Hillcrest High School - Prospectus Yearbook (Jamaica, NY)

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Musical Sequence Andrea R. Blumenfeld Night. Surrounded by the hushed stillness of black velvet hours. Easy tears slide, cascading gracefully through my outstretched hands. Lead eye lid tired, weakly, I submit. Instantly overcome by the pulsating blood rush oftheturbulant spirit deeply hidden within. A symphony of emotions, the chaotic frenzy of unharmonious grappling sounds as they Rage, rage on, and on. Blatant brass blares of convulsive anger, screech against the pumping, pounding drums of fear, harsh horns of guilt, subtle yet powerfull, slither slide, interweaving within the musical tapestry as gentle guitars, sweet string saviors sing mighty melodies of love yielding mellow miles of logic paralleled by fearless compassion. This symphony, this gathering of virgin emotion, the purest forms oflife, grandly conducted by a running rainbow figure vaguely familar to my frail thoughts, as they grope, dreamlike, through the musical maze. The figure turns as I peer, straining to see, while an uneasy yet unformed question gnawsthrough my daze. For an unmeasurable moment, I glimpse the leader, recognizing me. Thetruth of myself. Quickly, I reach out, fumbling, but she turns again, away out of my grasp. A glaring flash of fire blazes my eyes, Sun smashes everywhere. Tearing me away. Silencing the symphony, smothering its memory, encapsulating it in the vast distances of my mind. Morning. il, l I 'Z illii INAJIJ PIM' ig... 1 'il' C ,iii ' aiill ka' I I X X , ,Hi . N - It l it wus? G' , v. X J K Mil. ' il f 1 ' I il Zi lm !! 5535 v vM'I.r'.. Q ilfiiyli' i X . FA xi hh '- Y . S f .4 'tt I it X ff f gf I Lvl.. 'H '14-.1 2, 1 ll X ' 1 f V 1 1 I l l l fill ' ll ,gig if liy ix Wi llll' , lx N1 Nts ff kts f tyt- Zf lllll' z iff W NAA? e9

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After the fight I didn't feel bad. Usually when I fought with my son I would walk away feeling downright guilty, but not this time. Who the hell did he think he was? Here we were in the middle of an important war and that stu- pid boy wanted to leave home and fight. Normally I'd be proud to have my son fight, being a soldier myself, but when he told me it was for the opposite side, well that was the last straw. - Angela Bianculli Go ahead, I had told him, Go and become a Yankee, just don't call yourself my son Of Course his mother was out there That woman has a soft heart, too soft I knocked some sense into him. When handle him good, but now that he's grew him up, he forgot that he him go and fight against his him right if he got shot, him. It's getting warmer now the Yanks around in the right now. camped a house as a around do my Art Work By Torben Karlsen younger I was a carrying water But every looks so much every two crys and writes home. But something in far as I'm con- 't he know he's Oh, my God! Here they come! The shots are ringing out like fire crackers. The battle has begun. All I can in this darkness is men falling all around me. I can feel Elsie tugging on my arm shouting something about a young man wounded in the front yard. Can't she see I'm busy. Women can be so stupid at times. Leave me alone, I'm busy shooting. What the hell is going on? Who's that crying? Where's Elsie? The door is open, I hope she ain't hurt. There she is kneeling on the ground outside. Who's that she's holding? Oh, my God its our son! With tears in her eyes she looks up at me. Without her speaking a single word, I know that my son, has finally decided he wants to come home.

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