Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY)

Page 82 text:

TRUTH I want so much to be understood and ac- cepted: to be able to reach out and have you realize what an infinite amount of beauty there is in the truth. You used to be truth itself-so brave, and fearlessly strong, and so beautiful. It was as if you were a flower, with your stem growing straight, and your petals so honestly outstretched, fully understanding the hardship of rain, but real- izing the beauty of the fresh air after the storm. There is so much hurt, and pain, compas- sion, and strength, in the truth. You were truth. You stood with your head held high, meeting the future with no defenses raised. Your mouth was partly open, in contemplation of a beautiful thing, like two sores burning, pressed together, begging to be pulled apart. You understood life, and were willing to stand tall through its ups and downs. Your eyes were constantly open, as if you were a watchdog, always ready to protect his master. Your master was the truth. Without even knowing you, a person could tell how beautiful you were. Was it the way you stood, so open and forthright, or the way you walked, reaching the corner as quickly as the man who had to run? Perhaps it was the firm, con- fident, and yet tender way in which you looked at a person-a look of deep understanding. Why did you ever begin to run, and cut corners, and not think of the other person? When did you begin to lie and put an outer covering around yourself, so that no pain could reach you? Didn't you see that that shield blocked beauty too? When did you lose your depth, and iust be- come a flat surface painted a pretty color? Wasn't it obvious that the paint would soon start to chip and ugliness would begin to show through. I want to be understood, and I want to be accepted, but neither is important, for now I am the truth. SELF 342 I have danced myself invaded with feelings Dancing so fast, l cannot feel. To reassure a soul: A self, is to man As blood is to a forest, Or a bleeding heart, Carried by the wind Upon a leaf. I never stop to rest, Nor does the sky, Nor the earth For one robin said the earth was round. The spark of madness Swept inside of me, lvvlga A current of unfound lj y identity. Q g . o ' o To Search an infinite mindg N 9 U ., A self is to man Q' As the earth is to a lonesome tree Q O O How a bleeding heart carried by 4 the wind Q ls soothed to safety if o Q Upon a leaf! y 9 CLAUDIA SCHWALB N -'7 2. 'P . 'a n ll , NN . ,I lb f5 , . fi I t- at N Q ' M ., l gi 9' X if eg JO AMY SCHULMAN , QI lx It '41, y ll. 0 lflx W2 I FK 1 f N A ' , 1: A ,S L5 H o CLAUDIA' SFHWA N I ' lf' - 1 A A --:tp is li 'll ' 1533641 2 . ' ' '- ..Q'-505 ' ' 1 ' . ms I 4.51. ull V . 6a 44.5 K U N 2 '

Page 81 text:

SURRENDER lstood in the fields of green sea Casting my eyes upward. lcaptured the firmaments above: The sky is a flowing jigsaw puzzle, a flowing Conglomeration of flowing colors into flowing shapes. My fingers flee with the fleeting ocean overhead The strokes of my brush rapidly race against the luminous time-keeper above lgrasp the delicacy of dancing fleece My body is like soft foam, My eyes become delicate fog, my fingers are like wavelets The rays of my mind dissolve the suspended threads of my body lfloat into pools of neon lace The easel in the field is like an empty hourglass BRENDA BRANCH mx THE MASK RITUAL Slowly the crowd diminishes, until she is left alone in the room, a small figure standing straight with self-preoccupation. The slam of the door reverberates dullyg the dry ice mask begins to crack, leaving her face paler, her mouth more childlike. As the mauve-veined eyelids are slowly raised, I see that her shy black pupils are as wide and deep as paneless windows. Painful windows .... Slowly, intently, she begins to move. At first her gestures are angular, constrained, as though the sharp fragments of the shattered mask still pricked her painfully. The light changes, warming the room, and I see that she is dancing, performing an ancient, wistful ritual to .... to what? Does she know? No, now she is aware of nothing but the primitive need to relieve her emotions, to im- merse herself in the hypnotizing rhythm that heals the inside wounds of indignity gathered afresh each day. The dance has become soft and benevolent, now, it is almost finished. She knows this, and is savouring the last caressing flutters, a faint smile pervading her body. In the deepest well of the night, I hear a desperate, smothered soundt- She is crying, the eternal sobs of being less then perfect. I should not be watching her, for if she knew that I was here, the briny streams would be abruptly cut off. She'd lie on her stomach, no longer writhing, but every fiber of her body stretched to the utmost. Not breathing. Press- ing herself into the mattress with all her frenzied strength, there would suddenly be a convulsive relaxation. Then she'd turn to me, tiredly, and look at me questioningly, frustration showing only in the pinched marble iaw. I could only turn around and leave, ashamed not of my eaves- dropping, but because I have no answer to her singular gaze. BETH IRWIN

Page 83 text:

CHARACTERIZATIONS SAINT FRANCIS FED THE SQUIRRELS We had taken a walk through Central Park that day. There was nothing unusual about it all, the strike was on and the three of us, Laura, Leona and I, had come there to nibble on fresh bologna sandwiches. We washed them down with thin orange drink that we had bought from a vendor. I can't remember whether we had ridden the carousel that day, but on other days during the time we were out of school, I became quite familiar with itg her old pumping, grinding giant music box filling the air with circus tunes. If I was lucky, they would play 'A LITTLE BIT OF HEAVEN' and then I could sing along with it. We had made our way leisurely from the carousel to the zoo, and turned the winding, sun- drenched road around the red brick building planted in the heart of the zoo. As we turned the corner, I saw a little man standing by the entrance to the children's zoo. In his right hand, he held a bag of peanuts. His left arm was raised and crooked half way in front of him and perched on his forearm sat a squirrel, busily chewing the peanuts as fast as the little man could draw them from the bag. I stopped my two companions, and we stood watching the little man. His face was plain, his clothes. non-exceptional. He resembled no less than a dozen men you could see every day in a subway, street or bus. But his face was very calm and quiet and he neither laughed nor frowned, coaxed nor teased the little animal that sat clinging to his arm. Patiently, he drew the peanuts, one at a timep sometimes breaking them, sometimes leav- ing it to the squirrel to do. The little rodent iumped back and forth from a litter basket to the grass and back again to his arm. Children who passed into the zoo with their parents, stood and gaped at himg the children shrieking wildly, the parent's eyes wide, their faces, with beaming smiles. The little man didn't seem to notice. He seemed oblivious to the fact that there were other people in the park. He was totally absorbed in keeping his little friend well fed. What other friends does he have?I thought. Was he a soldier in World War One? Did he drink warm English beer in musty old pubs and make love with the village girls? Was he a sailor? Was he disabled one night in an enemy attack and have to be shipped back to the States? I noticed he wore a hearing aid. I wondered if he wore a red poppy on Armistice Day. But most of all, I wondered if the only friends he had in the world were the frisky squirrels that scampered at his feet. I had friends. There had been many times when I couldn't say that I could reach out and grasp someone's hand. I knew people who never let themselves reach out. They offer their hands saying, 'Here I am if you ever need a quick lift up... but don't grasp it too tightly, and don't pull me down with you. l'll know you, but l'll never be obligated to you, and then you can never hurt me. You see, I want the world to think I'm strong, then they won't question me. But you'll never know me and l'll never feel for you and l'll never be hurt.' I thought about it. I wasn't one of these people. I gave myself too quickly. It is a well known fact to me, as well as to those who know me, that after being with a person five minutes, I grow very 'attached to him. My fondest aim in life is to gather people to me. People are the life source of creativity in me. It could never spring to life by itself. People are what keep me going. Friendship is the common denominator in everything I strive for: To please people, to make them laugh when no one else can, to put them at ease in time of trouble, and most of all, to form lasting friendships that can survive. I knew I would always be hurt because I gave too much of myself. I knew I was the type of person that would say, 'Here is my hand: take it if you need help.