Halifax Grammar School - Grammarian Yearbook (Halifax, Nova Scotia Canada)

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wryly) but to the other side, even under her fset lay grass, awakening from a winter of torpor, and even further away, the wild, but serene ocean. Ruthlessly turning her back on the man-made world, she stared coldly into the dis- tance, thinking. Once, she had carelessly whiled away year after year in a small quiet town, absorbed into the easy and simple sweep of pleasure. Everywhere there stood white frame houses, impeccable picket fences, neat vegetable plots; and the old general store filled with young and old, crying for or laughing about trifles. Later, however, the sun having set over this village, she was immersed in the pressures and excitement of the bustling city, where she found herself, day and night, reading and writing voraciously, and taking into her life culture and sophistication. And when she returned to that old village, the apparent calm and superfluity of the old existence had, somehow palled. These years had given her such a store of nervous energy and such an appetite for the novel and the interesting that domesticity was unbearable. Her marriage was by now over, which itself was rather a relief. She had read; she had observed, so she thought, the best of the world; she frequently engaged in intelligent conversation; she could not endure gossip or small talk. She liked to consider herself highly cultivated and educated. Yet, she was no longer satisfied. For some reason, life had come to seem dreary, shal- low, without hope. The weight of this hopelessness was bearing down on her beyond endur- ance. Was she not living a full life? Had she not everything which could make life worth living? For the first time she felt uncertciin of the answer to these questions: she felt her- self to be unprepared for the truth. She had never been so querulous, so irritable, so intolerant as she was now; or perhaps had this always been her real nature, latent but ever-present, and had she only now recognized it? Had all these years been smothered in oblivion? And finally she realized that the only possible conclusion was the one she least wanted to face. No, life as she had been living it was not life at all, but nothing more than a pageant, colourful, perhaps, but empty; and when this pageant was stripped momentarily of its bright, outward trappings, nothing remained. As the world sank into darkness and the stars rushed out, she walked through the field, thoughtfully pressing down the grass with her feet, and meditating this hard fact with all its implications. And when, at last, she returned to the harsh world of her fellow-creat- ures, no, she had no answers. Life, death, truth — the meanings of these words which have eluded mortals since the beginning of time eluded her also. However, a flash of light had hit her; by its illumination, she now sensed that the tangible alone was nothing, as was the intang- ible if it was not comprehended from all angles, but there was something greater and of more value, without which no one had everything and every one had nothing. This, she was sure, had not been suggested by her own reasoning; it must be a product of the depths of the subconscious; for how she should understand it was quite uncertain. What was such a revelation to her? Was she not numbered among the enlightened, those who knew life and what mattered? However, the same sub-conscious voice interjected a note of discord. What had been her goal — to enlighten herself, others, the world, to utilize the re- sources of the world to her own ends or those of others, to save the universe from destruction? This question she never could have answered, for she had never had a goal; meaningful ideals, a philosophy of life, ambitions probably, and aspirations certainly, she had had; but never a goal. And, once again within her silent dark house, she gave herself up to a desperate strain- ing toward reconciliation of idealism and realism, possibility and impossibility. This reconcili- ation could never come about in a few short hours; it was the task of a lifetime. Yet, when she finally collapsed on her bed, in the early hour of the morning, she sensed that to seek to achieve this end was as necessary to her as life itself. . 16

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oetrvj — Second yize Michele Raymond — M3 LINES Lines can go on forever; Lines can go on and on; Follow your line ' til it leads you Up to the gate of the dawn Still your line passes onward, Through the horses that guard the Gate To the Land of Eternal Dawn. Lines can go on for ever; Lines can go on and on. Follow your line ' Till it leads you . . . To the God who radiates Dawn. DISCOVERY Jane DouU— U2 As the light of evening spread through the sky, she stood, looking out into an invisible eastern horizon, yet seeing nothing, neither the ostentatious automobiles, nor the stolid square brick houses, all alike, nor the struggling brown shoots of grass, nor the brightly illuminated picture windows. Nor did she wish to see these things, for they could never give her whatever it was she needed. In exasperation, she wheeled away abruptly from the window, and as if dismissing what she wished no more of, firmly drew the curtain across. The rest of the family, she knew, would be occupied with their usual amusements; the television was loudly blaring out some trite entertainment; she could rest assured that her absence would go unnoticed. She looked about once more, slung an old coat over her should- ers, then slipped unobtrusively out. She threw a glance at the car, complacently waiting in the garage; no, it would not serve her purposes; it was too much an inexorable part of what she must escape. Yet, think- ing better of it, she turned toward the garage, and, in a moment, under her apathetic hand, the vehicle was gliding down the drab street. Over miles of asphalt she drove, until at last she alighted by a deserted field. She could see endless stretches of grey looking highway (an inspired creation of man, she reflected 15

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onora on RECENT ACQUISITION Paul Talbot— U3 Seven-O-Nine heavy wheels time on the big fifty-eight as we kick off another great solid gold weekend with the Doors! In a singls motion, the whirling dervish cut off the mike switch and loaded up a spotmaster for the next jingle. He always did at least two things at a time and never made a noticeable mistake. Radio broadcasting has been his passion for thir- teen years, and he saw no end in sight to his career. Pulse ratings had forty- two thousand listeners turning him on, and the station ' s management was quite pleased with him as they always had been since dragging him away from Denver ' s KLIR back in sixty-six. Bill Webster was America ' s number on3 disc-jockey and he worked for it. Jim Morrison and the Doors on WMCA — Hey boys and girls, you know that clinical research indicates that over sixty per-cent of you thrill seekers are troubled by scummy old acne — and baby that ' s where Pimgo comes in handy Bill had a way with those teen-directed ads, as his voice was frantic enough to demand attention, yet at the same time, mellow enough to be trusted. Last month he had recorded a series for Pssssss Hairspray and his voice was h?ard in every state. He commanded respect from other jocks in the trade, and was a national celebrity whom everyone had heard but no one knew. But the only person Bill had any respect for was S. Hal Woodley. Hal was the Station Manager who started him off in radio thirteen years ago in Back- water, Georgia, spinning Jim Reeves ' s records and reading ads for the Bijou. Bill never quite forgot Hal, although he was slipping further and further back into fogginess. Hal had always told him to be careful with his earnings, and Bill had never squandered it away. He lived simply but adequately in a small apartment and invested most of a hundred thousand a year income which provided him with a tidy sum to fall back on should his mysti- que ever vanish. His only luxury was a professional sound system which kept him occupied at home when he should have been in a tavern. He was always quick to catch on to new releases and once thought of putting out a tipsheet, bu t rejected the idea. Four years had gone by in New York, and he had still not succumbed to the joys of urban living he had dreamed of back in Donaldsville. He didn ' t exactly miss feeding the hogs, but he felt that life went by too quickly, and the rigid pressure of his job had to be contended with. He was deter- mined to keep himself from falling into a rut, for his light, whimsical style was his living. And Bill was not only an adept jock but a top-notch consultant. His recommendations were rarely adhered to but when they were, ratings usually soared. When Bill took a new idea to Station Manager, Peter Urbis, he was suavely dealt with to avoid any ruffling of his feathers. Urbis saw Webster ' s proposals as idiotic and either too old-fashioned or too re- volutionary. After all, with forty thousand listeners, we can ' t take any drastic measures now can we, kid? I don ' t see how you can stand stand hare and tell me we ' ve got a worn-out formula when more kids turn us on every day. But my series of jingles would cut down on wasted time by all these oratorios and needless repetition. After all, Peter, we ' re a radio station, not an opera house. Sure, sure, Billy, I know what you mean. I ' ll give it another thought: now get outta here; I ' ve got work to do you know. And again. Bill left. Last week he wanted more soul on the playlists; the week before, it was too many live ads; before that some promotion ideas, but he had been getting the same treatment for four years now. Bill had an hour to kill before airtime, and the show was all prepared. When he was mad at something or just had nothing else to do, he usually had a coke and read BILLBOARD. Today, a CASHBOX was grabbed and he savagely thumbed through it, pretending to read, but actually just going through the motions. It was soon discarded in favor of some recent 17