Albany Road

Deerfield

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The melody seemed to invade all Cuzco until there was noother sound. It crept through the streets, climbed the walls, andgot all tangled up in the electricity cables, where I saw thecorpse of a trapped kite. The heavy, languid notes seemed to beengendered by the core of the earth and played in past tense.They filled me with the same irrational fear children feel, andreminded me that I would soon leave Latin America. My usuallist of ambitions dissolved in the music.

from Two SpidersMaria Candela

The Literary & Art Magazine of Deerfield Academy

Albany RoadThe Literary & Art Magazine of Deerfield Academy

Fall 2007

DEER F I E L D , MAS SACHU S E T T S

Editors-in-ChiefFrançoise de Saint Phalle & Julia Keller

Literary Editors Art EditorMatt Buckley Kadie RossKathryn ClinardBradley Elkman LayoutJosh Krugman Françoise de Saint Phalle

Julia KellerRobert Moorhead

Kadie Ross

Faculty AdvisorsAndrea Moorhead & Robert Moorhead

Albany Road would like to thank Mr. Scandling and the English Department fortheir guidance and support as well all those who submitted to this issue.

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EACH FALL WE JOURNEY BACK TO SCHOOL, leaving behind the comforting familiarity of home

to continue Deerfield’s quest. Whether it’s a hug goodbye in a crowded train station or

amongst the silhouette of the Buttonball branches, we all begin our journey away the familiar

and towards the unknown. No doubt, what we gain amongst the green grass beds and the

white snow blankets is just as valuable.While we’ve left home behind, we’ve brought some

of it with us too.

Often, we leave behind the familiar to find the perfect subject in something we know little

about. The ever looming threat of “writers’ block” sends us on a continual search for a muse.

As our minds wander, we begin to seek her out behind the overflowing laundry basket in the

corner, or even in the snowdrifts outside the window. It is when we circle back, however,

through memory and random thought that we find home. Our muse dances between the

exponents in our math homework, along the rim of a coffee cup on a rainy day, and in the

rivers of our thoughts—where we, the writers feel most at home. The challenge is creating

that same home for the reader—a balance of creativity and familiarity.

Curl up with a blanket and some good coffee, and may you too, venture home.

—JAK & FASP

THE STREETS OF CITIES wrap themselves around a complicated aesthetic. A blur of people

dodging puddles and each other, savoring the escaping warmth of opening doors and

clutched cups of coffee. They travel through the commotion of the sidewalk, a procession

of images, a moving inventory of cultures, languages, styles and opinions—passing shoulder

to shoulder with each others lives.We speed through life, communicating in scrawled post-

it notes, detached emails and crunched down abbreviations. Creativity, in this world, can so

often seem abridged. We profess a lack of time and surrender ourselves to a rapidity of

thought and action.

We walk the length of Albany Road, our thoughts mixed with hurried expectation and lists

of things to do. But in the pages of Albany Road, we find moments of quiet, a glimpse at

life, not in passing, but frozen—in matte print and glossy pages, typed symbols and captured

fragments of novelty.

—CPR

FALL 2007 | 3

CONTENTS

PROSE

Kayla Corcoran To Laura Jean 12

Clare Henry Shells and Tide 13

Françoise de Saint Phalle An Untitled Lyrical Ballet 19

Mykhaylo Lemesh Goodbye 30

Maria Candela Two Spiders 33The Whiteness 37

Matt Buckley Ignis Fatuus 41

POETRY

Josh Krugman Untitled 7Untitled 32

Hannah Flato A Service in Edwards County 8

Nora Caplan-Bricker In April 10

Cambrian Thomas-Adams Praises 16

Julia Keller What I Did with a Pair ofScissors 29

Matt Buckley First Impressions 42

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CONTENTS

ART

Austin Turner Street House Cover

Hannah Flato Shells 15

Kristin Simmons Casino Man 18

Caitlin Ardrey The Path to Le Chou 21

Kat McGowan Splatters 22Soyeux 23

Jun Taek Lim M& M’s 24

Amanda Bennett Pollution 25Tuning 27

Isabel Bird Turkey Skeleton 26

Kayla Corcoran Dante: Reproduction of an Imageby Etienne Delessert 28

Amy Volz Balboa Pier 36

Joanne Huang Nude in Stamp 39

Joanne Kim Essence of Deerfield 40

Bekey Lee Pug 43

Catherine Schopp Reading Man 47

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JOSH KRUGMAN

Untitled

rollerskatingacross vinyl sidewalks,hollering hallelujah; hangingcalamity on a nailby the door.

no it’s better this wayand crisscrossedlike frayed fabric,or the wakes of aeroplanes:little holes inour little sky.

a boat bobs on the daffodil sea.sealions bark,and the sun alwayssets in a bowl.

FALL 2007 | 7

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HANNAH FLATO

A Service in Edwards County

Sunday mornings in Edwards CountyNever meant bobbing arcs or fluffs of sheep,Stained glass or droning sermons.

It meant goats.Skinny, mangyTearing scraggly grass off cedar specked slopes;

Watched by a double-named girlIn a beaten Ford, partial to spitting,With no shepherd’s cane.

I conducted my own service once.Across the chalky caliche road,Before the drop off to sparkling ripples.

A skip over the deer’s trodden aisle,I sank to my shoulders in crisp grass, shelteredBy arches of graying mesquite.

A wilting prickly pear opened its palms to the sun.Could be a cross if you broke off the tunaProtruding bloated from its crown.

A screen door rusted open,Momma’s lofty voice beckoning me toBring in the porch cushions and sheet the leather couch.

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HANNAH FLATO

Neighbors back at the Church of ChristClicked heels on stone steps andSmoothed pallid pleats for brunch, while

We stopped the car in the middle of the river crossing,Folded clothing on the sunbathed hood,And slid down algaed banks for a last dip.

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NORA CAPLAN-BRICKER

In April

On spring mornings

when the weather isa finger tappingon the desk,a glimmerthrough the window,

my mother lets it sitin the corner of her eye

as she brews her tea—cinnamon—and dipsa flakingbiscuit.

Everything comes outsoggytoday.

As the rainjostles yellow budsinto green,she sits in the kitchen,hums.

Not me.I don’t wear a coat.

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NORA CAPLAN-BRICKER

On days when the watertries to reclaim us,

I walk in the thick rivers,

sing.

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KAYLA CORCORAN

To Laura Jean

WHEN UNCLE STEVE smashed that bottle, the spilled wine made itlook as though the shards of glass had cut open the tiles, causingthem to bleed. Pa just stood there, yelling at Auntie, and we

watched while Auntie cried in the corner because Pa blamed her, like healways blamed her for everything.

The tiles in your kitchenette remind me of those tiles in UncleSteve’s house. They’re the same white color, except they’re covered in hairfrom the dog that you’re not allowed to keep in your apartment. The flooris dirty because no one ever cleans it, and my socks turned black when Iwalked on it earlier today.

CLARE HENRY

Shells and Tide

A. LYRA AND STUART are sitting on the beach at St. Andrews, Scotland.Stuart gives Lyra a pink and cream shell the size of a button. Togetherthey have found 24 shells on the 2 mile long beach. 1/4 of the shells theyfound are still dripping from the ocean and they gleam sunset colors inthe afternoon light. 3/4 of the shells have myriads of little ridges like theripples of water seeping up the sand 3.47 feet away. 4 of the shells are nobigger than a pinky fingernail; they are golden and purple and remindLyra of kings. How many shells do Stuart and Lyra leave on the beach?

B. WHEN STUART scrunches his feet into the sand they come up wet, with270 flecks of dark, damp sand clinging to them. When he digs deepenough there will be little muddy pools, 0.3 inches in depth, where thesea lies hidden. The depth of the pools rises as the tide crawls up thebeach at a rate of 0.7 inches per 45 seconds. Only 10 minutes before ithad seemed so far away, but the tide at St. Andrews always comes in fast,a smooth steady flow of water flooding the wide stripe of sand right up tothe grassy dunes. How soon will the North Sea reach Lyra and Stuart?

C. 17 ORANGE-FOOTED OYSTERCATCHERS flock and flit over the tide’sedge. They scratch over the sand, leaving paisley patterned footprints forthe sea to wash away. The grey blue sky, 2 shades lighter than Lyra’seyes, leaks February sunlight across the long beaked birds’ chessboardwings and Lyra’s 146,000 strands of hair, diameter measuring 1/1,500 -1/500 inches. The breathy breeze, soft for a cold day, lifts up feathers ofher hair and sends zebra stripes of shadow over her face. Stuart’s 110,000hairs, diameter measuring 1/400 - 1/250 inches, lies in heavy waves onhis head, the wind barely rippling the dark curls. Lyra draws in the sand,her finger tracing curlicues and whorls through the miniscule rocks andbits of broken shell. Stuart wipes the sand smooth with his palm so she

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CLARE HENRY

can start again. On average, how much thicker is Stuart’s hair thanLyra’s? If the average human scalp is 120 inches2 what is the density ofhair on Lyra’s scalp? Stuart’s?

D. THE TIDE SLIPS closer, relentless and sly, stealing up the beach, castingup shells and oddments collected in its deep. A pebble, pale sky grey, sitsat the sea’s edge, unaware of its imminent submersion. The pebble is anoblate spheroid, with a = 0.7 inches, b= 0.7 inches and c = 0.9 inches.The dark waves lap closer, murmuring, until they touch the pebble. Thesea brushes it, just kissing it lightly, and the pebble darkens water stain-ing stone. Lyra tucks the seashell into her pocket, rubbing the silky creamand pink between her fingers. She turns and finds Stuart, who leanscloser to whisper, just brushing her cheek as she flushes pink.Remember the formula for Surface Area of Oblate Spheroid,

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-

2�(c2+b a2 = c2E (S,m) + F (S,m),

where arccos ( ) = the modular angle, = m, and E(S,m)

and F(S,m) are the incomplete elliptical integrals of the first and secondkind.What did Stuart whisper to Lyra?

��

bc2

a2-c2ca

b2 - c2b2sin(S)2

HANNAH FLATO

Shells

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CAMBRIAN THOMAS-ADAMS

Praises

Two bricks between me and God,and you could say I was alive,as the plaster rained down on my kneeling frame,facing Mecca for prayer.I could hear the mortars’ unfolding verses,and rockets, like crescendos.These, linked around each other,interspersed by my desperate huddled whispering,chanted out a voice I’d come to know.

After He spoke,(for only He could hold my mindso entirely and so still)I heard the figures that lay writhing and scatteredby His word, freed from their flesh,which was a prison and a hell, I know.And for this reason the smoke is a blessing,because for a clouded momentI can imagine I am with them,wisps above the minarets,before I see what I must look likein His eyes,haloed by blood and settling dust;kneeling on the shattered tiles.

The city is speaking like God,so God is in the city.I raised my head up from the rubbleand knew that I could hear his words

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CAMBRIAN THOMAS-ADAMS

from my mouth,shuddering in each living breath.

Twelve years is not enoughto restrain the bones inside my handwhich picked up the brick from the doorway.I stood with this,a fragment of my fighting city,and held it heavenwardfor my Father’s smile.

I danced out into their silent crosshairsand cast my city forth,with my lip curled back,like a cornered dog’s.

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KRISTIN SIMMONS

Casino Man

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FRANÇOISE de SAINT PHALLE

An Untitled Lyrical Ballet

EVEN BEFORE THE CURTAIN OPENS, I know what will happen. Thevelvet seat feels soft under my legs, but a moment later I still pullmy tiny self onto my father’s lap, my twiggy legs eclipsing his

trunk-like thighs. I manage to get comfortable just before lights dim, send-ing sparkles off the enormous prismed wall fixtures, and the golden draperydiagonally lifts from each side.

By the middle of the Nutcracker’s second act, my father is drowsy,but I am wide awake observing each dancer as she comes down stage in aseries of twirls and leaps, stopping in front of the throne that seats Marieand the Nutcracker Prince. I study each movement: every lift of a leg, eachflutter of a foot. Like every four year old girl, I aspire to be a ballerina,dreaming that one day I may fill a gleaming costume. Each dancer replacesthe brightly colored tutu that came before her. With each changing of theguard, I change the role I aim to become.

Coffee whisks onto stage, her belly gyrating swiftly in circles. Asshe arabesques her way, symbols on her ankles make a sharp clang, and Ican imagine myself on the sands of Arabia, perhaps even India. She leapshugely, her pointed barefoot meeting the stage in a gentle “ting”; her legssplay outward from her body like a broken wicket. She is independently ex-otic; unaccompanied. I envy her pride in being different, breaking away incostume from the tutu into pants, belly-shirt, bare feet, and heavy make-up.

The Marzipan shepherdesses twirl out, their pink and yellowcostumes fluttering. Their energy is limitless, their spins, unending, as ifthey have been spoon-fed sugar. They lead the entire cast in dance, helpingthe Nutcracker Prince to his feet. There is no delegated leader, but, a group,a decided team working together to aid their lambs.

Candy Canes flood the stage. The lead balances his striped hulahoop around his torso as he chasés. The other candy canes follow behindas if pulled in by gravitational pull, mimicking his movement. His hula

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FRANÇOISE de SAINT PHALLE

pulled in by gravitational pull, mimicking his movement. His hula hoopbalanced in a soft orbit, he teaches and leads but the hoop never falls.

He is joined by the Sugar Plum Fairy. She is poised and elongated.Each arm stretches and reaches out to each dancer and audience member,as if to include everyone. Each pose is thought out, managed. Each exten-sion has a purpose. She handles everything with ease.

I never did become a ballet dancer. The fruitless strive for perfec-tion seemed like too much frustration for this little girl. As I grew up, westopped going to the Nutcracker; my father preferred to nap at home, andI was able to visit in Christmas Eve dreams. I still think about which dancerto become. Whether it’s the independent, exotic Coffee, the team playerMarzipan with a need to help, the teaching, balancing act Candy Cane, orthe poised Sugar Plum Fairy reaching out to others. And as I sit in theaudience and look up at the magnificent sweets, I want everything.

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CAITLIN ARDREY

The Path to Le Chou

FALL 2007 | 21

KAT MCGOWAN

Splatters

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KAT MCGOWAN

Soyeux

FALL 2007 | 23

JUN TAEK LIM

M&M’s

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AMANDA BENNETT

Pollution

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ISABEL BIRD

Turkey Skeleton

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AMANDA BENNETT

Tuning

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KAYLA CORCORAN

Dante: Reproduction of an Image by Etienne Delessert

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JULIA KELLER

What I Did With a Pair of Scissors

I took some scissorsAnd cut the callusesOff my feet.

. . . It’s one of those thingsYou immediately regret.

Now I have theseStupid pink spots where thereUsed to be tough.

I scowl every timeI put on my socks.

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MYKHAYLO LEMESH

Goodbye

MY MOTHER AND I stand on the platform at the train station. Shewears her favorite red beret but still shivers from the cold.Streams of people flow by like a mad current.An inebriated man

in a dirty winter coat sits on the bench beside us, cursing at a train he hasmissed; a group of gypsies crowd the gates near the main entrance, beggingfor change; an old woman walks by carrying a big plastic platter, sellingsteaming homemade cookies to passengers. In the midst of many, mymother and I stand tacit and alone, neither of us sure what to say for ourfinal good-bye.

A freezing wind blows into my face as if trying to sneak a look atthe whirlpool of thoughts spinning in my head. Just last night my motherand I celebrated the NewYear on the train, maybe the last one we wouldcelebrate together. I will not be able to afford to fly home during the schoolyear. We drank champagne and ate tangerines, recording our humble fêteon the cell phone I bought for my mom to call her from the States. Andnow, all gaiety gone, we hear the announcement that my train to Kyiv andthen to the airport departs in ten minutes. Alas, only ten minutes to saywhat has not been said and to forgive what has not been forgiven; otherwiseI must wait seven hundred thirty days or seventeen thousand five hundredtwenty hours for the next opportunity.

I look into the gap between the waiting train and the platform andstart listing all the things packed in my suitcases, partly to make sure thatnothing has been forgotten, partly to suppress the acute desire to burst intotears.Winter jacket, boots, leather gloves . . . It seems strange for my momto wave good-bye to me at sixteen and not embrace me again until I ameighteen. I do not shave yet. Will she be surprised to discover a razor in abasket along with my toothbrush and toothpaste two years from now?Sweatshirts, blazers, dress shirts . . . I remember when I was four years old,and my mother left me asleep in our small apartment to buy some groceries

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MYKHAYLO LEMESH

at a neighboring store.When I woke up and found no one in the apartment,I started crying, not knowing the reason for my mom’s absence, not know-ing what to do or where to run. Now I feel the same way but can’t simplysleep through our separation. Flip-flops, sneakers, shoes . . . I look at theticket wrinkled in a tight grip of my hand, wondering how this tiny pieceof paper can control human lives. No sentimental looks full of sadness, noemotions can change these numbers and dates. I feel a déjà vu from theday my mom brought me to kindergarten and left me with a teacher in along white robe. Socks, shorts, pajamas . . . How will my mom look like atour next encounter? I imagine more gray hair under a faded beret anddeeper wrinkles under the eyes. Will her smile be still as soft, the eyes ascaring? Blankets, pillows, towels . . . I cover her cold hand with mine. Westill stand silent, trying to come up with last words. If I were in the States,I would use English “I love you.” The Russian Ya tebya lublyu does notsound right—either too tragic or not appropriate enough.

The conductor asks the passengers to board the train. Losing trackof my list, I look into my mom’s eyes and see tears. She fires out shortsentences, stuttering from the awkwardness of saying aloud the words somany times rehearsed in her head:

Ya gorzhus’. Staraysya. Na odnu stupen’ku blizhe k tseli. Postroyluchshuyu zhisn.

Make me proud. Study hard. One step closer to the goal. Build abetter life.

I will.I carry my bags over the gap between the train and the platform.A

girl asks me to help carry her suitcase up the steps. I turn to look at mymom but see only her dark red beret flowing into the stream of people,slowly disappearing among other passengers, drunkards, gypsies, and oldwomen with platters.

JOSH KRUGMAN

Untitled

normally, riversdiverge unquestioned,untaxed, as they carrytheir deephearted livesin their stomachs.

from an altituderivers are not rivers:they are thoughts.and as fragile as your hair—limp and tauton across the land and land.

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MARIA CANDELA

Two Spiders

“You’re an expatriate. You’ve lost touch with the soil” (120).—Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

ISATALONE ON A CLIFF in Cuzco to watch the view. The last moribund sunrays were letting themselves fall gently over the grass. I could see manylittle white houses of mud packed together in the valley, and the tight

streets made of stone connecting them. Light filtered through the clouds,and pink and orange stains smeared the sky. There was something strangeabout the view, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I remember thinking thatonly a kid could have painted the sky. The strangeness of the view remindedme of those horrible clowns that come in boxes, and love to jump in yourface when you least expect them to.

I heard a melody that echoed all the emptiness; it sounded like jazzbut without the freedom. It reminded me of an old merry-go-round mygrandmother had taken me to when I was little. I had hated it. The mirrorshanging on the walls and the colorful light bulbs were unpleasant, and Ididn’t like the way those big, shiny horses glided up and down while wewent in circles, and the music blasted out.

The melody seemed to invade all Cuzco until there was no othersound. It crept through the streets, climbed the walls, and got all tangled upin the electricity cables, where I saw the corpse of a trapped kite. The heavy,languid notes seemed to be engendered by the core of the earth and playedin past tense. They filled me with the same irrational fear children feel, andreminded me that I would soon leave Latin America. My usual list ofambitions dissolved in the music.

I took my shoes and socks off and let my feet touch the soil. It wasa bit wet from when it had rained, and I pushed my feet into the soil. I madesure they got dirty and my hands too. With my hands and feet in the soil,

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MARIA CANDELA

I felt basic, pure, perfect. I wanted to dive into the entrails of the soil, smellit, eat it. I wanted to stay there forever.

I remember the last days I spent with my family as if they were adream or had happened ages ago. The long, dirty avenues of Manhattan, thepeople walking quickly like busy ants, the munchkin who danced at thesubway station, the phantom of the opera and the falling chandelier, thefugacious lights of the cars and limousines passing by. I had joked with myfather saying that all those limousines were ours, and walking throughBroadway like we owned the place. I took his warm hand, and we dancedin the streets with the music of the advertisements, as if those gigantic lightshad been turned on just for the two of us. I fixed my eyes on him, trying tomemorize every detail of his face: his round, green eyes, his chaotic eye-brows, his silver moustache, and the little blue dot on his right eyelid, whichhe had since he was twelve when a girl, furious with him for god knowswhat, had pinched him with a fountain pen.

Those days were gone in an instant, and in no time fall came, andI found myself having the last meal with my family in Friendly’s. Iremember the blonde waitress who smiled all the time. I thought she wasvery nice. She brought us gigantic ice creams. I wasn’t able to eat minebecause I didn’t want to ruin its shape: it had valleys of vanilla ice cream,rivers of hot chocolate fudge, and raindrops of cherry. I decided instead, todraw with the crayons the nice lady had given me. I looked at my fatherworking laboriously with his spoon around the mountains of chocolate icecream, and at the blonde, smiling waitress. I felt homeless at Friendly’s.I felt as if I had woken up from a dream and didn’t remember any of it, asif something had been stolen from me.

I looked at the stuffed monkey my parents had given me beforesaying goodbye, and remembered Bill in The Sun Also Riseswhen he says:“The road to hell is paved with unbought stuffed animals” (78). I felt he wasright. I was grateful to have that monkey. I lingered on the sidewalk untilmy family disappeared in a street covered with tree shadows. I felt the sameway I feel when I find myself wondering around the house and forget what

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MARIA CANDELA

it was I was supposed to be doing. Except for the fact that now, I couldn’tjust go back to do my room and find something else to do.

I went into the dorm, and there were two large spiders in theblatantly white wall. They stared at me. I stared them back. They didn’tmove. I didn’t move. I looked outside the window. Everything lookedforeign. Even the grass looked different. It was too green. I embraced themonkey.

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AMYVOLZ

Balboa Pier

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MARIA CANDELA

The Whiteness

“Hay tanta soledad en ese oro.

La luna de las noches no es la luna

que vio el primer Adán. Los largos siglos

de la vigila humana la han colmado

de antiguo llanto. Mírala. Es tu espejo.”

—Jorge Luis Borges, La Luna.

SHE STARES AT ME from the mirror, but I don’t always know her. I don’tknow how she will look like this time, and it frightens me. Some-times, her weary eyes barely return my glance as she works on a

broken smile, other times, her lips curl mischievously, her eyes dartingforward. She always looks different. It’s true. My grandmother used to tellme it was so, it was so. She said it was because of the days, and because thelight of the moon was never the same.

I used to follow her when she was getting ready for a party. Shecontemplated her image in the wooden vanity mirror, her head slightly tiltedto the right, as if trying to counter the strangeness of symmetry. Her whitehair was neatly arranged in a bun, and the bones of her eyebrows protrudedin her angular face. Her face looked as old as the moon. All faces look asold as the moon. She was very white. I asked her why she was so white. Shesaid it was because as a little girl she had looked at the moon too much. Ibelieved her. I began looking at the moon too much too.

From time to time, when she was looking in the mirror, her eyeslost focus. She seemed to penetrate the darkness behind them, the scars andcrevices, the abandoned house, the skeletons of her mother, the tunes ofdead music, the laughs of departed children. She mumbled an old song asher eyes stood still in her reflection, not really looking. Don’t laugh in themornings because you will cry in the afternoons . . .

But her arms rested down heroically, arching slightly like a balletdancer. Her back stood erect, shoulders back, hips parallel, legs bent a

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MARIA CANDELA

little.What poise. Every line of her body, the semicircle of her bare feet, theline of her spine, the curve of her neck, seemed to be singing to the moon.“When I grow up, I will be beautiful like you. I want my hair shiny likeyours,” I had told her.

She embraced me, lighted a candle, took my hand and led me to thegarden. I helped her pick twelve white roses. She removed their petals care-fully, and placed them on hot water. Then, she took me to the patio whereshe washed her clothes. There were some bed sheets drying up in cords,rocking gently.

The wind pulled my hair back from my face, and I rememberedthe girl in the mirror. I felt as though I were in a masquerade and nobodywanted to talk to me, because I had forgotten my costume. Light pouredover my head, dripping to my shoulders like the hot water of roses mygrandmother was sprinkling. I looked at the diaphanous full moonsuspended in the night. The whiteness.

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JOANNE HUANG

Nude in Stamp

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JOANNE KIM

Essence of Deerfield

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MATT BUCKLEY

Ignis Fatuus

SHE LISTENS to her own recorded voice, but it’s all wrong. It’s allbroken bones and grandma’s china crunching underfoot and the oldGumby cat raising hell, getting caught in the ceiling fan.It took her a moment to realize that this belonged somewhere else,

to another time—“white heat”—some formless recognition had jarred herawareness. Everything resembled, for an instant, some vaguely familiarsense-image. And she could tell then that the meaning of things had beensomehow altered; the sidewalk, the traffic conductor, the florescent signsadvertising “SALE,” “Dry Clean,” “Fine Italian Cuisine;” but she could nottell how. This is the uncertainty that seems to recycle itself over and overagain.

She rarely sounds like herself.

MATT BUCKLEY

First Impressions

It’s those eyes I can’t stand;Burnt black pupils and paper lids—

They say:“Listen, I’m down on my luck—spare some change?”So I do.I give them sixty-eight cents and a paper clip under each lid,Money from the treasury and the shirt on my back andNow it’s me asking for change,Cadaver-eyed and gap-toothed andBrushing futilely at the flies as they gather around bleeding fingernails—You could carve a stronger backbone from bananas—

So then I say to you:“why don’t you put yourself in my shoes?”So you do.And you walk a mile straight to the bank andYou say “I’d like to deposit my heart.”“you can’t,” they say, but they’ll take your head.So you agree and you’re all heart but that shouldn’t matter,You’ll get a calculator to do the feeling for you—So we punch in the numbers and wait while she thinks,She spins and she sputters with binary blinks,And after a moment she speaks and we shrink,

“tell me,” she says, “what you think.”

So I say:“I hope I never have eyes like that.”

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BEKEY LEE

Pug

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

Caitlin Ardrey is junior who lives in Dewey in a room labeled 210.5. Shehas a fondness for Gin Rummy and Norwegian sweaters, and her room-mate, a day student, lives under her bed. The piece in the current issue isinspired by the works of Camille Pissarro and was done with forks, knives,and a toothbrush. She would like to give a shoutout to the girl's hockeyteam.

Isabel Bird is a junior from Bedford, NewYork, and lives in Rosenwald.

Amanda Bennett is short, and has short hair. Hence, I've been asked to bean elf twice this winter. There comes a time when you are standing in abathroom that isn't yours, looking in the mirror at the garish green and redjingling elf costume staring back at you, and you wonder how you gettalked into things like this. Or at least that time came to me.

Matt Buckley doesn't take "no" for an answer.

Maria Candela is a senior from Bogota, Colombia.

Nora Caplan-Bricker is a four year-senior from Northampton, Massachu-setts. She is proud to drive a car that is older than both her younger brotherand her dog. As you can probably gather from her poem, she likes rainydays and mud puddles.

Kayla Corcoran is a sophomore from Billerica, Massachusetts, where thenewspaper once had a front-page story on a resident who spotted a ufo. Sheis terrified of unripe bananas, and once a bird flew into her window whileshe was in her room (she pronounces it like “rum”).

Hannah Flato is a sophomore from San Antonio, Texas. She struggles abit with the difference between words like “pen” and “pin” as certainpeople won’t let her forget, and says y’all on occasion. She’s been practic-ing physical therapy as a winter sport for two years now, and finds it quite

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

fulfilling. In her spare time, she loves doodling or looking through a goodpicture book.

Clare Henry is a senior who would like to be fromAberystwyth, Wales.She likes lizards and has a deep fear of squirrels. Clare prefers running towalking and is a supporter of Chelsea Football Club. Her favouriteflavour of ice cream is hazelnut.

Joanne Huang is a four-year senior from Korea. This nude piece wasone of the assignments in Mr. D's AP class. It's done entirely in ink and astamp that says "Good Luck."

Julia Keller is a senior from Concord, MA. While working on a farmthis summer in Lexington MA, she and her co-workers were advised thatif they cut the calluses that had formed on their feet off, they would bemore comfortable. She will never do it again.

Joanne Kim is a senior who came to DA as a new junior. She enjoysdesigning clothing. She is absolutely in love with monkeys, AudreyHepburn, Coco Chanel, and The Notebook.

Joshua Krugman enjoys spending afternoons among hemlock trees,Dmitri Shostakovich, snow, and general cosmic disjointedness. Hesupports violent insurrection of any kind.

Bekey Lee is a senior who lives on Poc III. She recently purchased aminiature schnauzer which turned out to be a teacup sized mixed breed.

Mykhaylo Lemesh is a senior from Zaporizhzhya (pronounced like Za-porizhzhya) Ukraine. He once banged on the aluminum trashcans in frontof the National Guard during the Orange Revolution in Ukraine. Sincethen he learned of more peaceful ways of self-expression and eagerlyuses the knowledge of the present to depict the experiences of the past.

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

Jun Taek Lim is a junior from Seoul, Korea. This piece "pop" wasinspired by Andy Warhol and Chuck Close.

Katrina Magowan hails from Hillsborough in the golden state ofCalifornia. She does not know what she want to do with her life, but haspromised to drift the world for one year. Her piece, Soyeux, means silkenin French.

Françoise de Saint Phalle is a senior from NewYork City. Sadly, hercareer as a ballerina was short-lived.

Catherine Schopp is from Sheffield, Massachusetts. She likes music,raspberries, and Ansel Adams photographs.

Kristin Simmons lives in NewYork City and has been doing art sinceshe was old enough to hold a crayon. Some of her favorite artists includePollock, Warhol, Lichtenstein, and Monet. She is an expert mix makerand enjoys making jams for Mr. Dickinson.

Cambrian Thomas-Adams is a perfervid rhetorician and a recreationallexiphanes of inestimable repute. He vehemently opines that tantamountto bookish erudition is the vivacious torrent of sensory experience thatone may elicit from the world. "Do not learn to be," he would say. "Sim-ply be. That is the path to true greatness." (In truth, he would surely pon-tificate in far more elaborate and contumelious tones, yet perhaps for thesake of simple profundity and coherency, a less exclusive terminologycould be effectively implemented).

Austin Turner is a senior from Middleburg, Virginia. He has taken art allfour years at Deerfield and will continue to do so in college.

Amy Volz moved to Florida and wishes everyone would stop asking ifshe lives in an elderly community.

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CATHERINE SCHOPP

Reading Man

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48 | ALBANY ROAD