justified, and he had been satisfied, and that one

night proved to be enough, for he knew that it was

better than any rebuff.

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Untitled

Your big brown eyes,

Those un-severable ties,

Through you I can uncover

Solitude’s demise.

Past deceptions of forever,

Haunt my conscience. However,

Through you I do discover

True human endeavor.

So I lie here watching the moon wane

Because your absence seems to be my bane.

Through you, my love forever,

I’ll never again feel pain.

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“Colorful Christmas”