Oakwood Collegiate Institute - Oracle Yearbook (Toronto Ontario, Canada)

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' euk ut(f Cool burning sand, a roaring sea, A flush of light; A thousand eery figures swaying To a rhythm; A flicker of a flare, and suddenly. Life. A mad, hysterical frenzy of existence. Caught in a spell; Red, Orange, Black, Bongo! A tempest roaring in an ear. In the other A beat. Forget yourself — forget today — Until tomorrow. Long hair, a shoulder, eyes closed now, Leave the world behind. Live — for a pulsating hammer Drown everything. Fill your brain with fire! But soft. Humans come too. Live today, not tomorrow. Love. Lovers. A touch, a smile — burn. Soft now; Slower. Laughing too — a haunting laugh. Hollow. Hide behind your mask of smiles But don ' t get caught. Life ' s good — if you ' re a watcher! Marjorie Montgomery 12B A fierce, howling wind tore at the trees, A moaning wind, singing of death and disease, But sudden, a howl came into the night While over the hill, a blaze of light. It flickered, danced, beckoned me on. And I followed its path — so long, so long — To the top of the hill where, etched in the light Stood a figure of evilness, black as the night. Attracted, repelled, bewildered, amazed, Hesitantly I moved toward him dazed; ' Til with a sudden flash of light. Gone was the evil and the night. I Stood; I cried; I wept. Beverly Freedman 12B Izabel Wojciechowska 12F yf Vkou kt bowt Out %(im Green with shame I turn from bodies Ridden with bullets and blood. Dying in name From man ' s own hand. Cry, oh yee gods, On this subject of death. What is liberty, equality? Only a body being eaten By flies in a gutter. What are we doing here? What are we doing anywhere? Hunters we are that kill And kill by profession alone Faraway from our proper home. 64

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Stoitft yit Scd The Savannah sailed with a peaceful tranquillity, despite the frequent and clamorous hurricane warnings crackling over every wave-band of her radio. The sleek white freighter was steering direct- ly towards the heart of the storm, for this was the culmination of weeks of waiting and watching the weather forecasts from her anchorage off the Georgia coast. At last a hurricane was brewing, fifty miles south-east, and the Savannah was on her way to rendez-vous with it. The meeting was to be a test. N.S. Savannah was the most modern freighter in the world, and the only one with those special initials N.S., Nuclear Ship. Yes, the Savannah ran on nuclear power, and both her power and her design were to be rigidly tested by the coming battle. Her reactor was buried deep inside her, encased by layers of lead, plastic, wood, and tons of concrete. No dangerous radia- tion could possibly escape this thick shielding, but before she could leave the experimental stage the Savannah had to prove she could sustain a rigorous beating in beyond normal weather conditions, with- out any damage to the enormous power-pack she ran on. Leaving the coast rapidly behind as she cruised at twenty knots. Savannah steamed towards the dark, sullen clouds brooding on the horizon. Above the coast a blood-red sunset tinted the land a sacrificial hue, and the usually light green water reflected only a sombre sparkle. Ahead of her, there was no sun to be seen, as the black rolling clouds met the sea in a turbulent darkness. Over- head the sky changed from blue to dark blue to a dirty purple. Higher up, small wisps of vapour scudded away from the storm centre, contrasting with the gloomy depth of the heavens. At sea level, a wind picked up, and with growing fury it swept over and past the surging white ship. Already her trim beauty looked out-of-place on this funeral scene, as angry white-caps rolled to- wards her, growing in size and strength with every minute. The storm was approaching quickly, and the Savannah kept on. Finally, the radar became a mass of blips and static, signifying their arrival within the raging giant. The whistling, cutting wind had reached gale force, and it was building the waves into huge mountains. A face, peering from a golden-glowing porthole, shivered as fear clutched its owner ' s heart. Outside was nature in all her awesome strength. Outside was a mariner ' s nightmare. From the glass-enclosed bridge the captain sur- veyed the erupting elements with a stoic confidence. Everything was going well, and he exulted in the magnificent performance of his ship. Only the slightest roll could be felt aboard the Savannah, whereas every other ship in the world would be bouncing and bobbing, rolling and heaving in the gigantic swell. Savannah ' s revolutionary stabilizing wings were continuously tilting operating on the same principle as a gyroscope, in their task of keeping the ship on an even keel. As each swell was born, it was electronically anticipated aboard the ship and from her sides, like blades from a switch-knife, swung two broad fins which tilted at contrasting degrees to offset the ocean ' s action. No one aboard the Savannah was seasick because of the sea. The Savannah slipped on, her engines at half speed to keep her inside the storm as long as possible. Since the sun had set, no light came from any direction, and the Savannah gleamed like a beacon below the ink-black heavens. Like a beacon of defiance, for it seemed the storm had concen- trated all its destructive powers on this frail, white resistant. Huge waves towering fifty feet reared up and engulfed the deck of the Savannah. The black, oily mountains of water crashed down upon her decks, breaking into torrential rivers of green, foam-flecked water, hurrying to run off the inde- structible steel queen. The wind blew and blew but could do no damage, for the streamlined Savannah offered no hindrances, not even a smokestack, for the wind to centre on. The wind finally abated, seeming to diminish in a defeated retreat, before the stalwart ship. The ravenous seas ceased to flood her decks, retreating and retreating, as the wind powered them no more. The blackness above began to twinkle, once in a while, as the light of the brighter stars succeeded in piercing the thinning cloak that had been the storm. With the storm ' s demise, Savannah ' s mighty heart began to beat faster as her numerous carbon rods quickened their nuclear rhythm and delivered a surge of power to her propellers. With a smooth change of speed, this beautiful conqueror began to slice through the water and plough up a curling, roiling furrow with her sweeping bow. She turned in a long, leisurely semi-circle, to face the distant shore and the victor ' s welcome awaiting her. Bill Jeffrey 63

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3fi lotut Twelve noon — the ninth and final exam is com- ing up at 2:10. As usual, it ' s Math. Every term, every year, it seems the last exam in the set I write is Mathematics. After vaguely looking over the formulas of x ' s, y ' s, and m ' s, I am left with little but the mistiest conception of what this system of associations, dis- tributions, rises, runs, slopes, functions, and all manners of equations, is. After all, what is it but a network of tangled numerals and symbols? The language of a mystic science? No. There is no room for doubt. Each answer is precise with an added set of qualifications which render it absolutely indis- putable. A totalitarian system! And totalitarianism implies not only a state of aff ' airs, but also denotes a plague, a malignant cancer which forges chains. On my transistor radio, There are no truths outside the gates of Eden , wails Bob Dylan. When we reach the state of unreasoning reason, unques- tionable logic, brutal and bereft becomes our basic premise. But there is in this system the inevitable flaw at which we can strike. Mathematics refuses to recognize the qualities of zero! Here it is powerless. It can only weakly suggest that it refuses to recognize division by zero — no attributes. A sum of zeros yields a terrifying total. To Mathe- matics this is meaningless. It won ' t acknowledge the validity of the immense power zero wields. Even Physics realizes that Nature will never toler- ate a vacuum. The greatest happiness for the greatest number , reads the principle of utility. If we all had bril- liantly mechanical minds. Mathematics would be the ideal solution for mankind. However, the way man is, he does not strive after an end which regiments and or suppresses his best qualities: his facility and resourcefulness, his creativity. These are stifled in a world governed by sets, functions, relations, ordered pairs, and graphs. Mathematics sets its own laws and makes what assumptions it wishes. It hurls defiance at every- thing outside its textbooks. It exists not even for the sake of existence — for even an existentialist has character, attitudes, sensibilities. Even the existentialist harmonizes with some aspect of the Universe, otherwise he would necessarily commit suicide. (Can we therefore assume that Mathe- matics will sooner or later commit suicide? Perhaps, but if it does, we go with it.) One may speak of the great advantages which technology contributes to our well-being. Although they have practical uti lity, they will still tend to automate, de-humanize , theorize for, us. We should be concerned with the influence of Mathe- matics. It creates the mentality which will engage itself in nothing but theory and the theoretical practical usages of that theory. It can also create the mentality which will practise technology in support of the utilitarian principle. We can only tolerate Mathematics if its purpose remains subservient to mankind. Now I ' m about ready to take on Mathematics. Fortified, I can now trot in and register the marks I need. But the few I do get wiU not come because I am familiar with the course. At least not con- sciously. My conditioned reflexes will add the exponents for me. Meanwhile, the fires have ceased to rage, and we ' re left with the smouldering charcoal and smoke. David Frank Words communicate us to our fellow beings; Thus, glib-tongued men venture forth and become kings. While the quiet ones think of immaterial, precious things, Unheard songs which each heart so ardently sings. How can words express emotional states? Then are they but artificial, unrealistic delegates. How can words describe a storm which abates. Or modify a man who is great? Such ugly things — words! So they wiU always be thought. For words cannot tell of natural mysteries sought, Nor can they replace those feelings which cannot be bought — For words are often sold, but immaterial things are not. Chris Pascucci 65