The Andrean 1995S T . A N D R E W ' S S C H O O L

. ..,.,.•="

A R T I S T S

Cover: Mackenzie Pitcairn, MENARCHE, charcoal & oil

Inside front cover: Andi Mulholland, graphite

Inside back cover: Mackenzie Pitcaim, ink

Mackenzie Pitcairn, charcoal, p. 2

Jack Comstock, etching, p. 4

Wanda Kraikit, charcoal, p. 6

Steph Bruder, etching, p. 8

Kelly Schimmel, photograph, p. 10

Alexandra Cox, photograph, p. 11

Chris Reiger, charcoal, p. 14

Chris Reiger, graphite, p. 17

Morgan Foster, watercolor, p.18

Andi Mulholland, charcoal, p. 19

Chris Reiger, charcoal, p. 21

Wanda Kraikit, monotype, p. 22

WK/AMF, imfeo still, p. 24

Wanda Kraikit, ink washes, p. 5,12

The Andrean 1995T A B L E o f C O N T E N T S

3 Full Tank by James Pipes

4 Mourning GrandPops by Andrew Pipes

5 Room 334 by Wanda Kraikit

6 Essay by Taylor Horner

8 Searching in Vain by Kelly Schimmel

9 Night Time by Ed Jones

10 Life At A Potato Farm by Kelly Schimmel

11 Looking at an Old Man's Face by James Pipes

12 Dying Cotton by Mandy Fischer

15 Attention Span by James Pipes

16 Short Story by Wanda Kraikit

19 Poem by JR Parsons

20 Skater Scott by Mandy Fischer

22 Spanish Poem by Kelly Schimmel

23 Computer Thing by JR Parsons

24 Aliens by Mandy Fischer

•

Full Tank

Sunday Morning and I have gas.And I can't tell whether it was something I ateOr just post-Saturday-night remorse.The pain of empty turns in my stomach,And I wonder whether time has come to a screeching halt,Like a test car driven' into a targeted cement wall.Crumple, and I feel like the crash dummyOn TV—buckle up, it'll save your life.You know, it's the morning after which caresses my soul,Rubs it down, kneading out the chill of last night.The afternoon will bring on numbness and boredmasturbation,The pornographic kind that goes on foreverAnd never feels quite right.Why did the father of that long-haired guyBless us with a conscience?Had he made us free, he'd have skipped the guilt clause inour constitutions.But we are servants, not slaves but servants, unpaid servantsnot slaves.What was the difference he had in mind?And you know something's amiss when your own voiceIs company and you laugh at it's little jokes which aren'tfunnyBut hilarious because you wouldn't dare not laugh at yourown humor.I think when all the Saturday nights are long forgotten,I shall only need think of one Sunday morning to resurrectthem all.

Mourning Grand Pops d.12.1.76

Might Heaven lie below andnot with thunder and gods?

Perhaps not punishmentto be locked in the ground but

a pleasant stay withwhateveritwas which killed us.

GrandPops loved a good joke: how bout this one, Pops?

with heaven pushing it upHell must take up in the gloomy greys

and install in its patients afear of heights.

I suppose they stickyou up there indefinitely,

or until gravity takes effect on heavy souls.

You there now?No. You're looking up past dirt

waiting for usour only true placement of life,

which sadly occurs after it ends.

Room 334

reclined nipping at shoestrings and jewelryon the edge of a couch in the living room/dinette combous

ignoringGiggles reach though a door openweighted breath changes directionhaven't you ever heard ofbedgames, Annie?Falli^psplashing against the acid in thestomach heart throatlike warm

Jwhat are you drinking again ..«AnKfl?zinfandel pinkSpreading a stain on my father's antique quiltas I, jell over and catch

Our hands locked in permanent tension, holding us together aswe two pulled each other across the backyard. Scramblingbarefoot through the murky summer twilight, we inhaled quick

sharp portions of the dense air and followed a path that only we couldsee. We tumbled wordlessly through the peeling board fence into themysterious tall grasses on the other side, our hands still tightly clasped.Standing up, we parted the swaying mass before us, took a deep breath,and ran. Behind us we left a clumsy trail of crumpled stalks to mark ourbrief passing. Emerging into the field where the grass had been croppedclose to the earth by the horses, we found our stride, our silent urgencyinterrupted only by occasional swift glances at each other. Horses wereshadowy figures standing patient guard over us as we ran awkwardly tothe trees. The trees loomed above, a towering beacon black against acharcoal sky. Storm clouds hovered restlessly and obscured the clarity ofthe moon and stars. A wind came that was not really a wind at all, butmore like the after-current when someone has just passed. It clung to outsweaty skin as it neared, and then left, leaving goosebumps beneath ourtans. Once we entered the realm of the trees, time stopped.

Releasing my brother's hand, I climbed up first and tried not toscrape my knees into the uneven bark; in some places the bark wassmooth, where the horses had rubbed as they itched the summer flies offtheir backs. Balancing on the lower branches, I dragged Josh up thetrunk, his vouffl^^^Shtorted in concentration as he struggled up the

tree to where I was sitting. Finally he made it and lay panting across mylap. Finding his own branch, he moved and we straddled the wide,welcoming branches of our tree. Millions of leaves, as big as frisbees,hung around the edges of the tree. The humid cocoon enclosed us, andwe knew we were safe.

We gripped each others' hands and waited silently. Instead oftalking, we made cigars out of the long seed pods that dangled eerilyfrom the branches above us. All around us the night moved as wereclined and ponderously pretended to smoke our oversized cigars.Crickets called incessantly, birds winged overhead. Behind us a horsegalloped, bucked and snorted. Ponies crunched grass, unaware of thecurious noises they made as they tore it from the ground.

At last we knew we could return to our house, and we slid towardthe edge of the branches. I hung from the branch and dropped. Then Ireached up for Josh; his deadweight pushed me into the damp grass andhe giggled briefly as we felt our hearts pound against each other. On theway home the desperation was gone and our hands were linked loosely.We knew we would find our parents in separate rooms of the house,cordial but distant. The house drew into our vision, and we counted thewindows with light behind them. If we peered at the windows, we couldjust barely discern the giant killer moths that terrified us at night as welay in bed. They slammed at the screens in an attempt to find their wayinto our rooms and devour us while we slept. We tiptoed around to thekitchen door, careful to avoid the sharp pebbles in the driveway. As wewalked up the flagstone path we looked at each other and smiled. Thewarm moist breath of the night let us go, and we blinked our eyesagainst the harsh yellow light spilling from the kitchen. Our hands fellapart, and I led my brother inside.

1

VI '

fl

Searching In Vain

Years later^lost things reappear in pocketswith tiny balfeof lint

i that only embracemy treasure-finding joy.Maybe one $ay/ ;

you will be there,stuffed in a pocketof one of my old winter coatswith shreds of fallen leavesand a crumpled piece of papersigned Love Always,Love, love, love me.:

Years later, -I'll pull you outand I'll exclaimoh that's where I put youand I'll wonderwhere did all'the time gobut right nowI frantically searchmy denim, cotton, silkpocketsin vain.

Night Time

tonight for dinnerI enjoyed a big juicy

steak,curly french fries

an artichokeand a Samuel Adams-"the best beer in America"

and for dessert, a marlboroand for a moment, all was well in the world

at times like this it seems that lifereally has potential

that it's not all a worthless, terrifyingfunhouse ride where nothing makes sense and

these huge enigmas are crushing your every thoughtand killing you slowly day by day

isn't that some Christian reader or somethingno helpin god

even if he does existwhat has he done for me lately?

Life?oh, thanks a lot

gotta gokeep moving

constant fighting to reach...something

some say that the meaning of life is to seek the meaning of lifehow stupid

Life—At A Potato Farm

From the dark mouthof the cavernous machinerythe rumble of approaching potatoesmakes my god-like hands tremblewith anticipationuntil the first potato,seemingly createdwithin the maternal metal,boastingly tumblesonto my conveyor belt,into an ever critical providence.My hands of their own will,judging each potato,aiming for uniformity.They throw out the rotten ones.They hide the deformed ones ina special paper bag.They break all growth from theremaining potatoes.The chosen humbly roll away,stripped into conformity,packaged in bagswhere they are forgotten.My hands (the world, little gods),proud of their blind profession,press the switches to OFF.

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Looking At An Old Man's Face

The great Michelangelo in the sky,Slowly, gently chisels away mortals.

Infants are rough, a wailing slab of marble.Undefined and unshaped and unscarred.

The hammer falls metronomically,Each second marble dust.

The ancient years become merely a refinery,A meticulous sculptor satisfied only with a gravestone.

Rivers of wrinkles, water of time,Dribbling through porous canyons etched

In tissues and cells and molecules and atoms.The sediment of life settling instinctively

Among lunar-like pock holes.Now-lizard eyes have silently, patiently, submissively

Watched moons melt into suns.Accepting birth as only prelude to death,

Who is nothing more than a quasi-invincible being,Incapable of retrospect, powerless in the past.

For it dwells only in the future, hermited in steeped self-pityAnd there weakening itself, exposing a soft, bruised strip

In which only the old, wise, andinfinitely chiseled may plunge their

slaying swords.

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Dying CottonTo James Pipes, Desiree Bliss and Wanda Kraikit

storms leak onto my horizonlike blue ink though polished cottoneight arms rest on realityround a plastic tablewith two still remaining closeto body cellsin tentative hugscigarettes discretely meeting lip

meeting lungme, warped and obviously dullingimthe moonlight,brown headed with the purest sanitysuddenlyrealization a womb

across from the blackheaded asian Girla shape shiftersmile like a leprechaun'sa pretty Girl with the blues pumpingin daddy's carrecollecting a time alreadyshot to piecesthen the two Boyblueeyes to her leftsnap up like a hung shade -.fto look at meHe cheekboned and blondbeautifula world inside of himon his backso tangled in the spider webs of loveHe is lost"He just needs a good night's sleepsomebody to tuck him in aggiinto bungee the burden to hiflti^my mother assures me

And I would carry it foe-hint, even,for any of them,I do it already.

' ' , " •

Coughing, preaching, smirkingI push them deeperinto the thimblewhere all of the things I love live—-

our collective treasure chesta protective shell

and the other Gir,lswimming in a different oceancobalt California bloodthick wrists and shouldersconstructed aside methough mewhose stay ends Tuesdaywho can never leave

joy wordsthe billowing of brains

of rescue helicoptersfaces Watered

ripening and exposedall four weathervanesreading almost alike buthopelessly never the sameeach terribly frightened

magnificently falling apartfitting together

in the first and finalgenuine moment of my lifeI frvl the distanceof timeofinvilof ittdivigr.-/vlonger ,ana toward forevelike blue ink soaki

w

Attention Span

one of thesehighly flammable mall chicksspontaneously combustedbeside melike a match.But none of that unpleasant sulfuric odor.her punk boyfriendcasually pointed outa water fountainand led her screaming to it.by the timeshe had reached itthe ten foot bangswere sizzled to six.an esteem shot I'm sure.unfortunately I couldn't helpfinding the whole scenefaintly amusinglike my seven year old tripsto Chuck-E-CheeseGeez, I sure miss those big furry puppets.

15

New Year's Eve:

Driving up National Cemetery Road to the first stop sign(Are you sure he didn't say stop light?} past the railroad

tracks and around the bend to the large unmissable paintedsign Eddie's pit that we almost miss in the half dark. Halfdark because of the prolonged sunset of drunken flamesexhaling orange smoke, (What the hell, he's probably knockedsomething over and burned hisfuckiri house down} his version ofthe yellow brick road.

Cars crowded on the dirt driveway that leads back to thehouse, the ramps, the makeshift pit. Old run down trucksand borrowed parents cars weave a secret pattern that re-pulses the shiny jeeps and convertibles whose backs and rearbumpers reflect the spitting, dervish-like flames. We park thecar.

Walked out and around and through to the music - loudoverpowering brittle. The skateboard ramp turned pit surg-ing with hair flying, all dark. And you stand there watching,tall blond curls making a strange Medusa shadow. And Ihaven't seen you since... And I haven't talked to you since onthe phone I say - you'll have to come by wherever I am andyou say - why?

What did I say, what could I say? I don't remember.Awkwardly greeted by capricious welcome as your

friends around you turn. And you do too, though I don'trealize at first, yourself a simple black shade without fea-tures, your back non distinguishable from front. You say hi.

And hug me. And her, and her, and him. Words ex-changed in the round without melody or discord, and whenI look up you are gone, blown away - our quartet lapses.Shiver. I wear three shirts and winter jacket, dug up from myfather's closet with only a hint of butterfly in the collar, newnecklace from Amanda and a new small flame at my lips. Iam still cold.

We move to around the bonfire, dwindling, I lose friends,but those entertained by their mind's private light shows are

16

not judgmental. Nor are they coherent. But they laugh true,wide eyes mirroring the flames that are our center. (Kirbythe fire god pours gasoline around a paper cup on theground. He can't even hold his arm steady, drunken bastard andonto his clothing.) The heat draws near and we burn refus-ing to leave the warmth, or turn away into the night colderfrom feeling the flames. I choose to stay.

And stand upon a cement block and feel tall. I talk to Billwhose wonderfully playful curls have gone, my fingers nowrun over a prickly skull as I remember laughing at theflipped back top ponytail someone aptly recognized asIchabod Crane. But that was in your living room. A longtime ago. (It's not that long ago.) And I hate that I live inmemories.

I see you standing and watching as my environmentallyinduced sociality (flirtation) offends your unaccustomedsolemnity. (Kirby's gonna fuckin' incinerate himself, thefuckin'bastard - that would be pretty funny. He, on the ground, leansagainst the ramp for a cigarette. Oh, shit, he's havin' asmoke,he can't remember that he fuckin' showered himself with gasoline.}

I call you over. But youdo not talk as youspeak to me, you headlevel with mine, I still

% I on the block - a newperspective. I want tohold you, your headand breathe yourpatchouli mixed withJasmine and the smokeof your hair, but I'mafraid. I'm afraid youwill burn me with icyresponse. So I don't.

17

The fire god becomes entranced by the miraculous andsudden flame that appears when he depresses the red por-tion of his clear plastic lighter. (If he goes up inflame, we canjust lie him down here 'cause the fire's dyin' down.} Hey, Kirby,ya fuckin' moron - somebody get that lighter from him. Thefire god is disoriented and sulky without his tool and raiseshimself to acquire it. The strain overcomes him. He passesout.

Music stops. Rus was drunk off his ass, man. Some fuckin'fool was tryin' to jump onto the stage. That guy - uh, Rus - he waswantin' to stage dive. The band members were stompin' on hisfingers and shit. I got to use my mace on him. Brad, like, sprayedhim with that stinging shit right in the eyes - could've blindedhim. But then the asshole got up and started tryin' again. What afuckin' dumbass. He, like, got caught on one of the cords or some-thing. The fuckin'son of a bitch pulled down all of Tommy's ampsand shit. Then, all of this shit started falling on top of him. That'sfuckin' two thousand dollars worth of equipment. Before he couldeven get up, the band members were on top of him, kickin' the shitout of him - they started beatin' him with a metal pipe or some-thing, and it broke in half. Yeah, I guess Tommy kinda went out ofcontrol then, but all our setup was in pieces, man. Stupid fucks - ifthey hadn't-uh beatin' him over the head and given him a concus-sion, they coulda sued him for the damage. I dunno, man, that's allour amps and shit. Eddie was really pissed, too. I think Eddie'smom came out. Eddie's freaked out about the police showin' up orsomethin'. Hey guys - everybody - ya'll gotta clear out, thisshit ain't cool man. Hey - YOU - ya gotta leave. Now.

18

There's an ember somewhere in me,I thinkMy heart,that you put there with your eyes,but nothing as concrete as a dream.Nor a hunch, not so logical as a Rubik's cube,with stickers labeled"Yes", "No", Green, and eye-blue.It's not an idea that came to me,a half-dim bulb, flaring in the foggy mists of Physics andFrench.No, not so sharp as that, though it cuts likean angry look.Which will bring us back to doe, a female deer,caught in some headlight, some flash of inspiration orhappiness,reflecting out of your eyes,and burning something.I feel like an ant is in my head, and the sadistic five year-oldin us all(but in you particularly)is using a magnifying sapphire to focus jjAnd though the idea is in my head,It is my heart which strains and streleaden chains of doubtto find you there.

Skater Scott's and My first KissNoon August 7

a closed mouth kissmy painted lipswatermelon ontoyours the shapesof blackest seeds;a lazy and beautifullyclashing boypressing anunintended-looking butnonethelessemotionally slippery kissonto meits perfection the aimits sudden yet correct shock

as though youwalking straight leggedpanted and blue blousedplanned for an entire city blockhow you couldcasually fall towardthe irongirl purpleprints of MEon this urban cityavenuewhile everybody else'seyes couldn't stopwatching

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. . ,;,.

!

tersos y nervi,mueven sobre las sabanas huecascomo movian sobre su caracuando el era un nino.Su cuarto,cobriendo el silencio con polvo.dana tus ojosmientras irtiras su foto,

esperando un movimiento,•erando la palabra: Mama.

jsemparados y fuertes,a adheren su foto

a un canamazo.

El camina en la calle.El grita para libertad.El grita: Escuche a nuestrasY hi sabes,con tus dedos con callos,

que alguna parte,

Your fingers,smooth and nervous,move over the empty sheetsjust as they moved over his facewhen he was a child.His room,covering the silence with dust,pains you eyeswhile you watch his picture,

waiting for a movementwaiting for the word: Mother.

Your fingers,skilled and strong,attach his pictureto a canvas.

He walks in the streets.He cries out for freedom.He cries out: Listen to our mothers.And you know,with your callused fingers,that a boy,somewhere,is given freedom.

i am Number Sixteen, i desire perfection, and mill settleoccasionally for excellence. There's this fiery red uoid inme now,(#16; Warning One. No Rdject iues DepictingEmotion, Please.)There's this hole in me now,as if power which ran my dreamsbecame more enpensiue,(#16: UJarning Number Two. Further ViolationsWill Be Punished.)MyHHKHKKbecame more costly,as if I had to conform to crap(#16: That Is enough. Please refrain from futureuse of Inflammatory language. UJarning Three.)as if I had to strain the buckles of this bloody straightjacket to reach the bareststretchedpale(#16: Refrain from using descr ip t ive orinflammatory adjectives and references to freewill, including uerbs describing freedom ofthought. YOU ARE NOW UNDER UJHTCH.)mediocrity,to conform t o K K K K ,and my euery moue is being clamp-ironed, censorH H,and i can't break HHKH from this oppressEHH HHHKHKKK HHHKK and the HHHK which is HHHHIy killing myonly reason to HHHH.

-HH16

SysRegg.44: Unit 16 ResistFail at 2288hrs;Program Terminated,

JR Parsons

23

Aliens

the bridges betweeneach orange plateau connectus with aliens.cactus flowers bloom in thedeserts of Arizona.

cactus flowers bloomhere, too; spring up in Lewesand in my childhood.I remember falling liketripping on the humid air.

I pick myself upagain, my compass and mylarge ray gun in hand.I wait for the silence to stopgalaxy to speak to me.

24

THE EDITORSMandy FischerWanda KraikitJames PipesChris Reiger

Missy AchenbachCarrie BarbeeDesiree Bliss

Megan BozickSteph Binder

Alexandra Cox

T H E S T A F F

Megan DohertyLindsay Dormer

Kate FisherTaylor Horner

Augusta KeevilMary NicklinRains Paden

Whit PilsonAndrew Pipes

Will PorterPage Rockwell

Charlotte SandersDave Smith

Special thanks to: Marc Cheban,]oAnn Fairchild, Lee Leal & Lundy Smith

ST. ANDREW'S SCHOOL350 Noxontown Road

Middletown, DE19709-1605