Seabreezes 2009

Seabreezes:
A magazine of
art
photography
poetry
and
creative writing
A Martha’s Vineyard High
School Publication
1
Seabreezes
2
Editors-in-chief
Janelle Fortes
Marlan Sigelman
Editors
Abby Larsen
Ashley Drake
Chelsea Counsell
Naomi Scott
Clarissa Murphy
Julia Sadowski
Faculty Advisors
Janice Frame
Bill McCarthy
Table of Contents
Poetry
Non-Fiction
Seizure by Cody Maciel…………………....…7
First Philosophy by Ashley Drake……12
Begone the Presillith by Anna Yukevich…...9
In Sight of Mexico by Ray Ewing…...,20
People by Cody Maciel…………………...…10
They’ll Never…by Chelsea Counsell.,,.61
Alphabetizing Spices by Alexa Fisher…...…13
Samsara…by Micah Thanhauser...62-63
Mediations on Soup by Kat Monterosso….1
Diner Rolls by Kat Monterosso………….....13
Baby Bump by Prudence Fisher……..…….24
Soul by Tess Gyllenbeg……………...……...25
Boston Common…by Sarah Felder…..…...35
School by Tabitha Clark………………....….36
Lonnie Phillips………4
Woven by Kat Monterosso………….….….37
Zion Morris………….5
Facebook by Tabitha Clark…………..….…38
Lauren Petkus …7, 22, 25, 30-31,
Teachers by Tabitha Clark……………...….38
Loren Gibson …8, 69
Chicken with…by Tabitha Clark………......39
Malcolm Smith …10, 35
Brown Leather by Marlan Sigelman….…..41
Evan Hall…………11
Untitled by Marlan Sigelman………….….42
Augusta Dillon …12,16-17, 23 ,36, 39, 42,
Elegy by Alexa Fisher…………………...…43
Will Fligor………13
Melancholic Brilliance………………….…44
Chad Curtis…….13
Untitled by Kat Monterosso……… … …45
Nick Gross……..13
Old Grass by Sarah Felder…………… .….47
Kayla Montambault …14, 24, 34
Rancor by Kara Flanders………………. ...50
Naomi Scott …15, 34, 38
Visiting Hours by Prudence Fisher… .…51
Lauren Lucas…19, 46
Stand Up by Maeve McAuliffe…… ….…52
Ray Ewing …21, 27, 40-41, 59
Stuck by Jeff Duarte……………………....53
Colette Jordan…22
Stage Fright by Lauren Lucas…… ……..56 Nina Levin…23
When I Sank…by Sarah Felder…… …....57 Danielle Fog…28-29
You Don’t Need…by Sarah Felder………59
Brianna Buchanan…32
Villanelle by Christian Flanders…........…64
Cayla Morris…34
Summer Poem by Sarah Felder…… …..68
Maggie Howard…37
Ryan Fisher……..44
Kira Shipway ……46, 60
Maggie Johnson…49
Hannah Elias…….50
Phillip Jordan……53
Flotsam by Blair Rancich…………………...5
Mathew Menne....54
Clement’s Chowder by Chelsea Counsell….6
Ashley Drake.......56,57
Untitled by Kat Monterosso……………….17
Hannah Persson....60
10 Short Story Beginnings by Erin Morris..18
Ellie Williamson....61
Counterweight by Marlan Sigelman….26-27.
Madeline Penicaud...64-65
The Words…by Marlan Sigelman…….…...33
Connor Johnson.....66-67
Suicide King by Paul Bagnall…………..48-49
Lucas Pisano....68
Polar by Erin Morris……………………..…54
Six Word Stories…………………………....55
Writing Exercise by Marlan Sigelman……58
Art & Photography
Fiction
3
Lonnie Phillips
4
Flotsam
Blair Rancich
Life is a shoe. Usually each step is exactly like the one before and after it. People have their
routines, and they go about them without a second thought. Unless you step in crap, but even
then, what are you gonna do, sit on the path trying to scrape at it with a stick? I guess you
can try it, if you have the time. I just walk until the problem goes away on its own; I prefer
a rough far-away road, one where the air feels sharp in your lungs and leads to steeper and
steeper slopes until they are vertical and finally overhanging. By that time you can feel the
whole world opening up below you--even the air is down-sliding; everything shifts towards
the ground except your hands grasping the rock, and nothing else is real, especially some crap
on your shoe. I guess you could eventually get it off by walking just about anywhere, even
home, although that could mess up your carpet pretty badly. I think that’s what happened
to Neil; he walked and walked until his soles were worn out, until his room was covered
in filth. He never seems to notice, though; the whole world seems clean through Xanaxcolored glasses. He’s not seeing the real world, but he’s already so screwed-up that I don’t
really think he should take them off. Besides, there are worse things than living a false life.
He lives across from one of those old landfills with the grass grown over the top. It looks like
a park when the weather’s nice, children rolling down it and flying kites from the top. But
Neil only sees it when there’s a storm. The water sinks through the grass, transforming its
underbelly into stinking mud and trash. When the rain is hard enough, bits of muddy trash
break through the thin green façade, flowing down the hill onto the street into Neil’s path.
That’s probably the only time he sees the world, when its garbage flows up around his feet.
Zion Morris
5
Clement’s Chowder
Chelsea Counsell
6
Odd story, I should say. Yesterday, I heard from my employer Ross one of the
saddest stories I’ve ever heard. Not that it was cry-your-eyes-out sad or anything, but it still
gave me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
There was this guy that I worked with, Clement. And he was always out of it.
He would ramble on about nothing, about how when he was five he used to win kite-flying
competitions, and about relationships he used to have that none of us had proof of. We never
saw any women in his life.
Clement was the major source of gossip in the office where I worked. Whenever
he wasn’t in the room, everyone else would bring him up. The girls bad-mouthed him, talking
about his greasy hair and general social awkwardness. The guys took bets on whether or not he
would be invited to the annual potluck.
My boss, Ross, held this potluck every year on his front lawn, in a suburb just
outside of town. I’d been there the previous year, and it was a nice little get-together. I
brought chicken wings. People liked them all right. Ross probably just used the party to show
off his skills on the grill, anyway.
Not that Ross is a bad guy—he’s not. He just made a mistake.
It was a week before the potluck. Everyone who’d been invited already knew about
it. Everyone who’d been invited knew instinctively that they shouldn’t mention the party to
Clement under any circumstance.
But he found out anyway.
Five days before the party, Clement brought up his chowder during lunch.
“I’ve got this recipe,” he said between mouthfuls of a sandwich. “It’s an old family
recipe, for chowder. It’s really great—”
“Really?” one of the girls ventured. She wrinkled her nose as Clement turned
towards her, spewing lettuce.
“It’s amazing! It’s the best chowder you ever tasted!”
“Is that so?” The girl left the room.
“It’s great with crackers, you know,” Clement said to no one in particular. “It’s
delicious and thick, without being too thick, and…” he paused and turned to me, “well, you
guys should try it sometime.”
Five days later, the potluck came and went. Clement didn’t show up and neither did
his chowder, just like everyone wanted.
It had been a week since then. Clement seemed to have disappeared from work
altogether. I almost worried about him, in an abstract sort of way.
Then the news arrived. I was out of town on business when the discovery was
made, but when I came back, things at the office had changed. I asked Ross what was the
matter.
“Didn’t you hear?” My Boss looked concerned. “Clement went and killed himself.
They found him hanging in his apartment two days ago. He’s been dead since last weekend.”
I was speechless.
“And you know the weirdest thing? They found pots and pots of gallons and gallons of
chowder in his apartment. One of the guys on the crime scene actually had the gall to try some
of it. He said it was the best damn chowder he’d ever had.”
Seizure
Cody Maciel
Like getting shivers from cold wind
you lose control
it hurts
Like falling into a deep dark hole
you lose feeling
it scares
Like your soul getting pulled out
you lose your mind
it’s blank
Lauren Petkus
7
8
Loren Gibson
Begone the Bright Presillith Flew
Anna Yukevich
A silent smell I smelled
A smell of silver woe!
Begone the bright presillith flew
And the gaiety of prizes, nickels, treasures
Collapsed to fro to fro to fro
Fro to.
The body, the body, the body exhaleth
A soul, a rive!
An arisement yet dormanity of a plath, ey…
Remains: a trying moor, and intertwining,
Intermingling swarm-hive.
A dulley viewing of a day.
Among the pitter-patter, swilly-swallly
Lies a hopey glimmer!
A twallow tallow flame still isolated, ha!
Miracle my views and observies
Find a quaint-frendile virus, shimmer
Spreads beyond the heart, gut-pulsey way.
9
People
Cody Maciel
A hell like place filled with drama and fighting
How to believe fate is in the hands of these kids
Kids that fight and bicker for reasons that don’t make sense
Like five-year-olds when they want something
They cry and complain, not thinking about the other person
Yet I find it hard not to yell at them and tell them to shut up
Like an old man I like silence so I can think freely
I am trying to learn from the past
All I found was that people are selfish
They think about their fame first and others after
10
Malcolm Smith
Evan Hall
11
First Philosophy
Ashley Drake
Augusta Dillon
1. People who think they’re smart are usually the dumbest of all.
2. If you want a meaning to life, you need to make one up. Because there isn’t one.
3. Smug people should be punched in the face.
4. The media does not cause eating disorders.
5. Cursive is stupid.
6. The internet is full of dark, scary corners, several involving large men in drag, others
involving dolphins.
7. Anybody who gets offended by the word c**** should have it inscribed into their
forehead.
8. Everybody is terribly stupid in their own special way.
9. Books, movies, and everything else are always good until Romance gets added into it,
since it’s usually cliche and WRONG. Ex: Cloverfield as a monster eating New York. It was
all dandy until it turned into being less about the monster and more about the romance
of the main character saving his girlfriend. Then it sucked.
10. Getting mental help probably doesn’t help much in the long run, since it doesn’t look
fantastic on a job application.
11. Pens are not chewing gum.
12. EVERYTHING is pointless.
13. People always preach about wanting equality for all people, but then they would shoot
the Neo-Nazis to Pluto if they got the chance, which isn’t so equal.
14. Most people are inferior in some way to most other people.
15. Super powers are lame.
16. Arguing is pretty cool. But only if you’re right.
17. Most things cause some kind of fatal disease.
18. Dealing with somebody who takes themselves too seriously is like eating a burlap sack
of tacks and leeches.
19. Self-esteem is important if you want to be happy, because you’re the only person in
the world who has the misfortune of being stuck with you forever.
20. Nobody cares about you unless you know them. Which is handy, because that means
it doesn’t matter what horrifying, stupid things you do in front of them.
12
Alphabetizing Spices
Alexa Fisher
Mom was one painkiller click away from naming my sister and I Cilantro and Basil. Spices
at our house are arranged by alphabetical order in a spotless cabinet my mother worships.
I remember a movie where a woman did this, too, and there was a joke made about it,
and my mom turned around laughing and said, “Why is that funny?” I always worry when
I can’t find the cinnamon in the “C” section and the sage in the “S.”
Meditations on soup
Will Fligor
Kat Monterosso
It would be the kind of bowl you’d tip against your lips to finish, if it weren’t scalding hot. I spooned
the remains, constantly scraping the bottom, attempting to get it all, but always leaving behind one
last sip, one last piece of you I’d never get to taste.
Dinner Rolls
Chad Curtis
Nick Gross
Kat Monterosso
Do we remember the people we never meet? The man who held the door for you when
you walked into the restaurant. You nodded your head in recognition, and you glanced at each
other, but did you meet? No, and at the end of the night, you both went your separate ways, him
home to his wife or perhaps only his wire-haired terrier, and you continued your life without any
hesitation or second-thought to him. So do you remember, can you picture his face? No. But in
your subconscious, in the connection between you and your past and future lives, maybe he had
a role or maybe he was supposed to, but you were too busy rushing off to your warm dinner rolls,
already set on the table. You didn’t lend any more thought to him holding the door, but your
dream that night, if you can remember, it was of him.
13
Kayla Montambault
14
Naomi Scott
15
16
Untitled
Kat Monterosso
It was the way she smelt, with all of history shampooed into her hair. It was knotted atop her head. Bip she called it,
the holder of all knowledge, whom she consulted before eating.
She stood slightly pigeon-toed, her left knee was bent a little outwards and she felt defensive. The suckling noise
she made when she thought hard was too perfect. Her lips protruded off the slope from under her nose, a stark contrast
from her smooth chin and small cheeks. When she opened her mouth, tender words pulled you in until you smashed up
against her tongue and were slashed.
She told me she was an Indian, a tanned cowgirl who spoke to horses and sang with the coyote. When she folded up
against me, she felt wild, her whole body quivering with energy. Feather tattooed naked girl, bursting with passion of untold
tales, tasting like mangos and salsa.
That night we danced, sweat on her bare stomach dropped across a turquoise beaded belt. Bip bounced loose, waves
of knots and curls tumbling, her scent rolling off the tips and rushing towards me. I watched them dance together, her hair
and nipples twisting, her back and neck bucking. Her throat rocked back and unleashed a primitive, euphoric scream.
If you were lucky enough to lay with her, she would let you connect her freckles, splattered across her back thighs
and stomach. When you watched her trace her fingers across every inch of skin, you found designs and patterns swirled in.
There was a ruby in her navel, and bones pushed through her ears.
Augusta Dillon
17
10 Short Story Beginnings
Erin Morris
Timmy was 22 and still never drank alcohol. Every time he thought of liquor, he thought about
the night he lost his best friend.
Maggie always was crying because her hair was the color of fire and her skin a pastey white.
Her face looked like it was made of porcelain, her eyes softly pulled back to an almond shape.
There was not a kink in her back or a limp in her step. It was as if her soul was trapped under the
warmth of her skin and she held the key tightly.
“I think I have anaconda” was what she told me after I hadn’t seen her in a week. Only I knew
that somewhere in her racing brain, she was trying to find the name of a sickness or problem.
Jessica cried because her short-term memory was so bad that she forgot the name of her cat after
an hour.
There was no pain in her throat or swelling of her glands, but her mind was made up: she was
getting them out.
I knew I had messed up when the cheeseburger and fries came without tomatoes or lettuce.
Two days before Easter my sister called and said she had seen Jesus reawakened.
My mother was always coming up with crazy ideas. One time she told me we were going to see
the polar bears. When my father found us, we were on a train halfway to Florida. She stayed in
bed for a month after that.
18
Lauren Lucas
19
In Sight of Mexico
Ray Ewing
Don’t eat at the small Mexican restaurant near the
center of Bisbee, Arizona in the winter. You should
wish to avoid a winter visit to this fine establishment
because the off-season brings with it an apparent
unreliability in the quality of the restaurant’s tortilla
supply. You will be consoled for the inferior tortillas
you will certainly eat anyway; the large woman will
say, “I don’t know what to say. Jeannie missed the
pickup, so our tortillas are not the same today.” You
will say it is all right, but she will repeat, “They are
not the same; I don’t know about the ones we have
today, but they are not the same.” You will order the
green chili-Carne asada burritos and enjoy them, but
she will interrupt your meal and conversation with “I
called Jeannie, and she thinks she has the flu, so she
never woke up to make the pickup today.” You will
have burrito in your mouth, so you will make that
smile that tries to form despite the extra material in
your head and politely nod.
You will then realize that you and those
of your party are probably the first to dine here in
a considerable stretch of time. Perhaps the large
woman is nervous in the face of serving customers
after such a long time without practice, or perhaps
she has assumed you and your friends are dignified
Mexican gourmets and scrupulous tortilla judges.
Either way, it does not help the situation that you
are the type of customers who feel the irresistible
need to play three rounds of coin-activated pool
in the back of the dining area. Perhaps the large
woman is sitting in the kitchen muttering worries
to herself in overdrive Spanish, or perhaps she is
standing impatiently in the kitchen waiting for such
an obnoxious person as yourself to vacate her proud
establishment. Either way, you are only playing the
second round of pool, and everyone must get their
turn.
Ten minutes out of town the tired Italian
imitation of Bisbee dissolves into ramshackle
attempts at traditional American homebuilding
perched teetering over a winding and well-worn dirt
road, which soon withers into yellow-blue grasses
and charred barrel cacti. For there has recently been a
fire in the hills around the dried-up copper mine that
had once made silly little Bisbee the largest city in the
Southwest. Everything besides the new grasses are
blank and sick-looking from the ground to three feet
up. You shrewdly guess that the lightning preceding a
20
torrential storm started the fire, only to be doused
immediately by the rain it carried behind it.
In the green hills there, just on the U.S. side of the
American-Mexican border, there are plants that
only fire can birth. These plants wait underground
for years, needing only the extreme heat of the
furious burning of the thirsty kindling that is
Arizona’s vegetation to germinate and deliver their
rare appearance to the landscape for what must
seem like mere halves of moments to the ancient
trees which blanket the rough hills. You are lucky,
however; you have come to this one orange copperladen hill surrounded by one thousand green hills at
a time when the fire-born plants and the everyday
inhabitants of “B Mountain” are visible in some form
of health.
As you sit on the peak of this hill you are
told by one of your fellow-hikers that the blue
mountains a few miles in the distance are in Mexico.
“And there is the border,” he says, pointing at a spot
of land visible between two peaks. “Where?” you
ask instantly. Your friend points again in a slightly
different spot. “Wait! You pointed over there a
second ago,” you snap with possibly a bit too much
anger. “Well, fine! I don’t know where it is. Maybe
that is Canada!” he yells back at you, stomping off
down the hill the other way.
As you sit in sight of Mexico, searching for
this invisible divide between cultures and languages,
you wish you were in sight of a simple map. Instead
your map at home has “Mexico” written across the
country in huge letters, and the border is a clearlymarked dotted line. You realize the truth is that if
no one had told you otherwise, the blue mountains
could just as easily be North or more of Arizona.
Those blue mountains are too calm a shade of
cerulean to have been subject to the same flash burn
that your copper mountain was. Do other forces
devour the blue mountains? Or are the inhabitants
there used to this pattern? Your friend has no idea
what he was talking about; there is no border there.
There is no border.
Ray Ewing
Ray Ewing
21
Colette Jordan
22
Lauren Petkus
Augusta Dillon
Nina Levin
23
Baby Bump
Prudence Fisher
Designer shoes,
hot boys,
usually a must-have
in Hollywood.
Is a baby bump the new
status symbol to flaunt?
Kayla Montambault
24
Lauren Petkus
Soul
Tess Gyllenbeg
It’s inside of everyone
Only the person’s lover can have it
You can’t see it
Only we can sense
God can be in your soul if you allow him
It’s not for sale
Because it’s your soul
25
Counterweight
Marlan Sigelman
Mira sat across from me, and her eyes
were bloodshot like broken glass. It made me
uneasy. I tried to regain my thoughts, chain
them up and rein them in before they could
become full-blown paranoia. The room was
masked under the cloud of thick smoke, and
the floor was littered with cans—a display of
teenage escapism so perfectly captured, I wish
I could have framed it--hung it in a museum
and shown it to mothers and fathers; told them
their children were like yolks, dying inside before
ever breaking free. I felt nauseous. But her smile
caught my eye. Mira. She looked so soft there-an aura of thin hairs, yellow from the lamplight,
making a fiber optic web. She was encased in the
air of this moment like honey. Her movements
were slow, haphazard, Sunday-morning lazy and
warm. I couldn’t help but want to watch her.
She removed me from my spot on the rug in
her living room, where I was sedated inside my
body. She funneled all of me into only my eyes.
Everything was an eye; all I could do was look.
Watch her pretty face laughing.
Mira had started wearing red lipstick,
but it didn’t matter. I knew the color of her lips
underneath. Since we were children, she had
grown up in this garden under the shadows of
her parents’ arms, always too far outstretched.
She writhed and struggled towards the center
of the sun. Sometimes she was in my life, and
sometimes she wasn’t. Through the years she
came and went, came and went. But I was still
aware of her, even when I was alone in my
house looking out the window, I still felt the
weight of those tender leaves on me, and they
reminded me I was still standing. For a year I
had not seen her, and now I was without defense
in her living room. At the mercy of her and her
poison, her and her need for a trellis to strangle.
The weight of her kept me awake. Even when I
wasn’t sleeping, I let her lean, but never allowed
my body to fight it, never pushed back. Not even
once. Not even when her eyes were two dares
questioning all my truths and pulling like hunger,
26
not even then.
The television was on, but the sound was muted.
Her eyes didn’t follow the characters; they just
stared in the general direction. She was sitting so
far away from me. So far away from the couch
and the table and the bottles and the walls. On
the television men were having a conversation
in complete silence. They made faces and their
hands flew up in the air and fluttered back down,
deflated. I laughed and I didn’t know why. Mira
and her focus both turned to me. My sound had
sliced her cocoon. All my muscles tensed under
my clothes. “ They’re so funny,” she said, “those
men.” She paused to look back to the television.
On the mantle above the TV, there were three
pictures. In two, she was alone. In one she was
playing the piano, fingers poised above the keys,
and in the other, she was on a trampoline, midleap. In the third, she was with her mother. It was
the juice of childhood condensed into something
too thick to swallow. I could not take it in, and
so, instead, I didn’t try. I just let it exist in front
of me. Her fragile hips in that floral dress were
pushed against her mother’s knee, and her whole
body caved into that crease. One foot on the
ground, she was gaining her balance just as the
shutter clicked. And in a blur above her head, her
mother’s hand reached down to pat her, but she
was ducking, with a smile, out of the way.
“ Its too bad those men don’t exist,” she
said, “ or I mean…don’t exist in real life.” Her
mind is not done. “ Or maybe they do. We make
the real because we believe in them.” She’s right.
But their tiny tinted-blue faces, their screen-test
mouths with no sound. They’re alive then? My
hands are distorted from the light of the screen.
They’re watching me. Those men. They’re happy
because they feel like I’m a brother. A character.
She is staring again. I meet her there this time.
And in the air her sight is waves crashing up on
me; again, it is her needing something to fall
against, so she will not plummet forever; again
her feet search in the dark for a stair; and again
I am wooden. Not a blue-faced tiny TV man. I’m
the most solid thing. The only thing. The thing
at the center while the room spins. I feel her on
me, and I realize I still have skin. That pressure,
that’s the second there’s any feeling at all. Before,
I was unaware. Before, I was breathing,
but now I’m holding my breath. So
steady--the concentration that it takes
for a mechanic to control a machine.
She regains herself, and I’ve done this
forever, so I no longer obey gravity. My
body stays still; it refuses sinking into
that space to counteract the sudden loss
of pressure. It doesn’t move one bit.
Mira. Mira now on her feet again,
now walking since she can, now out the
open doorframe. I’m a part of the rug,
melded into its fiber, watching her like
she’s alone. The rug has seen her naked
body and her screaming mother and
her survival as a parasite, as a burr. She
lights a cigarette and I see her throat
crane, her head move towards it, that
fire stick. The refrigerator and I. The
cabinets and I. The floor tiles and I. We
are all sitting far away and watching
her. We are all seeing her like we have
seen her everyday or less. We are all
watching as she takes the cigarette,
and, with a force almost inhuman,
grinds it into her hand. She watches it
as it makes contact and turns the solid
to liquid. Mira forces the smoldering
end of the cigarette to approach her
nerve endings, and she forces it to push
against them. Pushing and pushing.
Burning that hand like she needs it, like
she means it, until she can’t feel the hot
pressure of the cigarette anymore.
Ray Ewing
27
28
29
Danielle Fog
30
Lauren Petkus
31
Brianna Buchanan
32
the words you are looking for
Marlan Sigelman
Impossible to stop she’s been starved for so
long can’t quell her hissing at me from the
margins she’s been juggling knives just to
give a good scare she is beady incongruous
glaring she is tying a million tiny strings to
the ends of everything and knotting them
at the center till I am 5 years old again
tripping over the air my voice and my breath
in the cold and my pupils and my nails its
all molding on its own to the shape of her
since she was raggedy and dirty and I was
distant but aware when she finally became
the princess of that sect of the slain she tore
them up and they adored her she found her
cheering crowd amongst the gutterflies she
is covered in turpentine and is running like
a loosed horse all through my burning city
she is playing cards on the deck while the
tide heaves forth through the flood of Noah
she is eating the apple in front of me while
I rot in the garden she is laughing always
and while I chase away snakes with sticks
she is weaving them in her hair and she is
screaming maternally chastising while I
vomit and churn in my own weight drinking
vodka while I’m sweating out nonsense she
bled with the sun and turned the sky into
her canvas came up as the moon and left
that sterile light on my face so I didn’t blush
at all I just grimaced and bleached bone dry
for I know even the ones I have loved they
wanted to smell her to touch her to hold her
still for a second so they could clearly see her
face so they could give her a new name so
they could crawl into the middle and finally
leave their beauty mark so they could turn
to ash from the heat and disappear in the
wind all the men I have loved have been
masochists all the women I have loved have
been cruel and all of them belonged to her
not to me and I never minded until now
when even strangers tell me that they see her
when the light hits my body when the view
is from a cluster of balloons slipped off a
child’s hand they cower at the kamikaze cuts
from her cracked laugh floating to violent
ecstasy we were both born surrounded by
a salt -lick sea drinking itself thirsty again
and we fell asleep to the sound of ships
rocking with fisherman feet we aged little
but grew large spilling out of our lopsided
stitches until we were competing for air now
I am always at her funeral I am always at
my birthday party I never know whether to
clothe myself in vibrancy or decay I never
know whether to be impish or executionary
imaginary enemy extra empty place setting
at the table I chisel her face into clay and
nail it over the grave that was ripped from
the soil in last nights thunderstorm I have
put years between us put earth between us
put violence between us but it all melted
at the embryonic tear of twins in womb if I
catch her cackling in the hallways I rabbit
-footed run amuck if I see the scratching
in the floorboards where she tried to tell
her story I am seized and will my eyes to
stay shutter shy closed lids on her every
day that I know she is still dancing on devil
feet somewhere I grow more uneasy I have
stopped sleeping and eating and now I am all
the more her mirror but vain as she was she
never held a looking glass so she would not
know she could not even conjure the image
of me if she was ever sober could not recall
one greeting we had shared she could not
come down and walk this ground I stand on
couldn’t look me in the eyes even for one
minute but if she did it would be the last
light of the living, the stark flash that signals
heaven, the sound of so much noise that all
you hear is this: “what about the piano?”
33
Kayla Montambault
Naomi Scott
Cayla Morris
34
Boston Common Street Preacher
Sarah Felder
He walks, paces, strums down Tremont.
Shouting at everyone, anyone:
Shriveled junkies, tiny orthodox Jews,
A scared dog with patches of furThese people say he litters the streets,
now; like trash, like the apostles litter
Dirt and kick up dust as they go.
He won’t stop shouting. I walk by him,
Grinning. He stops and asks if he can
Bum a smoke and his white hands come
Up to my face:
He takes mine from my lips and keeps
Walking, shouting, and now, smoking.
How many times will he follow the Lord
Into alley ways or public parks,
Or needles in the grass?
I catch him in a tree later that day,
Soaking in the leaves, stealing their
Sugar and selling it for gasoline.
Malcolm Smith
35
School
Tabitha Clark
I pass the underwater mural and realize
I am in a shark tank every day
The smallest fish
Swimming on the line of life
or lunch
36
Augusta Dillon
Woven
Kat Monterosso
You’re woven so far inside me,
You’re my god.
Your word my gospel,
Your lies my truth,
Your conviction my sentences.
I unraveled.
Gave up eating,
Took up sex.
Gave up dignity,
Took on shame.
Chemo, pills, cancerous virus,
Open my chest like a cadaver
Carve out the parasitic tumor.
Give me a simple lobotomy,
Remove your word
Your truth
Your sentence.
37
Maggie Howard
Facebook
Tabitha Clark
Buying her ticket to Paris
Can’t run from the pressure
Ready to be reunited with a certain someone
Following the Sunday night routine
Thinking this is bad
What is said always goes
to his head
She informs everyone that
The facts mean nothing
The cause to all your problems
Trying to analyze
the Rocky Raccoon
basket case walking into the terminal
Teachers
Tabitha Clark
“Facebook statuses are so funny!”
The three teachers laugh and agree with each
other.
“What do you think of mine? Are they good?”
the male teacher asks.
“Yeah, I like them,” the blonde woman responds.
“Yours are so funny,” the red head says to the
blonde.
“Facebook keeps everything! Like your wall and
messages never get deleted,” the male teacher
claims.
“Are we friends on Facebook?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll look you up tonight.”
The red head gets up from her desk and gathers
her
belongings.
Naomi Scott
38
Chicken with Peanut Sauce
Tabitha Clark
I was pleased today by eating chicken with peanut sauce, not paying for the bus, and being home
alone. I was irritated by people avoiding my phone calls, having thirty dollars in my bank account,
undercover cops parked outside of my house, uncontrolled paranoia, and returning home to once
again hear about how I am “going down the wrong path.”
Augusta Dillon
39
40
Brown Leather
Marlan Sigelman
It was still the season of swelling and sweat
but we had plans.
Big plans. Footnotes necessary
Explanations. Alterations
necessary. From me.
Following around every sentence, with an asterisk ready.
Not from her.
She spoke with a sure tongue of the maps and things,
and of US.
Constantly of that singular
plaster model. Smirking deity, with its hand on her shoulder
ghost color and similar in style.
We wore boots to the beach and down jackets
relishing our impracticality
“oh just look at
US”
she would scream, and
hit a tight nerve deeply embedded in muscle not used for years
until just then, to run out of the shore gusts,
looking back at her, alone blinking and squirming
with those matted eyelashes, and those split sweetheart lips
calling out .
Now, sound and body all in convulsion of craving
I could suddenly place the desperation.
She hadn’t been asking
she was creating.
Pouring that dream.
To rise out of crushed stone, phoenix from the tempest
Body broken in good form, pale and mean.
Now we are kneeling in front, always, of her masterpiece
Under breath, laughing or mid sentence, she spouted her law
US.
Ray Ewing
41
Untitled
Marlan Sigelman
Days of conquest endlessly sprout on the horizon
of the eyelid.
Lust calcified at fingertips, tools to leave a brand
on the back,
that canvas covered in presumptuous beauty
marks.
Red energy tumbling and barreling hedonistic from
every movement.
Feet gently cross. Head slowly tilts. All of it in
force and calculation.
Parted lips and teeth breathe the purest oxygen
straight to the flick of it, flame.
And seeking, seeking, seeking
to take down all monuments, all shrines
in the name of the better brother.
And to replace the barren grounds with statuettes
Shape showing the body of the female
Breasts and all
Hips and all
And arms lifted overhead
From the underground to the sky, in her grace.
This is what it feels like, Sweetheart,
To be the devil.
42
Augusta Dillon
Elegy
Alexa Fisher
Between water towers filled with
whales and
spy-tapped stretched-out
telephone lines.
Behind the guy selling roasted peanuts
messy street posted-up
like an art show opening poster featuring the block’s strangest.
Inside a saltwater strand of hair
washed off by a night that convolutes
until the outdoor shower floor boards creak.
In front of fluctuating seasons that
bring snapshots of an overcast day.
And finally: shrugging smiles guaranteeing
a rebound into the “real world.”
43
Melancholic Brilliance
High school. The dreariest of drearies, the woe-liest of woes, the chord that will break the final string
in my heart.
Surrounded by pitiful children, too immature to respect my elegance, too immature to remove the
dark veil and witness the thoughts within.
My onyx headphones- only shield against the shrills of jocks and preps. The skinny blondes attempted
to mock my dark attire, my chains, my ways of being, always trying to match the cuts on my wrists to
the ones on my soul.
Linkin Park’s electronic sound waves always acted as a plaster, wrapping my woes in bandages. And
when music alone couldn’t heal the soul, I painted ravens darker than a shadow of midnight.
I remember the day a prep approached me as Good Charlotte drifted into my eardrums. She opened
her mouth: to speak, but I turned away.
Foolish blond. I don’t speak with immature cheerleader monstrosities.
On occasion, I pitied them. So lost in their petty high- schooler arrogance. Unable to appreciate my
artistry and mastering of the mind.
44
Ryan Fisher
Untitled
Kat Monterosso
I found God hiccupping on his whiskey. I won’t judge you, since you don’t judge me. How
anonymous are my prayers? When I call up to you, who else hears? Is the wire being
tapped?
How much do you watch, God?
Sit down and have a drink.
Sliding to the floor, I throw my head back.
I saw it all, and it burnt worse than this whiskey. Before you accuse, look at me here.
Think this is an honor? I’m not perched on a cloud, I’m locked immobile and forced to see
it all. I first screamed, but my voice went raw. Then I pounded the ground until my fists
bled. I tried, I frantically told you to run, tried to get him off you, told your grandfather
to live, tried to keep you from being betrayed. I thought I had done something beautiful
when I took seven days and created the world, but the results have backfired. I’ve
watched men drink, smoke, and bleed to death. I hear all the pleas, small wishes,
desperate urgings, and last attempts. And since I can’t reply, I’m accused of doing nothing.
As if I sit here and choose to ignore what I see.
Have another drink before you look down from up here; everything is dizzyingly clear.
There, the gunshots steal sons, brothers, fathers; and over there young girls are being
exploited and sold. Again, there, that boy has never seen the outside of that factory, and
in that house a wife is beaten every night. Next door, a girl watches the light under her
doorway for a shadow, the sign that her stepfather will come in and rape her that night.
It’s torturous to watch and know that I can’t help the dying or the wife from being beat.
I can’t show the boy the world or tell the mother to steal her daughter and run. I watch, I
listen, I drink.
45
Kira Shipway
46
Lauren Lucas
Old Grass
Sarah Felder
The whir of my mother’s voice drops
Like a sharp needle on vinyl
Slate steps lead me to the sound of
Fists on bricks, endless exercise,
And tea boiling on the stove:
The shriek of condensed steam
Ringing from her windows.
I hear the clanking of china as she scrambles
To fix me chamomile blend. The same
China I know broke on sidewalks in Queens
In a few home movies set in November foliage.
Everyone quickly tries to pick up the pieces
And once they do my grandfather laughs a loud
Italian laugh and they all throw the pieces in
The trash and try to forgettaboutit.
Images crossed out in my mother’s diary:
I fry an egg hard on the asphalt,
My brother pokes me on the back of my knee, his hand
On my shoulder helping me through his late death—
My grandmother walks through the hallway,
Her voice at the top of the stairs clings to the wall,
She shouts: August! Muggy New York is on fire.
47
Suicide King
Paul Bagnall
The smoke flows around the dimly-lit room like
a river floating on air. His cigar flashes red as he
inhales the thick-tasting smoke. He looks to his
left, then his right under his hazy glasses and
sees the two men. The man to his left was thin
with a camo cap on his head and a lit cigarette
in his hand, the man to his right was a thick sort
of plump fellow with aviators to hide his tell and
a glass of bourbon settled right in front of him.
Both were wearing dark shirts. His hands are
steady as he shuffles the deck before him on the
square-shaped table with cup holders on each
end.
“Well, what’s the game then?” asked the
man. “The buy- in is one hundred bucks each; any
objections?” His eyes are now on the two men
sitting on the opposite sides of him. The thin
man just shook his head.
“Okay, deal the cards, and let’s get on with
it, Gus,” the plump man said. Taking a sip of his
drink, he reached into his shirt pocket, fished out
his brown leather wallet with the money tucked
slightly inside and threw it onto the center of
the table. This is what each of them had always
done when they sat down to play the game. The
thin man and the self-proclaimed dealer followed
without hesitation.
“The rules of the game: you get two cards;
five cards will also be dealt out; beats go around
twice this time; and the king of hearts is wild.
Just so we can make this game interesting, I’ve
made all the kings in the deck only hearts so that
will increase your chances of getting the wild
card,” said Gus.
He eyed both of the men; each nodded in
agreement.
The chips were already set out between
the players: ten are white, eight are red, and the
other five are blue. Each chip represents a dollar
amount. Whites are one, reds are five, and blues
are ten.
Gus proceeded to shuffle the deck. He was
trying to figure out each one of his friends’
48
tells. The plump man was just sipping his drink,
and the thin man was adjusting his cap on his
head. “Gotcha,” Gus thought. He dealt two
cards in front of them, setting the deck out in
the middle of the table when he was finished.
Looking around the table, Gus observed the two
men looking under the cards, and they returned
stone- faced looks when they had seen their
respective hands.
Gus looked at his cards. He had a clubbed
two and a spaded ace. Pushing his shaded glasses
up on his face, he looked to the thin man who
would begin the game, leaving two broke and
one slightly richer.
“I bet two whites,” the thin man said. All
attention then shifted over to the plump man.
“I call and will raise you a blue,” he said, taking
a long sip of his bourbon. Gus and the plump
man were forced to put in a blue chip of their
own. That’s what happens when someone raises
the amount on the first bet. “Check,” Gus said,
rapping his knuckles on the table. All this time,
Gus was trying to figure out the strategies that
these men were setting in motion. Checking can
sometimes be a sign of weakness, Gus thought.
If I don’t beat anything on the first round then I
can kiss my bills good-bye.
“Get on with it now, Gus. You’re killing us.
Let’s see what your first three cards are,” said the
plump man.
“I know, Joe. I just needed to think a little bit is
all,” Gus replied. He reached over to the deck,
presenting the three cards that everyone was
so desperately waiting to see: an ace of hearts,
a two of diamonds, and a three of hearts. Gus
looked at the three red cards. I just might have a
chance after all, he thought.
“I’m gonna need more bourbon for this
game,” Joe said, shaking the two left-over ice
cubes in his glass.
“You’ll be having more once I take all of
your money,” the thin man said.
Joey smiled. “I won’t have to. I just hope
you don’t have another heart attack like the last
time you lost.”
“I already know who’s going to win, and it’s not
either of you two losers,” Gus joined in.
“Winning aside, I can’t stick around this
time,” said the thin man.
“Come on, Mike, I thought you was going
to hang around like we always have done,” Joe
said.
“Sorry, guys, but the Miss wants me home
tonight because of our special dinner,” Mike said,
inhaling more of his cigarette.
“You mean you’re still going out with
that bimbo you call a girlfriend?” Joe said, giving
Mike a love tap.
“Yes, I still am, and she’s been bothering
me about hanging around with the two monkeys
I call my friends,” Mike returned.
“If you two ladies are done arguing right
now, here’s what I got,” Gus said. He flipped over
the fourth card, or what they called the “river
card.”
Four of hearts, Gus thought. It was over
for these guys on the flop.“I check,” Mike said,
tipping up the rim of his hat as he did it.
“Check,” Joe said, sipping up what was
left of the watery mixture. In previous games
he would try to take a sip of his drink and would
sometimes forget that there was nothing in the
glass. He can be so predictable sometimes, Gus
thought.
“I call and raise the pile two reds,” Gus
said. Pushing the two reds along into the pile
completed the three colors. The other two were
forced to mimic what Gus had done.
Maggie Johnson
49
Rancor
Kara Flanders
Fingers of ice cut my skin,
A menace in child form,
No more innocence.
The blade strokes my neck,
It breaks down my sanity,
Blood stains my skin.
The blades reflection is smeared,
The carved letters in my flesh sting of salt,
Knife licked clean.
The absolute torture,
A possessed mind,
personal malice.
50
Hannah Elias
Visiting Hours
Prudence Fisher
I remember when I was young
not needing to care
not knowing what was going on
I remember missing my mommy
the first time I saw her face on the video phone
I remember being angry and upset
hating our nanny
I remember the first time we went to see her
“Who are you and what did you do with my Mommy!”
“Bean, it’s me. It’s your mom! I’m just really sick. It’s okay.”
I remember the nurses removing me from the room because I was making her too upset
I remember them trying to explain why my mom had no hair, her skin the color of old yellow
wallpaper, her eyes like furious fires
I remember trying to convince me that it was my mom and not an alien lying in the hospital bed
I remember not sleeping in the same house
visiting hours
the horrible sickly smell
a fake tree for Christmas
wearing masks and gloves
I remember growing up
I remember reality
51
Stand Up
Maeve McAuliffe
Menstruation.
Menopause.
Mental breakdown.
Ever notice how they all start with “men”?
The most stressful and upsetting aspects of our lives.
We’ve convinced ourselves we can’t live without them.
Using us, abusing us, then throwing us away.
And we seem to give in every time.
Even when we don’t have a choice.
They treat us like we’re worthless.
But it’s time for us to stand up.
Show them they can’t live without us.
And prove to them our worth.
So throw down your apron and tell them:
Make your own sandwich, b****.
52
STUCK
Jeffrey Duarte
The clock ticks, it doesn’t move
I just sit, I don’t move
I kill some time with make-up work
I sneak to use my phone but that didn’t work.
I am away, out of reach of everything and everyone.
I try to make fun, but in here there is no fun.
I shouldn’t have done what I did cuz what I did was dumb.
Finally the bell rung, immediately my heart jumped.
The halls were filled and people walked by.
Some people I know waved, some said Hi.
The special person I was waiting for finally walked by.
That someone stopped and waved and I was happy to see that smile.
That smile let me know I would only be here for a while.
Soon I would be free. I would be moving again.
I’d be back with my friends and with that special someone again.
Once I’m done,
Be assured of this.
I will never be a slave,
to ISS!
Philliip Jordan
53
Polar
Erin Morris
When I was growing up, my mother
always had crazy ideas. One time she told me
we were going to see the polar bears. When
my father found us we were on a train halfway
to Florida. She stayed in bed for a month after
that. This was a regular occurrence in my house.
Up and lively with ideas and songs, then gone
for what felt like an eternity, only behind a door
thirteen steps away with sounds of a five year
old. We got used to it. It was hardest on dad;
he loved her but was caged by her. It’s called
bipolar disorder was what caught my attention
in health class in the fifth grade. It was never
explained to me.
I just knew she was different from most
moms--from the time she packed me a
tiara in my lunchbox instead of a sandwich
or the day I skipped school with her to
play dress up in the sandbox. She was just
different. It causes intense mood swings
and you go into polar opposites. Now I
can’t help but feel like my son will have
to make the same recognition except
not with his mother... but with his baby
brother.
Matthew Menne
54
Six Word Stories
I lost him. I found me. (Katie Clark)
Blushing? Cold? Nope. Born with them. (Gus Hayes)
Work. Is that the journey’s end? (Ben Hopkins)
Been in Aquinnah too damn long. (Samuel Scott)
Course set, my choices are made. (Blair Rancich)
Thinking too much. Wasn’t loved enough. (Emily Hines)
Let it be. Life is better. (Whitney O’Brien)
Loved too much. Wasn’t loved enough. (Kat Monterosso)
Normality changed by a brother’s addiction. (Loren Gibson)
All I gave. All I got. (Nikolaj Wojtkielo)
Sat down. New bench. Ruined pants. (Jerome Pikor)
Now I’m asleep. This is fun... (James Lawson)
Close to stupid. Cheated, then succeeded. (Holly Robinson)
I want to see life’s backstage. (Becker Awqatty)
Looking forward to new, loving old. (Ana Christina Jurczyk)
Before long everything’s going to change. (Cayla Morris)
Moved to Aquinnah. Died of boredom. (Dylan Hutchinson)
And it comes down to this... (Matt Costello)
Never got paper, or lost paper? (Liam O’Callaghan)
Was once a kid. Still trying. (Connor Johnson)
Each day is better spent relaxed. (Arielle Wannamaker)
West Tisbury. Trees. Forts and fun. (Ben Hopkins)
Beat Ben Hopkins on Hamlet test. (Kat Monterosso)
55
Stage Fright
Lauren Lucas
Eight suns melt his face while
The plastic creatures nod on cue.
Words flow out of his mouth, off the page,
Through their ears, and in the walls
They begin slurring their speech
As sweat pours down into their thoughts.
Butterflies spill out of his gashes
He prays the friendless chairs don’t notice
As they watch with their lucid eyes.
They ride the heat gauge like a Ferris wheel
Turning into heads of lettuce.
56
Ashley Drake
When I sank the other ships sailed on
-Epitaph in the Greek Anthology
from Virginia Woolf’s diaries: Monday, January 26th, 1931
Sarah Felder
crickets at night you only see them during the day
floating on the surface of the pool. Squirming
the death of a cricket:
shingles, knowing the way they crunch
the crunch of the shingled. The armored
cricket I know I was just talking about
ships but there are crickets on those ships
where is the vegetation they say to each other
I know sailors who miss the sound of crickets
A day ruined, for us both I will say to the cricket
And the sailor. I am a sailor who misses the
Sound; the deep set noise. The cricket, itself
Someone once told me it’s their legs rubbing
Together.
When I sink the other ships sail on. I see the
Canvas of their sails over the horizon just
As my mouth goes under the wet feel
Of the water makes me sweat.
57
Writing Exercise
Marlan Sigelman.
Cleave:
I know that this is sort of unnatural. I feel like a freak when I go anywhere, though. I sort of like the
feeling of being alone, walking away with my brown bag. Anyway. I stuff my pockets with cash and get
in my car, giddy, and she knows me, so she bucks and breathes hot air excitedly. And sometimes I play
the music loud. And sometimes when it’s raining, I play the same song on repeat. And I go to the grocery
store.
You have Jesus.
I have Aisles 1-9.
And the holy fluorescent light of her shines through her huge glass eyes, and I make my way through the
sensor- speaking mouth of her.
Momentarily, the checkout girls in their silver clank-chains and shirts that never quite cover their bellies,
they look up at me and I cower. But they go back to chatting in tongues, speaking with the fever. And
this is what it feels like the first time your body hits water and finds it can swim. And this is what it feels
like the first time your legs pedal-pump the bike smoothly down your driveway. And this is what it feels
like the first time you f*** someone and your skins stop fighting each other and freestyle. This is what it
feels like to suddenly be living instead of thinking “I’m alive”.
I begin to browse. The sterile creaking metal and the crates and the boxes and the music of carts. The
others are all picking. They pluck items from shelves and pop them in baskets, and they don’t look at
me, except when they do, and I don’t even mind. Because I’m holding items, too. See? See them in my
hands? I am doing something right now. I am continuing the natural composure of the perfect creation,
the body. I am fiber, and I am iron, and I am sugar. See? And I’m like a blissed-out bride down Aisle 5, and
I’m a pawn moving down the Boardwalk: I know this game. This land has always been mine. And she’s a
spaceship, this building--or a comet. She’s a silver-hot kiss existing of her own abandon, a single-second
glitch shaved off the clock and held suspended.
And I reach down two half-cupped hands to hold
A perfect split heart.
A papaya cleft in twain.
58
You don’t need a degree to know how to play the trumpet
Sarah Felder
Been gone months on the road
With the tar and moths on warm nights
Banging against screens with the June bugs.
But boy, do I love your fingers on those
Brassy sounds.
Long time ago, though. That was
When kids still liked things
And set them up as brown log
Cabins.
I collapsed in the wind
That also rustled the south end
Trees while we slept.
Linen was my favorite word
And in California you don’t
Really need to love the way I
Say it.
Ray Ewing
59
Hannah Persson
60
Kira Shipway
They’ll Never Get a Guy Like Edward Cullen:
An Anti -Twilight Essay
Chelsea Counsell
The Twilight saga by Stephanie Meyer has been increasingly popular among teenagers (and
occasionally adults) in the past year. If you asked a Twilight fan, they would tell you that each
volume of this series was the best piece of literature they’d ever read. But this is only true in the
sense that the book is full of fan-service.
That’s why it’s a best seller. That’s why it’s a pop-culture phenomenon. That’s why it’s
spawned thousands of parodies and spin-offs. But all of that doesn’t mean that the books are well
written—they’re not.
Teenage girls only like Twilight because they have a fetish for overly possessive, sparklyvampire boyfriends. Instead of reading something intelligent that makes them think, they’re reading
a novel that’s a borderline sexual fantasy. Their disturbing desire for outright pleasure is questionable
and downright daunting. What is the world coming to if the female population is left wanting a man
that doesn’t exist? They’re not expanding their horizons. They’re narrowing them down to nothing.
They can dream—and I assure you, they can and will—but they’ll never get a guy like Edward
Cullen.
Ellie Willamson
61
Samsara: Punxsutawney PA,
February 2nd
Micah Thanhauser
“What would you do if you were stuck
in one place, and every day was the same, and
nothing you did mattered?” This is the essential
question that Phil Connors is forced to confront
in the movie Groundhog Day. And while most
people would see this as a hypothetical question,
the man seated next to Phil at the bar speaks
for the vast majority of us when he says, “That
just about sums it up for me.” Whether trapped
by an unforeseen blizzard and time vortex in
Punxsutawney on February 2nd, or trapped by
the ego in the world of Samsara, the fact remains
that we are all trapped.
The movie Groundhog Day is the story
of Phil’s transformation from an ego-driven
“prima donna,” to an enlightened Bodhisattva.
This transformation is by no means an easy one,
but Phil is able to achieve it through repeated,
ceaseless practice, sparked by the discovery that
life as he knew it had no meaning.
The world of February 2nd into which Phil
is trapped by unknown magic, is one of extreme
monotony and meaninglessness. This world is
equivalent to the Buddhist’s world of Samsara.
Phil yearns to transcend his terrible fate, and
reach beyond the physical confines of his new
world’s time and space. Similarly, followers
of Buddhism seek to reach beyond their
limits and transcend their own minds, freeing
themselves from the Samsaric realm. It is taught
in Buddhism that Samsara and Nirvana exist
only in the mind, and thus that the only way
to transcend Samsara and reach Nirvana is by
overcoming the ego-clinging habits of the mind.
This is precisely how Phil escapes February 2nd,
but like the Buddhist’s quest for enlightenment,
the escape is neither quick nor easy.
Phil goes through several stages on his
path towards transcendence, each bringing him
a step further from his initial ego-driven self and
a step closer to his eventual enlightenment. I
identified six major mind-states that Phil went
through during the course of his February 2nd
62
lifetime, the final one being his enlightenment.
When Phil is thrust into the world of
February 2nd, he is at the mercy of his ego. He
has a ballooned sense of self worth that prompts
him to refer to himself as ‘’the talent” and “a
celebrity.” For the first few days of his new life,
he retains this sense of self-importance and uses
his newfound “powers” to reinforce his ego by
seducing women, buying a Cadillac, etc. Soon
enough, though, he comes to realize that his
actions are completely devoid of meaning, a fact
that was true of his pre-February 2nd existence,
but that he now sees for the first time. Looking
beyond the materialistic pleasures of bags of
money and fast cars, Phil sets his lusty eyes on
his producer, Rita.
In his failed attempt at seducing Rita, Phil
shows that he has seen his former bad habits-his rudeness, sarcasm, and gluttony--as negative.
But rather than look to the source of them,
his overblown ego, he seeks to hide them, and
appear virtuous, in order to seduce Rita, a goal
that is still driven by ego. Phil holds the naive
and faulty belief that through a correct series
of ingenuous actions, he can achieve his desired
result, regardless of his impure intentions. When
this belief is shattered by Rita’s repeated slaps,
Phil sees that life, as he is choosing to live it, is
futile. Able to see no alternative, he attempts to
destroy himself.
Phil’s depression and numerous suicides
make up the third stage of his journey. Life has
lost all meaning, and he characteristically tries
to take the easy way out of his predicament,
turning to suicide. But the same divine fate that
has locked him into his new world will not let
him escape so easily. Phil realizes the fiction of
his self, telling Rita, “I’ve killed myself so many
times I don’t even exist anymore.” Phil has
transcended his ego and realized his lack of an
independent existence, but his journey towards
enlightenment is not yet finished.
Phil’s destruction of self leads him to
a new lifestyle. He gives up his attempt at
seduction, and instead seeks true quality time
with Rita. He has seen her all along as the
personification of goodness and truth, but now
he has ceased to lust after her in order to satisfy
his ego and validate his self worth and has begun
to open himself to her honestly, in order that he
may achieve the traits of goodness that he sees
in her. He cultivates positive qualities in himself,
taking up the piano and ice carving, in a genuine
search for the truth that is transcendent. This
leads him to accomplish numerous good deeds,
but until his encounter with the homeless man,
these deeds were motivated by a desire for
results and a sense of himself as a powerful being
capable of making real change.
When the nurse tells Phil that the
homeless old man he is trying to save cannot
be helped, and that some people ‘’just die,” Phil
replies, “not today.” While he is attempting to
achieve a positive result, he is still overconfident
in himself and has not accepted that some
things are beyond his control. When the old
man dies in his arms, he is forced to see that he
is not all powerful; all he can do is act correctly:
everything else is beyond his control, and thus
indifferent. Once Phil truly realizes this and
resigns himself to his circumstances, he is at the
verge of transcendence.
The moment of enlightenment occurs
when Phil, holding Rita, declares, “No matter
what happens tomorrow or for the rest of my
life, I’m happy now because I love you.” Phil has
awakened to the truth that has been staring
him in the face the entire time: There is no such
thing as the future; it is irrelevant that every
day is superficially identical, because happiness
exists NOW, and nowhere else. He has fully
awakened and his transcendence brings him to
February 3rd. Phil proves that his transformation
is complete and lasting, exhibiting his loss of
ego by asking Rita, “Is there anything I can do
for you today?” He also proves that he has
achieved enlightenment not only to get himself
out of the burning building of Samsara/February
2nd, but to become a Bodhisattva, choosing
to stay in Punxsutawney for the benefit of “all
sentient beings,” rather than returning to his
former life as an ambitious egocentric Pittsburgh
weatherman.
It took Phil hundreds or maybe
thousands of identical days to fully realize
the meaninglessness of his former ego-driven
lifestyle. His illusions of self were shattered when
he saw that any objects, status, or recognition
that he attained on February 2nd inevitably
disappeared at six o’clock the next morning. It is
taught in Buddhism that when we die we retain
only our mind, leaving our physical body,
possessions, and reputation behind. Within our
mind is karma, the imprints in our mind caused
by our actions in life. Phil experienced this,
waking up each morning to find that the events
of the previous day had been erased in the world
around him but still existed strongly in his mind.
This led him to pursue a more virtuous lifestyle,
the effects or karma of which he felt each day.
Because each day was externally identical, Phil
was eventually able to understand that his inner
life was independent of his circumstances and
solely dependent upon his actions.
Phil was able to reach this conclusion
because he was forced to see each day as
identical; thus the artificial meaning that can
be found in our materialistic world was brutally
withheld from him. Living in a world vastly larger
than Punxsutawney and longer-lasting than one
day, it is more difficult for us to see the tragedy
of our own predicament. We are more easily able
to deceive ourselves into seeing the relative as
absolute, desperately clinging to the belief that
it really does matter what other people think
of us or how much money we have in our bank
accounts or how closely we resemble an artificial
conception of physical beauty. We fail to see
the impermanence of life, because to us one
lifetime seems an eternity. Phil was able to see
that the external happenings of one day were of
no consequence because he had lived in a world
with a lifespan of many years. But we are unable
to see that the external events of our many-year
life spans are inconsequential because we know
nothing greater.
It took Phil hundreds if not thousands
of days to release himself from Februry 2nd. If
we are to take each one of Phil’s new days as
a rebirth, he went through many hundreds of
lifetimes on his path to transcendence. This is, the
teachers say, the amount of time it can take to
accomplish enlightenment, and while that span
of time may be daunting to the human mind, we
have little choice but to do as Phil does and accept
completely what is: existence in the present
moment.
63
Villanelle
Christian Flanders
Times hard to pass our shore to come,
For good deeds have passed as well.
Also to come is the calm of night
For all the negativity out there we must
Rise as one or fight as many individuals,
Time hard to pass our shore to come.
Running into the woods I share my life.
Killing my mind and so much more,
Also to come is the calm of night
I wish I knew of the hate coming
Just like so many others I was caught blind
Times hard to pass our shore to come.
The creatures of the darkness arise
The man of light ready to fight
Also to come is the calm of night.
Those ready to fight will survive
For those ready to die will repent
Time hard to pass our shore to come
Also to come is the calm of night.
64
Madeline Penicaud
65
66
Connor Johnson
67
Summer poem for Willa Cather
Sarah Felder
Where is a body to begin?
Cather opens her windows wide,
Sucks in July, and breathes honey
Suckles like light. Sheds shingles
Of Amber from her leaves and
Paints to plaster the white.
Summer sets golden fires all along
Nebraska. Cather sings a song
Under the oak in my yard, it’s maybe
Some jazz piece. Her whistle is shrill,
Clear, and coming in on wind through
My blinds. She gets up and turns on
The hose. She waters my lilies
The entire afternoon, as if they might
Break like brittle prose.
Lucas Pisano
68
Loren Gibson
69