The PendulumSt. Luke’s School

2010

377 North Wilton RoadNew Canaan, CT

flachsbarts@stlukesct.org(203) 966-5612

Editor’s Introduction

Here it is: our annual attempt to create a cross-section of the creative world at St. Luke’s, conceived during a weekly lunch hour (which to an onlooker might look more like an erudite shoutfest than a reasonable literary discussion). Collectively, we pored over countless pieces of literary and visual art, and chose a selection of works that we feel are not only worthy of appreciation, but also mutually complimentary, working together to produce our unifying theme for this year: Elevation.

Elevation is a constant theme in our lives, so it felt fitting that it should be expressed as this year’s theme. Every day, we attempt to elevate ourselves: morally, financially, academically, and socially. As well, elevation is ever-present in the world of art: it is the process and the result. The artist must elevate him or herself to a level of creativity above that of the everyday, and capture a significance to present to his audience. In turn, the audience will (hopefully) be elevated by the work, and see in the everyday the same significance that the author did.

The works presented here explore the idea of elevation. From comical prose, to profound verse, to striking photography, to masterful paintings, we’ve collected an assortment of literature and art for your enjoyment. So take it all in and allow yourself to be elevated. We think we’ve got something here.

Table of ContentsPoetryMeditation at Midnight Alex Polyakov 9How Shall I Murder Her, Iago? Samantha Fomon 10How Shall I Murder Her, Iago? Anna Van Munching 10I Already Ate Emily Bergmann 12Blue Walled Woman Jessup Daniel 15The Dinner From Hell Cameron Wilson 16Color Eternity Inna Fetissova 23Lullaby Maggie Van Munching & Ana Graczyk 25A Concert Kevin Mahoney 26Fairest Adored Samantha Fomon 27Soliloquy Alex Polyakov 28Where the Past Becomes the Future Brittany Hankins 32Confessions Alie Smith 34Watch Out! Charlotte Lyons 37!"#$%#$&"'()*+#,-./( Angela Zhou 37You Could Be My Unintended Gabrielle Levion 38Sighs the Mallard to the Saintly Criers Samantha Fomon 42Hoboken Samantha Fomon 45Lake Powel Gabrielle Levion 48Tourist Trap Alie Smith 50Being There Carla Nicasio 53Gil Doesn’t Like Tea Alex Polyakov 54July Samantha Fomon 55Facebook Messenger Vomit Doug Walker 56Apologies Conor Swanberg 57The Black Tide Daniel Chung 60

Fiction

Table of Contents

The Lady With the Hot Pink Shorts Brittany Hankins 13“Dinner!” Jacob Parker-Burgard 13Letter to a Fifth Grader Chandler Rae 20Ketchup Henry Clayton 30-31The Barnhouse Theo Trampe 35-36My Grandfather’s Closet Lily Holland 40-41 Grendel the Tenor Adam Connolly 44-45Tasty Anna Van Munching 49

Non-FictionWhat Has The World Come To? Zach Lupica 17That’s Not How You Use That Word! Jacob Parker-Burgard 21Suspicion Naomi Dubissette 58

Table of ContentsArtwork“Deep Thought” -- Ink Alie Smith 9“Animal Skull” -- Graphite Catherine Bradley 11“Alleyway” -- Photograph Alie Smith 11“Welcome to the Circus” -- Oil Paint Lena Parker-Duncan 14“Blue Walled Woman” -- Photograph Emily Bergmann 15“Motion” -- Photograph Cole Bishop 18-19“Mom’s Makeup” -- Photograph Julianne Wilson 20“Tested by Fire” -- Collage Alie Smith 22“Blue Flower” -- Photo Illustration Angela Zhou 23“How Far” -- Photograph Caroline Price 24“Kara Clark” -- Graphite Anna Van Munching 24“Wild Stare” -- Photograph Alie Smith 27“Self-Portrait” -- Watercolor Jack Henson 29“Eggs” -- Charcoal Anna Van Munching 31“Self-Portrait” -- Oil Paint Maggie Goldstone 33“The Playground” -- Oil Paint Catherine Simonson 34“Road Signs” -- Watercolor & Pastel Egle Vasiliauskaite 34“Road to the South” -- Photograph Joanna Bornstein 35“Charlotte” -- Photograph Emily Bergmann 36“The Power of Spending” -- Collage Chandler Rae 39“Old Woman” -- Oil Paint Anna Van Munching 41“Street Lights” -- Photograph Cole Bishop 43“Shayling” -- Digital Illustration Jacob Parker-Burgard 44“From the Street” -- Photograph Alie Smith 45“Radial” -- Photograph Matt Muney 46“Ping Pong in Hong Kong” -- Photograph Cole Bishop 47“Creek” -- Photograph Andrew Veidenheimer 48“Bottles” -- Collage Egle Vasiliauskaite 49“Pedestrians” -- Photograph Caroline Price 51

Table of Contents

Cover Art -- Alie Smith -- “Tall Enough” (Marker)Inside Cover Art -- Joanna Bornstein -- “Clock” (Photograph)Editor’s Introduction Art -- Egle Vasiliauskaite -- “Waste of Time” (Ink)Back Cover Art -- Maggie Goldstone -- “From Above” (Graphite)

Artwork“Girl Reading -- Photograph Alie Smith 52“Beams Up High” -- Photograph Joanna Bornstein 52“Shell” -- Graphite Anna Van Munching 55“Grace” -- Photograph Caroline Price 59“David” -- Graphite Anna Van Munching 61“Early Morning” -- Photograph Gabrielle Levion 62

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Meditation at MidnightAlex PolyakovThe world called out to me todayI let it go to the machineThis is to make it plainI never heard the message

The night outside is frigidAnd I won’t brave its doubtsIn here, a warming light burnsAnd in my intimate solitudeMomentary constancy is easily seen

The clock reads one-oh-nineAnd a familiar fog fills the airEverything used to be real clearAnd now it’s not so clear.

Alie Smith -- “Deep Thought” Ink

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How Shall I Murder Her, Iago?With ropes and chainsWhile wearing latex glovesAnd hide your faceWellBy knitted cottonBehind her bare backOr maybe drown herThere are no fingerprints underwaterWatch her while her lips part and bubbleWhite and damp and ghastlyGrip her neck for the sadistic pleasureThough she asphyxiates anywayAll the better to sever herWhips and chainsSkewer herThen stabAnd dress her all too drabOr bateShe appears as if sleepingPleasured, perhaps.

~ Anna Van Munching

Just poison her dishIf it’s her death that you wish

Or, you could strangleHer throat you might mangle

But a knife would be niceIf your wife you must dice

Or try poison gas,But cover your ass

Unless you want to end up with the fish.

~ Samantha Fomon

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Catherine Bradley -- “Animal Skull” Graphite

Alie Smith -- “Alleyway” Photograph

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I Already AteEmily Bergmann

We approach the starting gateWish that we could sleep lateCourt a certain classmateInstall a beat-up license plateScramble for a prom dateDeliberate where to matriculateFinally culminate.We celebrate and congratulate,Dedicate the date to commemorate.They educate, we extrapolate, contemplate, and innovateCalculate exchange rate, form ethyl acetateInebriate, hallucinate, and for a moment, levitateAttempt to annunciate, ultimately designateEncore graduateHesitate to migrate, eventually domesticateAcclimate to our new cellmateFabricate a happy stateLubricate, impregnate, procreate. Hate to lactate.Drive on the interstateRadios interrogate, exaggerate the death rate.We invest in real estateCongregate and consecrateBecome irateCastigate those who deviate, berate those who gyrateIsolate and meditateHope to lose weightSubtract carbohydrate, push away the dessert plate“Thanks, but I already ate”Over exfoliate, suddenly lacerateEnter marriage stalemate.Eyes dilate, we gasp at new jailbaitRealize we’re out of date.

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We eventually palpitate, they try to defibrillateTouched by the fickle finger of fateThey cremate us, we dissipate, disintegrateIt’s too late.

I self-deprecateDebate, create, commiserateOver communicate, somehow correlateOpen my floodgateGet told to mitigate, try to ameliorateBut let me get this straight:Is it my fate to just salivate, masticate, expectorate?

The Lady With the Hot Pink ShortsBrittany HankinsShe pulled, tugged, and wrestled on the floor until she got them on. She shamelessly strutted through the park. She swung that hot pink atrocity left and right as she pushed her child in the stroller. Rip! People gasped at the tragic sight.

“Dinner!”Jacob Parker-Burgard

The young man led his dog through the treacherous mountains to his home. He had protected the animal from various predators, and would continue to protect him until the end. Finally,

they arrived at his house. “What did you bring for us?” called his father in Korean.

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Lena Parker-Duncan -- “Welcome to the Circus” Oil Paint

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Hello there woman against the blue wall,What are you waiting for?A bus? A man? A miracle?

How’s that cigarette? Are you smoking that for solace?Or do you get a minor buzz?

I want to meet you—Maybe bring you out to dinner,Show you how a real man should treat you.

Let me take you out.We can go dancing or just look at the starsWhat’s your number?

Emily Bergmann -- “Blue Walled Woman” Photograph

Blue Walled WomanJessup Daniel

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The Dinner from HellCameron Wilson

I sit down, eager to leave,Grandpas filter into the room.They gladly take their seats,Unable to stand much longer.Our president covers grim details,Reports, reports, reports.After an eternity of speaking and applause, it’s over.Now we are herded into another room,Time for cocktail hour!The grandpas mumble and growl at each other,While sipping gin and munching on crackers.They come up to me, always full of enthusiasm.Handshakes follow, they mention a mutual friend.They have questions about my golf game, their golf game,Maybe even a friend’s golf game.After this near death experience, the lights flicker.It’s time for dinner.Wine replaces the gin, but the mumbling and growling remainMore speeches are made and more applause follows.The grandpas struggle to stand up, but finally they make it!This long and harrowing supper is over,At the hour of half past eight.

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What Has The World Come To?Zach Lupica

I thought this was going to be a quick trip; the flight was only 80 minutes.

There is a line to check your bags that seems as though it will last for the rest

of eternity. I get to the line, put my bag down and begin to wait. Let the grind

begin.

After reaching the end of the baggage line, I looked up and saw that the same

immigration line was even longer, maybe double or triple the size. At this point

it’s official, this is going to be my hell.

Once we get to the man checking passports, he decides, after thoroughly

questioning my parents and me, to question my 10-year-old sister. Whoever

knew that a girl that isn’t much more than four feet was such a great threat to

national security? She is not even allowed to sit in the front seat of a car.

Baffled by the absurdity of what I had just witnessed, I continue on with the

rest of the people being herded like mules towards the flight when I hear, “Miss,

I’m going to need to take that water bottle.” Yes, the woman at security is talking

to my 10-year-old sister who is holding a child-size water bottle. I almost lost it.

What could they possibly find “threatening” about my little sister’s mini Poland

Spring water bottle? Is this what it has come to? That the world is such a bad

place that they have to confiscate water bottles from 10-year-olds?

Finally, we are through baggage check, through security, through customs,

through…hell, when there is an announcement on the loudspeaker: “The flight

from Jamaica to Miami International has been delayed 90 minutes.”

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Cole Bishop -- “Motion” Photograph

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Cole Bishop -- “Motion” Photograph

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Letter to a Fifth Grader Chandler Rae

Dear young stud at the ping-pong table,

I gaze at you as you play ping-pong during 5th/6th grade lunch but have never introduced myself. You wear the same tight fitting Khakis and soft, suede Merrells every day; it’s such a hot look. I wish every guy knew how to dress like you. Today, your insect tie looks saucy with your brown eyes and shabby, hot surfer-dude hair. Your mastery of ping-pong makes me feel so comfortable and watching you play amazes me. You’re so great at the pong. You see me watching, but coyly walk away. I’m done staring at you and wishing for more. Goodbye my ping-pong, grossly-overgrown-haired boy.

XOXO,Chandler

Julianne Wilson -- “Mom’s Makeup” Photograph

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That’s Not How You Use That Word!Jacob Parker-Burgard

“I literally failed that test.” What does that statement mean? To a lot of people, at least at St. Luke’s, it translates to, “I feel like I did poorly on the test that I just took.” But that’s not what it really means. It really means, “I got a failing grade (below 60) on that test.” And why is that? The key lies in the second word of the statement, a word whose definition has been changed for casual use. “Literally” is a word that means “actually” or “without exaggerating.” It is not a word meant to be used to emphasize something. Unfortunately, the secondary definition (the incorrect one) seems to be becoming more commonly used in our society. I hear people use it frequently, and I know that they don’t literally mean it. It’s even worse when people say, “like, literally.” It’s a paradox. “Like” means “about,” and “literally” means “exactly.” It’s a complete waste of five syllables.

As long as I’m criticizing word use, I’ll move on to the misuse of the phrase “OCD,” which stands for “obsessive-compulsive disorder.” My problem is when it is used as an adjective, as in the phrase “to be OCD.” It is impossible to be obsessive-compulsive disorder! You either have OCD or you are obsessive-compulsive. And yet, when people are particular about certain things, little details on a board, for instance, they are often jokingly accused of “being OCD.” It makes no sense whatsoever. One more example before I end my rant: misuse of mathematical terms, namely “plus,” “minus,” and “times.” These are often used as verbs, for instance, adding two numbers becomes “plusing” them. I want to block my ears and writhe in agony every time I hear these. They are not verbs! They are…well, I don’t know exactly what part of speech they are, but they are not verbs! I think. But even if they are verbs, they cannot be done by a person. They apply to numbers and equations only. The verbs are “add,” “subtract,” and “multiply,” respectively. You learn them when you are in elementary school. Can people not remember the basics of elementary math? And the people in question are high school students! Do they forget how to correctly use what they learned ten years ago? I am going to end with some humor: a reference to one of my favorite comic strips, called “Pearls Before Swine.” In one particular strip, a man is sitting next to one of the main characters, a rat named Rat, at the counter of a diner. He complains about another man who won’t stop talking and says “I literally think my ears are going to fall off.” Rat, who is not the nicest of characters, turns to him and says, “I’m so sick of idiots like you misusing the word ‘literally’…It means it will actually happen…It’s not a synonym for ‘really.’” Then the guy’s ears actually do fall off and he says, “Come again?” So unless you literally mean it, stick with “really.”

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Alie Smith -- “Tested by Fire” Collage

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Color EternityInna Fetissova

First there was morning and all of the whiteCame streaming from windows in colorless light.Reflections and highlights and radiant streaksTurned brighter and glimmered from mountainous peaks. The yellow that followed sizzled like butterAnd melted from ceilings and flowed from the gutter.The leaves glazed over with yellows and redsNow all of the world was holding its breath. At last came the darkness in savory bluesIt whispered and wandered in darkening hues.Casting its shadow on shivering nightAnd then came eternity bursting with white.

Angela Zhou -- “Blue Flower” Photo Illustration

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Caroline Price -- “How Far” Photograph

Anna Van Munching -- “Kara Clark” Graphite

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LullabyMaggie Van Munching & Ana Graczyk

Out, out on the seaWill you sail with me?

Where the Blue waves flow,Say yes and we’ll go.

Together, we could stay all day,And listen as the whales sing.

We’ll watch the dolphins play.

What a magnificent thing.

Maybe on a summer’s nightThe fish will jump high towards the sky

Watch with me as they pass by.

Out, out on the sea,Will you sail with me?

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A ConcertKevin Mahoney

Blaring music filled the stadium.The entire crowd was clapping to the rhythm as one.The lead guitarist was in the zone, And the strobe lights were blinking to the sound of the beat.

The entire crowd was clapping to the rhythm.A hint of alcohol and sweat filled the venue. The strobe lights were blinking to the sound of the beat,As the drummer continued to tear it up.

A hint of alcohol and sweat filled the venue.Ushers encouraged the crowd to stay seated, But the entire crowd remained standing.The sound of the band was glorious.

The lead guitarist was in the zone,And the blaring music filled the stadium.Ushers were desperate to keep the crowd seated.The sound of the band was glorious.

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Alie Smith -- “Wild Stare” Photograph

Fairest AdoredSamantha Fomon

It is strange to think that these cold watersWere once filled with swimming children.

Autumn is nature’s vandal,And this world is a phantasm

Hermetically sealed in summer sunshine.The wind walks decrepit streets

Littered with festive wastepaper basket fillings thatWere once virgin and verdant and graced

Branches that, now bare, reach heavenward with reckless abandon.I am acquainted with the ephemeral,

And fairest adored is past.

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SoliloquyAlex Polyakov

ALEX: This sleepless nightmare exhausts me. Its torments dispose of my dearest ally, reality, As that silent assassin who stabs his victim Coldly, unseen from behind; And then, steals me away as a prisoner of war. I, Sisyphus in my own mind’s Tartarus, Feebly attempt to make my escape, Grasping at straws of reality, my lost lover. They fall through my weakened hands, as this hellish Remedy leaves that which was my domain (but not happily). I lay here, withdrawn from that realm About which, otherwise, I move with Comfortable fluidity, weaving to and fro. Oh! How jealous I am of the turtle now, who Has a shell into which he retreats With the first pang of fear that he feels. Now, I am thrust back into the world, (Ill-equipped as I am to inhabit it) And am frightened by it to the point of paralysis. No, not frightened by the world But by what the world may be. That courtly herald, tomorrow’s tomorrow, What news may he cry, but it is foul and tainted By rumors of strife, distress, and misery? And yet – in this microcosm of mine, Such news is a state of normalcy! (Beat) Perhaps escape will come soon.

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Jack Henson -- “Self-Portrait” Watercolor

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KetchupHenry Clayton

I woke up this morning craving ketchup and when I searched the refrigerator I could not find it anywhere. Here is what I did find during my search for the condiment:

First to catch my eye was milk. I found four cartons of organic skim milk, one carton of whole milk, a smaller carton of chocolate milk, and some holiday Eggnog. Next to the milk were assorted juices: apple cider, orange juice, V8 Splash (Berry Blend), and cranberry juice cocktail. Two absurdly large Tupperware buckets filled with my mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce and chicken noodle soup stood aside the beverages.

Just south of the liquid compartment were three drawers, one of them filled with fruits (honey crisp apples, naval oranges, and grapes with seeds). The center drawer was filled with vegetables, the majority of them on the green (baby spinach, romaine lettuce, celery, a bunch of scallions, and about three-quarters of a cucumber). The drawer on the right consisted of baby carrots, more celery, a bag of cranberries, and some potatoes.

North of the drink compartment, there is a smaller drawer that contains assorted deli meats such as Boar’s Head ham, turkey, Muenster cheese, and Vermont cheddar cheese, goat cheese, blue cheese, American cheese, string cheese and about an eighth of a block of Monterey Jack. My mother is a fan of cheese. The shelf above this drawer includes even more dairy products: Greek yogurt, light cream, heavy cream, half & half, sour cream, and cream cheese. Also on this shelf are two jars of pickles (one dill and one bread n’ butter), two jars of jam (strawberry and orange marmalade), a bag of whole-wheat pasta, some cranberry sauce left over from Thanksgiving, and some other obscure jars of unknown contents. The shelf above this one was right at eye-level where I could see a few dinner leftovers, some chicken salad, Jell-O, apricots, and raisons. Gradually and aimlessly my eyes moved upwards toward the near-empty top shelf. All that really caught my eye was half a jar of pizza sauce, some leftover Chinese food, a six-pack of Mott’s Apple Sauce with one missing, and a pack of

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Juicy-Juice boxes that would be finished by my brother and his friends before the day was through.

Suddenly I remembered what it was I was searching for, so I moved on to the door of the fridge, in which I found a plethora of condiments and sauces: Italian dressing, Thousand Island dressing, two different kinds of ranch dressing, and two bottles of Caesar dressing, both of the same kind. I also saw multiple kinds of exotic chutneys involving mango, cranberry, and ginger. Above the dressings and chutneys were salted and unsalted butter, and about 8, maybe 9, eggs. Below the dressings were condiments of all sorts: Frank’s Red Hot Sauce, Teriyaki, 4 different kinds of mustard, pickle relish, Worcestershire Sauce, Chipotle BBQ sauce, lime juice, and “I can’t believe it’s not butter” spray. Still no ketchup, though. On the bottom shelf, the final one of my search, there was some Aunt Jemima Maple Syrup, Soy Sauce, raspberry vinaigrette dressing, Stew Leonard’s Original BBQ Sauce, shrimp cocktail sauce, Tai Green Curry Paste, and Alas! Lo and Behold, Heinz Tomato Ketchup! 36 oz. Bottle, since 1869.

Overwhelmed and exhausted by my search I decided I actually didn’t want ketchup any more, and instead went to the cupboard to get some cereal.

Anna Van Munching -- “Eggs” Charcoal

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Where the Past Becomes the FutureBrittany Hankins

They forbade the truth and anything else that wasn’t nonsense The windows were boarded up to prevent distraction Wandering the full, but empty halls They rooted out being an individual as an option The windows were boarded up to prevent distraction Days ran together and life tasted bitter They rooted out being an individual as an option The strong didn’t make it and the absent minded became the majority Days ran together and life tasted bitter Only one way in, and one unpleasant way out The strong didn’t make it, and the weak were dragged along The outsiders said it was only temporary, but they weren’t there They forbade the truth and anything else that wasn’t nonsense Wondering the full, but empty halls Only one way in, and one unpleasant way out The outsiders said it was only temporary, but they weren’t there

CuriosityAmy Fox

She didn’t know what great secret her parents were keeping in the closet, but she had to find out. She dragged in the tallest chair she could find and climbed up to the top shelf. She found a box, wrapped in pastel-colored paper and tied up with a silver ribbon. She reached for the

package and lost her balance, falling off of the edge and breaking her arm.

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Maggie Goldstone -- “Self-Portrait” Oil Paint

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ConfessionsAlie Smith

I was the oneWho replaced the flagOn the flagpoleWith fifth graders.

Looking back,I guess I can understandHow it could be considered cruelOr unkind,But my intentions were pure.

I saw it as a simple solutionTo our cluttered hallways,

And the pastel tonesOf their oxford shirtsAgainst the clear blue skyPerfected the aestheticsOf this fine school.

And what visitor’s heartWould not be set aflutterAt the sight of a clusterOf adorable childrenWaving to themWith furious excitement?

Catherine Simonson -- “The Playground” Oil Paint

Egle Vasiliauskaite -- “Road Signs” Watercolor & Pastel

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The BarnhouseTheo Trampe

About two months ago, I was visiting my grandfather at his nursing home in upstate New York. He looks well and his body has aged gracefully; however, his age has taken its toll on his mental capacity. He fails to recognize any of his grandchildren and even his own wife. While I was visiting him, he began to talk to himself about there being something buried underneath an oak tree. He cried. I regarded the situation as simply another one of his bouts of mental derangement. One month ago it dawned on me. He was referring to the old oak tree behind his house. He had lived in that house as a child. His parents sold the house while he was in college and he bought it when he married my grandmother. I visited the house and something drew me to dig a hole at the base of the tree. Less than a foot down, my shovel hit something and made a muffled clinking sound. I dropped to my knees and dug through the loose dirt. I pulled out a small child’s lunchbox. The lunchbox was red, but the vibrancy of the paint had long since dissipated. The box was designed in such a way that it resembled a barn with windows, and it even had farm animals painted on. After admiring the box, I unlatched it, and this is what I found inside: The first thing I saw was a small stack of baseball cards. One card in particular was extremely worn. On this card was a depiction of a man with a red baseball cap. “Frank Demaree” was the only thing written on the car. Moving

Joanna Bornstein -- “The Road South” Photograph

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these cards revealed a single domino. The domino had three dots on one side and two dots on the other. To the right of this domino was a metal whistle. The metal whistle was tied to a lengthy black shoelace. The small copper aglet at one end of the shoelace had been chewed extensively. Digging further through the box, I found quite a few other small items. These included a pencil eraser, which was missing an attached pencil, two Life Savers, one red and one blue, a stick of Doublemint gum, a black and white photo of two adults and a young boy, a Swiss Army knife, an extraordinarily small metal thimble, one that could not even fit a baby’s thumb, and one crumpled-up Archie comic book page. At the bottom of the lunchbox I found one filled envelope. Inside the envelope were five neatly folded letters. Each of these letters were signed in the same way by “Shirley May”, who in her writing constantly lavished praise on a person named “Dickey”. The pages smelled faintly of perfume and the letters were written in a very stylized cursive. The womanly scent reminded me of my girlfriend, and I realized I was late for the date we had that evening. I packed up the lunchbox and hurried along so that I could make it to the movies in time.

Emily Bergmann -- “Charlotte” Photograph

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I’ve had a good run

The highlights of my life flash before my eyesThe first time I rode a bikeMy seventh birthdayThe day I got my license

The war is not overIt won’t be for a whileWhat are my parents going to do when they get the news?Never will they see my face again

I look to the sky and see flashing lightsBombs are flying exploding left and rightI know this is the end.

Watch Out!Charlotte Lyons

!"#$%#$&"'()*+#,-./(Angela Zhou

At my mother’s officeI was an adult.

Working really hard for a livingPretending to be busy in front of the boss.

The office was not tidy.Papers everywhere,

Filling up the limited spaceSmall mountains in a modern office.

What I remember mostIs the smell of crisp bills,

At seven, a temporary millionaire.

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You Could Be My UnintendedGabrielle Levion

The sun forgives the cloudsYou don’t know how lovely you areThe stars lie in my eternal shroudForgive me, you burn like the sun

You don’t know how lovely you areMy friction, You’re a beautiful contradictionYou burn like the sunI am confused and undone

Wanted friction, a beautiful contradictionI’m losing at my own gameConfused and undone, I shall not surrenderWho will listen to my deepest inquisitions?

I’m losing at my own gameThe stars lie in my eternal shroudThe clouds unforgivable to the sunEntrapped listening to my deepest inquisitions

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Chandler Rae -- “The Power of Spending” Collage

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My Grandfather’s ClosetLily Holland

I walk across the bare, thick, sea-foam carpet and see the sun streaming through the windowpane. I pass by the twin beds, canopied with thick lace that was starting to wear thin, and reach my grandfather’s closet. I grab the smooth brass knob, worn by the touches of many before me, and slowly open the white painted door. The ceiling peels from the day that frigid Albany received six feet of snow. The ice melted upon the roof and slowly dripped down into the house, staining the ceiling and causing the white paint to chip away, falling in a pile on the floor. Hanging are the two identical red velvet dresses with crisp white collars, made for my mother and her twin when they were seven. It’s hard to imagine that your mother was ever so small or so young. She was the youngest, a full twenty years younger than her eldest brother. Next to the dresses are the shoes my mother wore to her wedding, white with pearls and lace sewed onto a pointed toe. The heel was smudged with dirt. The shoes are on a rack filled with about ten other pairs of shoes from various occasions. These shoes are not neatly stacked, but lying easily in their spots as if they were lounging on the couch downstairs. The navy blue, sling back high heels are the ones my aunt wore on the day of her high school graduation. The black flats are the ones my mother wore to her brother’s funeral. They never fit me. Underneath the rack of shoes lies a large turquoise box, about five feet in length with a busted corner. The surface is bumpy, as if the box was made in order to contrast with the sleek jewels inside. It was my grandmother’s. The jewelry lay strewn across the surface, elegant in its disrepair. She had died. And so her golden seashell earrings lay unused in the jewelry box, only a reminder of the woman who had once wore them – a woman I never knew. Her clothes were still there. I tried them on once because I wanted to know her, but old clothes won’t bring a dead woman back. I saw the white sequined outfit she wore to my mother’s wedding, carefully folded by my grandfather’s wrinkled hands. His hands were crippled from a farming accident, his right hand a perpetual claw. Next to the silk dresses and fur coats lay the vodka. Grey Goose. The bottles stood in a perfect line, interrupted only by the occasional tonic bottle

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or Polar soda. My grandfather did not drink water; he drank vodka. Its strong smell lingered in his orange juice at breakfast. The glass angels lay next to the liquor and those angel eyes had seen more Christmases than I. The wing of one had broken off and it lay crumbled on the floor. Why didn’t anyone fix it? The muzzle of my grandfather’s gun touched the very tip of the wing at the very corner of the closet. I wasn’t allowed back there. My mom was afraid I’d accidentally shoot something. My grandfather shot squirrels in the yard with that gun. He almost hit the neighbor once. The gun scared me; the weight of the shiny cold metal felt wrong in my small hands. Sometimes the closet made me sad. But other times, I was joyful, and I ran my fingers up and down the faded white walls.

Anna Van Munching -- “Old Woman” Oil Paint

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Sighs the Mallard to the Saintly CriersSamantha Fomon

is a feeling,temperature,forgotten? (others were we)know the looks, the words spoken,unplanned, orating, orwhispered circle-side, WHAT IS A CIRCLEas if not happening (short grassy days) when we areall screaming “THIS CANNOT BE IT.”

And then there’s that tree among others unique (together are we)play those who may be giants (mighty titans were) and YOU WATCH AS PEOPLE realize (those who are one two no- never more) /WE/ ARE ALL PEOPLE WHOwill never tour again.

4 (years are all we have)at the end, to knowwhere the passionfruit juice goes is todrinkholds more than conversation: pour forth down faces the strawberry kiwi and caffeine-laced straits,on, on, on shoulders as WE MADE OF ALL PEOPLEembracethose whose eyes in which each resides,

alas, upon the other side of this Lancasterian looking glass,shall, has, is, will be crossed by every THE HOLY GROUND HERE OF ALL PLACESnevermore.

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Cole Bishop -- “Street Lights” Photograph

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Grendel is my name and singing is my game. I like to sing a lot; it’s a passion that I have had for a long time and it keeps me relaxed. Ever since I was a little boy, my mom tried to teach me to sing. And now, I consider myself a master. So, I try to share my gift with as many people as I can. Usually, though, the Danes mistake me for a bad person - an enemy, if you will. But all that I’m trying to do is help them improve their singing!

But, on some nights, I am asleep in Mom’s cave and all of a sudden, I start hearing loud noises coming from Herot. I listen closer and realize that it’s the Danes trying to sing. I hear a bunch of the mistakes that they make, and I take the liberty of trying to correct them. So, on most nights, I head down to the castle, staying quiet as I approach

Herot. As soon as I arrive, I politely knock on the door, and they open it. I start to explain that they’re flat on the “A minor” and that they need more staccato. But, out of nowhere, they just start screaming and acting weirdly. Many of them try to stab me with their swords, and some even throw shields at me! You see, I have this little

nerve in my body, and whenever it gets hit, I unleash rage and start destroying everything. It’s actually pretty scary. This is when that nerve of mine gets set off, and I just go crazy. I start to wreck everything and I even eat a few people. It’s a little messed up, I will admit. I know it’s not really the civil thing to do, but I really can’t help myself. I have learned everything I know from my mom, including this. So, I blame her. After I’ve had my fill of carnage, I head home and realize that I have

Grendel the TenorAdam Connolly

Jacob Parker-Burgard -- “Shayling” Digital Illustration

45Alie Smith -- “From the Street” Photograph

accomplished nothing but the killing of a few people and the destruction of some upholstery. I feel bad, because my original plan to help them work on their singing didn’t pan out. It happens all the time. But, maybe one day, someone can come along and meet me down in Herot and teach those boys how to really sing. I am sure the hero that comes along will be very easy to work with.

So this is what a house looks like.New Jersey is a land of promise and opportunity

‘Cause L.A. sucks. So does New Jersey.But being bridge and tunnel ain’t half bad.

At least New Jersey’s got trains.Who are you calling a suburb? Yes, you.

The Garden State isA pseudo suburb

Green, loud, and homely.New Jersey is a land of promise and opportunity,

Populated by old car models and rusted ironwork porch railings.Half truth’s better than Hollywood whole truth.

I’d rather drive into a city than across one.‘Cause L.A. sucks. So does New Jersey.

HobokenSamantha Fomon

46

Matt Muney -- “Radial” Photograph

47

Cole Bishop -- “Ping Pong in Hong Kong” Photograph

48

Lake PowelGabrielle LevionTainted by liquid freshnessCool as a velvet nightAzure water pacifiesCutting through the earth’s timeless rockSharper than a lover’s betrayalCreating massive giant wallsSellouts of shadows, golds, and redsA losing battle in this labyrinthThe silence, broken by whispering windA canyon of huge proportionsThat merely fades to star speckled blacknessThe dusty heat no longer a smellThe rough sand soft on the tongueSmooth the stone burns my climbing handsRed, blood red is the dawn to comeThe rocks blush at Her golden stand Fairy dust dies on the glassy airA place of awe, a place that’s mine.

Andrew Veidenheimer -- “Creek” Photograph

49

Do you know what its like to be desired? To be tenderly doted on? For someone so skilled in the art of seduction, I feel cheap at only $2.50 a pop. People call me sweet; some even say I’m rich with flavor. Oh, to be a slice of cake.

TastyAnna Van Munching

Egle Vasiliauskaite -- “Bottles” Collage

50

Tourist TrapAlie SmithA tourist trap by dayIs transformed by the night.There are no tracesOf the huddled hordes of tour groupsOr the fanny pack-wearing familiesThat once shuffled down the sidewalks

All that remainsIn the empty expanse of cobblestoneIs the gentle sigh of a warm breezeAnd tessellationsOf iron and glassReflected on the surface of unmoving water

The city is stillIn fact, almost silent.Nothing but the faint soundsOf passing cars,The echoing footstepsOf a lone pedestrian,And the occasional clickOf a camera.

51Caroline Price -- “Pedestrians” Photograph

52

Alie Smith -- “Girl in the Street” Photograph

Joanna Bornstein -- “Beams Up High” Photograph

53

Being ThereCarla Nicasio

Lines of tables fill the roomOverconfident girls sitIn phony conversation

It hides gluttonous thoughts Lined like dominos

The shake of a strangerA misspelled trophy

Small applause Three hours

Of funLike a shot from a doctor

Blanketed with excessive foodTables anticipate your return

AgainMore lines

More strangersMore misspelled trophies

More applause

54

Gil Doesn’t Like TeaAlex PolyakovThe Revolution will not be televisedAnd patriotism doesn’t come on a bumper stickerMade in China, priced at three-ninety-nine. The revolution will put you in the driver’s seat

Patriotism doesn’t come on a bumper stickerAnd since when was a T-shirt a manifesto?The revolution will put you in the driver’s seatBut Jesus will not be your co-pilot.

Since when was a T-shirt a manifesto?Since they started to come in size triple-X-L.But Jesus will not be your co-pilot.He’s skipped out to get beer.

He’s skipped out to get beerSince they started to come in size triple-X-L.Made in China, priced at three-ninety-nine,The Revolution will not be televised

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JulySamantha Fomon

Of the young summer,I wish to be but her mistress,

To run my fingers through the sound of final schoolbellsSilky strands hanging in the sultry air

To be replaced by windchimesA seabird call

A lover’s voice in the night;So my lady calls to me

Through the thick walls of my wintry cell.Yet as the months turn the coals in the furnaces of time,

These winter walls meltWhen finally the sun-kissed sea rushes in to fill the vacuum of winter

Her voice becomes clearer, and young summerAcknowledges my persistence.

Ah, to be but her mistress.

Let not the lusty spring overshadow the splendid summer,For as long as flowers bloom,

She will burn, outshine any flower, eradicate all shadowVoice that of a maiden mocking all those in distress

Ah, to be but her mistress.

Anna Van Munching -- “Shell” Graphite

56

Facebook Messenger VomitDoug WalkerTangible awkwardness lingered in that conversation. She was in the shop, while my mind was on Vacation. Too much said. Not much done for the better.

(Unspoken words: “Damn, I said too much. Damn, I said too little.”) Indecision permeated. Yet, and hooray for this! I was able to come to a couple conclusions. Was that the point?I just wanted to let her know things were okay and that I still cared.

8:42pmDougeh im out8:46pmAustinhey sorry8:46pmDougHey

An obvious attempt at getting her to respond and not a great way of letting her know I cared. The more I puked the more it became Mission Impossible. Was I Jim Phelps or Ethan Hunt?I ended:

“I hope I didn’t put too many questions on youit wasn’t my intent to make you uncomfortable haha.”“Haha.”

I feel uncomfortable just thinking about that.I wonder what she felt like?Cheers to me. Mom would always say, “at least you tried.”Me and my indefatigable ability to blowchunks and wreck everything.I wonder what Mom would say about that.“Great word, indefatigable!”

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ApologiesConor SwanbergI’m sorryI took your calculatorThat you use for calculus

I had a statistics testAnd I lost my TI-83So I grabbed yours from the cafeteria

You probably failed your testThat you told me about this morningWoops.

My badI hope you aren’t too madBut I think I forgot where I put itOr someone stole itI’m not exactly sure

You might be able to find itIf you try hard enoughBut chances areYou won’t.

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SuspicionNaomi Dubissette

I am suspicious of women who wear makeup. There is something very stealthy and deceiving about a woman who paints her face. What is she disguising underneath that mask of richly textured creams? Although it may appear that the skin is velvety soft, underneath that “regenerated” skin are wrinkles, dark spots, scars, and skeletons in the closet that are not so luminous. It is pure deviousness to hide one’s age with powder and conceal those fine lines and rough textures with a single stroke of a brush.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? Well, how would we know… makeup covers up everything! Women in this world can manipulate the minds of men by replacing their faces. Men are being tormented by the temptation of these flawless looking creatures and marry them. Yet, on the wedding night, when all that makeup comes off… the truth emerges. With the wave of a lipstick wand, women can blind a man into spending thousands of dollars. The duplicity of makeup is that it fools men with the delusion of a “perfect” woman. She’s beautiful, sexy, and completely unrealistic. Men so desperately want to buy wholeheartedly into the concept of having a Barbie doll woman, that they are willing to empty their pockets for the first plastic-looking thing that walks by. After all, how can they tell she’s wearing a mask? Those red pomegranate lips and rosy cheeks are presumably her natural face. Because she looks so appealing, she has to be pure, innocent, and good… right? That is exactly the problem. Makeup makes women exist more as a concept than as a complex character. It embodies an image rather than an ideal woman.

It is no different from the Greek goddess, Aphrodite, whose great beauty allowed her to operate from higher standards. This glamorously bewitching creature got away with starting the Trojan War! With make up, every woman can become an Aphrodite and the blame is placed on the artificialness of Cover Girl, Maybelline, and MAC. Today, we have millions of beguiling yet aesthetically appealing individuals running around. What has the world come to? And if you didn’t realize makeup has this impact, then please take a walk outside to your local coffee shop, mall, or park. Cosmetic companies make millions every year because more and more women want to fulfill the role of a seductress. All is fair in love and war and women are aware that their irresistible allure like bait that leads fish astray. Makeup is part of those feminine wiles

59Caroline Price -- “Grace” Photograph

that conceal the ruse of flaws. So men, be afraid… be very afraid. Makeup is a superpower of sexual charm and men are ultimately subject to the craze, forced to chase after these goddesses.

Makeup not only deceives, but pressures women to compete with one another. Today, the idea of going au naturale with no makeup is now the new “naked.” It’s too exposed and even boring. If every woman showed her true face, it would eliminate society’s plastic standard of beauty. Makeup skews the natural look of a woman and instead of glorifying the unique diversity of beauty, it confines it in a box, forcing society to believe that there is one type of goddess. It is no wonder that young girls are running to cosmetics in hopes of chasing after their Barbie doll fantasy image.

Lured in by the song of sirens, men begin to believe that the gleaming sparkles of eye shadow and blush are what they should be attracted to. Behind that lipstick are lips that remain mute. Makeup is a shackle, forever subjugating womankind into a superficial understanding of beauty. Indeed, true beauty comes from the soul and cannot be washed off at night.

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The Black TideDaniel Chung

Sounds resound through the halls-An introduction: the chaos begins-The Doors open and the buzzer shrillsBut the Sixth Man says HelloMake your way to the Black TideHurry before you miss anotherJoin the BlackoutThe frenzy has begunUntil only a hoarse whisper andexhaustion remainWait in apprehension for the nextTime Sixth Man says HelloBut for now, say good byeTo the Sixth Man, Goodbye

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Anna Van Munching -- “David” Graphite

62Gabrielle Levion -- “Early Morning” Photograph

63

About the AuthorAlex Polyakov

You have to imagine meeting the poor guyFor the first time at a party.

He shakes your hand meekly, and says to you“Hi. I’m the author of a number of novels,

As well as a collection of short stories.I’ve won numerous awards including

A Pulitzer Prize in nineteen-ninety-four.I live on Long Island with my wife and three children

And my dog, Spark.”

And you stand there, dumbfounded,Because clearly, whoever taught him

To introduce himself,Didn’t do the job properly.

Meanwhile, he hopes you’re impressedBy this list of accomplishments

But he wishes that he could tell you about hisPassion for water skiing, why his favorite color is purple

(did you know the senators of ancient Rome wore purple togas?)And that he’s been scared of dogs since he was five.

But more than anythingHe wishes he could let you borrow his shoes

So you could walk around in them.

Of course, if you’ve read his book,You already have

And all this is moot.

The Pendulum Staff

Art EditorAnna Van Munching

Layout DesignJon Salamon

Editors In ChiefAlex Polyakov

Anna Van Munching

Faculty AdviserMr. Flachsbart

StaffEmily Bergmann Sam FomonEmmy Goettler

Lilla Goettler Alex RobertsonMcKenzie Wilson

This magazine was made in Adobe InDesign CS5, exported as a PDF and published by Impression Point Inc. The magazine is set in Perpetua, a font designed by the English sculptor, stonecutter, and printmaker Eric Gill in 1929. It is a traditional font of original conception, not a derivative of an older font. It is inspired by the techniques of stonecutting. The classical simplicity of the font produces an elegant series of letters.

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