Zephyr2010 • Volume 50

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the 50th edition of Zephyr Art & Literary Magazine! Th e staff and I are honored to present to you this year’s magazine. Th ere is one idea that has stayed the same throughout the years: We choose the pieces we love to make the magazine we love!. So please relax, take off your shoes and let the magic that is Zephyr surround you.Here is Zephyr Vol. 50!

With love, Alexandra Khoder

Editor-in-Chief

In the tradition started in 1961, we present you with the creative literary and visual eff orts of the students of Rye High School.In response to the challenges of diffi cult fi nancial times we have trimmed our expenses in ways that don’t diminish the love and respect we have for Zephyr. Th at said, this may be the last issue of Zephyr you will hold in your hands.

Th e following was written by the very fi rst editors of Zephyr :“ Th e opportunity is here off ered for each student to express freely his thoughts and opinions, for certainly free expression is the very essence of scholarship. Whether one write an amorous poem, a critical essay, or paints a fl ower or a picture depicting social ills is of little importance to the Zephyr. What IS important is that the poem be well written, and the painting well drawn; what IS important is that scholarship be the supreme test of the worth of this magazine. Each piece is a creation which begins as an idea of one person, is transformed to the printed page, and thus is communicated to the minds of others.” (Susan Kaslow-Anne Sterling 1961)

We the staff of Zephyr the 2010 students of Rye High School agree that free expression is still “…the very essence of scholarship” We are honored to have been part of this phenomenal tradition.

Enjoy, Zephyr Staff

Cover Mixed Media • Erin McCarty

“Cycle of Existance”Matt OlsonDrawingKelsey Smith

1-2

“Smile”Jessica TremayneDigital PhotographIabel Conte

3-4

“Doodles”Molly Jordan“Winnie”Janina Langmann-Doné

5-6

“Untitled”Dale Neuringer“Anchor”Katrina Gibbs

7-8

“Street Jazz Extravaganza”Dale Neuringer“I Summon You”Jenna Langbaum

9-10

“Esoterica”Dale NeuringerSculptureAlexandra Khoder

11-12

“My Bible”Katrina Gibbs“Stand Still”Jessica Tremayne

13-14

“Breaking My Finger to Take Off This Ring”Katrina Gibbs

Mixed MediaAlexandra Khoder

Digital PhotographKatherine Marchand

Mixed MediaAli Zaslav

DrawingEmily Stone

Table of Contents

“Incubus”Matt OlsonPaintingAleksander Stojković

15-16

“A Mornings Marriage”Dale NeuringerDigital PhotographIsabel Conte“Scream”Jenna Langbaum

17-18

“For a Few Wobbling Moments”Katrina GibbsSculptureAlexandra Khoder

19-20

SculptureGrace Byrne

“Tapestry”Miriam Ward“Untitled”Leo Neuringer

23-24

“Dust”Sarah NissDigital photographJulia Pasqualini

25-26

“Galapagos Adventures United!!”Leo NeuringerDrawingMaki Nakajima

21-22

Digital photographJustin Passaretti

Th e 50th volume of Zephyr Art & Literary Magazine was produced on Dell computers running Windows XP, Adobe InDesign CS3, and Adobe Photoshop CS3. Headlines and display text are set in Century Schoolbook. Body text is Garamond Premier Pro. Rye Printing Inc. Printed 500 copies on 80lb matte stock with a 100lb cover. Zephyr was made possible by the fi nancial support of the Rye City School District and the fabulous individuals who contributed all of their time, art, and eff ort.

Colophon

Table of Contents • Sculptures • Alexandra Khoder

An ideaIs the rippleTh at starts the whirlpoolConsuming all that we worked for in a giant swirl of wind and fi reUntil nothing is left to tell us what happened A fl icker explodes into a struggle for survivalAft er the siege of life is overWe can peak over the stars To look upon a bare canvasReady to be fi lled with our memories Not exactly what I had in mindBut it’s hard to remember muchBlocked by a partially cracked doorwayTh at refuses to budge Pure light sneaks through the cracks of the doorTrying to escape the confi ned spaceTo spread and engulf all it touchesAnd purge the galaxy of darknessUncovering all that was once concealed by shadows Not necessarily sinisterBut unknownDepicting it as a true and whole conceptStarting and ending withAn idea

Cycle of Existence

Poem • Matt Olson

Drawing • Kelsey Smith

Have a great fl ightI am instructed,By a soldier of a small armySuited in tight blue polyesterAnd a lipstick smile

I stare at the seat in front of meWilling a television to appear from the checkered fabricAnd instead pull out homework due too soonKnowing that I will instead spend my time Staring at the white blanket to be thrown beneath me.But hey, now I can say I tried.

When I am released by the heavy silver doorsAnd sent along,I turn around to see the woman from hours before.

She laughs animatedlyBidding farewell to a superiorLips spread wide over her teeth

But it is when they partTh at I see her painted smile stiff en and falterAnd become merely the garish lipstick of a clown

Profusely refusingto ever fall down the welland drown in someone else’s bucketalongside the rats and micewho swim contently with the lifeless currentFor I don't trust a stagnant stream

Poem • Katrina Gibbs

Breaking My

Finger to Take Off This Ring

SmilePoem • Jessic

Tremayne

Digital Photograph • Isabel Conte

Th e whirring radiator and a monotone voice dim my thoughts and an endless swirl, spiraling into a tranquil void, calmly assumes its place in the upper corner where the date once was.

A chalkboard’s screech turns my peace to agitation and an aggres-sive fl ame, made vicious with detail, spews from another corner and consumes the explanation of molecular bonding.

Growing confusion inspires a bubbled question mark, dotted like the teacher’s blouse and lightly shaded with pencil, that hangs precari-ously from the line meant to hold the answer.

A brief moment of ingenuity aroused by sudden comprehension produces a heptagonal prism, an honorable creation notable for its uselessness and unhappily squeezed between paragraphs.

Th e page is soon sentenced to a lonely binder where there is noth-ing left to warm its shaky bones of knowledge except an inky coat of creativity.

DoodlesPoem • Molly Jordan

Mixed Media • Alexandra Khoder

WinnieNon-Fiction • Janina

Lagemann-Doné

“I never ever want to be pregnant” said Winnie during our fi rst conversation. “Why not?” I asked. “Because they can pull a baby out of you and I don’t like that.”“Oh.” I glanced back at the TV as Winnie switched through the channels. We sat on a sofa the color of regurgitated tomato sauce, my teenage butt taking up most of the small loveseat. As Winnie watched a Spanish soap opera, laughing loudly during the make-out sessions between Pablo and Maria, I turned my attention towards her. And so I observed this six-year old girl; her skin was muddy milk, her decent profi le completed by her olive-shaped nose. Winnie turned to me. “Maria is going to have a baby.” She stretched her thumb across the remote. Th e next image on the screen was of a woman, dressed in a costume constructed of solely fi shnet pantyhose. She thrashed her hips at the camera, each hand on a fi shnet-covered breast as she “danced” to Daddy Yankee’s beat. “Daddy Yankee!” screamed Winnie and immediately stood up and imitated fi shnet-woman, her little hands on her fl at chest, her pigtailed head bobbing from side to side. I watched Winnie like this for the three-minute and thirty-eight second duration of the song, until she sat back down next to me on our throw-up colored couch, droplets of sweat on her olive of a nose. Her small thumb switched the channel back to Pablo and Maria.“Oh, Maria,” she said with a sigh. Th en let out a giggle as she adjusted herself on our seat, her little hand, on my adolescent knee.

Looking steadfastly at the loamy groundI bentTucked my cheek into the dirt and whispered,“today, it is my birthday.I wrote my own name amongst the starsIn fast expansive script,And at the end I left a fl ourish,One so bigA deity could rest there.I stomped my own patternInto the islands of lavaAnd if the gods talked amongst themselvesAbout a precocious little girl,I didn’t hear them.I was far too busyKicking up sand mountainsAnd 10 mile puddlesTo carefully mark this birthdayBefore the dirge of midnightCondemned me to night timeFor one year more.

Untitled

AnchorPoem • Kat Gibbs

Restless Mind...Capture Momentslike little unsuspecting fi shiesWho will some day soonWither away in transparent tanks

Trap your tearsIn jars of paintLet the paper soak in your soulAnd never lift that burdened brushBecause you just might fl oat away..

Poem• Dale Neuringer

Digital Photograph • Katherine Marchand

Street Jazz

ExtravaganzaPoem • Dale Neuringer

Th at skippity skipstreet scat for unknowingtoe-jazz.

Heel-toe, heel-toegoes the voluptuous behind in front of me,careful not to stainher heels with beleaguered use.

She’s looking down whenshe should look up,every fool knowsthe cat that fi nds the quarteris never the one looking for it.

Besides,what does one ever fi ndin one’s own cleavage anywaybesides sweat, and the odd coin,purloined, from your fi ngers by your bra.Baby stop looking at yourself and you’ll fi nd

EVERYONE else!Shining beings, not unlike children,pilgrims, if you will, of these streetsthat you strutthey are lookingPerhaps, with you, they can nest, and take root.

Mixed Media •Ali Zaslav

Perhaps it is easy to blame love songs,to blame the chitter chatter of buckled knees soaking in simple lyrics;Spiraling songs of surrender to some unnamely force. I would like to pluck out each chordRearrange it an order less beautiful,Less pure, less tantalizing.So the seams will be seared,And the love song Will slither into Fragmental syllables of symmetrical disaster Perhaps I sink into the eyes of love with undying admiration because of these sliding, slippery words,Or perhaps they search me out,Sirens sounding out for thick despairAnd I am summoned, sleeping soundly on their silver surface Unaware of how far my feet dangle from the ground.

I Summon

YouPoem • Jenna

Langbaum

Man walking down a city street, at 7:30 AM, to get to work. He is a thin, decent looking guy, but he comes off as overwhelmingly average. He has a mean-dering gait, so we know he is biding his time before work. His name is Tim, he is 29, and he is thinking about nothing, and the grey hair he found on his head this morning. He is mildly worried. Th e other char-acter is a homeless man, or so we assume. He is a spry looking older man, between 60 and 70, and he is sitting completely still, with his legs Indian-style and his palms facing up on his knees. Th e sky is that early morning gray color, it is summer, and they are on 28th st, NYC.*enter Tim, absentmindedly walking by homes guy*HG- *eyes closed* Today is going to be diff erent for you. *traces a circle on the sidewalk with his fi ngers* You are special today.TIM- *stops walking* excuse me?HG- You heard me. If the universe trembles at it’s core for just a moment, does anyone hear it? *crack one eye open to look bemusedly at Tim. We get the sense that he might be nonsensical, but not insane.)TIM- *puts hands to forehead and rubs, like he is stressed) I don’t know. Does the universe do that?HG- did you hear it happen? *opens both eyes, then looks all around* If you heard it, it happened. Your personal real-ity is the truth of every moment. You sir, determine, if only for a second, everything we know we don’t know slipped up and stopped moving. *closes eyes again and straightens posture*TIM- *starts pacing* Me? It’s all on me? Th at’s a heavy bur-den. I have… I have papers to sign, I have dogs to feed. I have blocks to go here.HG- Tim, it’s every you, every her, him, me and it. It is a constant battle between each person, and what they see fi t to exist. I, I imagine a rotting banana peel on this sidewalk, but you do not, so we are at odds. Who is more sure of the presence, or lack thereof, of someone’s detritus? We see a triptych of views of this scene. HG’s face, serene and weathered, Tim’s face, worried and unfocused, and in the middle panel we see sidewalk, with a banana peel blinking in and out of sight rapidly for 4 seconds. Th en it disappears, at the same exact moment HG’s eyes open and focus on where Tim is standing in relation to him, and Tim refocuses. *return to previous scene*TIM- what is your name?

EsotericaPlay • Dale Neuringer Sculpture • Alexandra Khoder

HG- You didn’t even ask me why today was diff erent, why you are special today. *inspects his fi ngernails* How unusual.TIM- *exasperated* I just assumed you knew something I didn’t. I walk by here everyday, past this spot every single day, and here you are. You never move. So I fi gured we had a rapport somehow, a tacit accep-tance of each other’s oblivious presence. Today is special? Why? Because I’m wearing new shoes today? Or that I shaved? Or is it because I have never wanted to not go to work so badly, and I’m depressed about the shape my life has taken, this shitty, fatty, amorphous shape of work and travel and work and frozen dinners. What is it exactly about today that is so goddam f**king special, might I ask?HG- *speaks slowly, still looking at fi ngernails* My name is nothing. My name is Nameless. In telling you my name, I present you with an opportunity to defi ne me further. *smiles beatifi cally up at Tim* You haven’t earned that yet. In knowing your name, I have already put you in a box and stored you away.

*nods sadly* Such is the way of it.TIM- I…I don’t believe I told you my name.HG- No, you didn’t, which means I took it from you. I sup-pose that’s unfair. *looks up at Tim and scrutinizes him* You can take it back if you want. Set yourself free from the bond-age my awareness of your name has created. Take fl ightTIM- *sits down dazedly on a nearby garbage can* But, but won’t you still know my name? If we use your circular logic here, don’t you still have me by the scruff of my name? I should go to work you know, I should go make money and retain my status as a functioning member of society, but sometimes, I admire you. It’s warm today, and I’d like nothing more than to take out a mat and sit in stillness all day. *looks around determinedly* I would LIKE to sit next to this mildly stinking garbage can and just think about the universe.HG- It’s too bad you can’t then. A shame really.TIM- who says I can’t? Who made that rule?HG-*speaks soft ly* only you. You’re the only one who made it. *smiles gently, then looks up at the sky and lets the sun warm his face* It’s really a beautiful day you know. Really just… something else.TIM-*sadly* It is beautiful. Utterly, sadly, frighteningly beautiful. I.. I have to go. Th ank you, for nothing, or some-thing, or just making today a little diff erent I guess. Tim turns to leave and has walked about 5 steps, when the Homeless Guy appears by his side. He smiles

kindly and gives Tim a card, nothing else. It’s a business card, white with plain black font, and on the front is written “the things we know to be true are nothing more than visions” and a telephone number. Th e back is blank, with a tribal looking curlique in the center of it. Tim pockets it thoughtfully, and continues walking. Pan to a quick shot of HG. He is back on his mat as if he never moved. He is looking intently aft er Tim, who has not gone far.HG- Hey Tim?*Tim turns*HG- *smiles and puts his hand over his chest* I still know your name. END SCENE 1

Scream peaceWhen we grovel at Buddha’s feet.Th e world is too crowdedFor salvation;Too chaoticFor enlightenment

Follow some distorted eight-fold pathBut beware the mines,For this great Bodhi treeIs no shelter from bombs…

Follow these leadersWho cry “in the name of ” Deus?Pillage your children,Plunder your culture,And steal your eyesAll to wander in darkness,Down like lemmings,Deep into the pits of their hellish confl agration

Sitting close to the road,He held a cigarette close to his mouth with one handTh e other dangled off his knee.A few greased hairsSurrounded his scalpLike paperclips placed on a swollen dome of water.I could look only in passingAs I was on my way, in motion, as alwaysBut he? From nowhere to somewhere, maybeOr something to no one.

My BiblePoem • Katrina Gibbs

Stand Still

Poem • Jessica Tremayne

Drawing •Emily Stone

IncubusPoem • Matt Olson

Painting •Aleksander Stojković

Looking out over the plainsTrudge through the muck and the mireOnly to come upon another fi eldEternal and profoundTry to escape the nightmarish wastelandCreatures concealed by my shadows breathEmbodying all my fearsCornered by my thoughtsHelpless As they mangle my petrifi ed body My face contorts and looks as if about to unleash a howl of terror No sound escapes my gaping mouth Nothing can liberate me from myself Delve deeper into the affl iction spawned from my trepidationSavage winds rupture my body as I envision the sea swallowing my shipGroaning and cracking under the pressure Until the fi nal beam breaksBursting into billions of gleaming daggers that rive and ravage my skinGouging out my guts Th e scream fi nally breaks free from its cage of fl esh and muscleMaking it appear that I have awokenFrom my hellish sleepNot completely consciousBut in some sort of paralyzed tranceNo use in trying to wake meEndure my agony Stupefi edBut unable to recollect the experienceLying alert dreading the dark slumberUntil my eyes slam shutGlued together by the weight of my exhaustionDragging me back into the darkest crevice of my mind

Tangled in the starry cautiousnessof the morning’s future embraceWe rushed to the altarOf breaking dawn,and the inky silence of trees.We mumbled our “I do’s”and Mother Nature’s gnarled visageGave a dirty little winkAs we ran our fi ngers over barkIn awe and sensuous abandon

She looked on as we gave ourselvesTo the fl ushing scarlet of fi rst light,As we surrendered ourselves to thePurple edging, the eyelinerof the abating night sky.She approved, because she whistledLike a thousand crickets sighing,And a gentle zephyr took us,By the hands and by the knees,to lead us toward the shadowed moon.

A Morning’s MarriagePoem • Dale Neuringer

Digital Photograph •Iabel Conte

Beside the rough currents of my insidesLay the crinkled notes and vows of you,my sister’s orange sneakers she purposely lost, my tangles; my poems that have fl uttered about and settled for good. Beneath my shell of crisp eyes and pink cheeks,Lie globby wells of mud and water,the bricks of rust that have escaped my ramshackle roof,the map I used to arrive here. Above my crooked lungs, Lies a heart zipped shut; silver zigzags pulsing up and about. the crimson disaster of my feelings,a symphony on standby about to fully devour its audience. In the open spaces of my throat,Lie foggy drops of songs I have forgotten,a garden of garbage bags festering out of my vocal chords, andbutterfl ies shooting up my spine waiting for their turn to scream.

ScreamPoem • Jenna

LangbaumSculptue •

Grace Byrne

Some things you crave and you don’t know whyLike chicken and chocolate,Salty air of the ocean,Th e last hint of your ex-lover’s perfume that still clings to your pillowLike you clutch to naive, pathetic hope

Pick your poison, your happy little viceYour small, selfi sh fi x

I choose the bumpy turbulence of an airplane rideFor it makes my heart skip a beatbut Not like the butterfl ies of frantic loveNot like bike pedals slipping out from underneath your feetIt quickens my mindTh is bumpy wind outside our claustrophobic tin can

Violet sky outside my window seat, frown on my stranger’s face, rigid line of a mountainous region a thousand-plus feet belowmy exposed toes.I question our recycled air and our extra leg room.

And I, for a few wobbling moments,hope and prayWith the same hope as the forgotten ex-loverTh at each person on this wwinged sheet metal craft Shares the same pulseShares the same pumping adrenaline

Yet, as I look around meReality seeps in like octopus inkAs my neighbor’s mouth curls upside downStaring blankly at a lost television signal

At least an addiction of mine is fulfi lledAs my heart and brain excitedly pulse as oneEvery thought brushing death, tickling life, chuckling at waste

Down, shake, down, shake

I feel lighter with each boulder in the skyI feel closer to myself with each gale force thudSigh, smooth, release

Th e turbulence fades into smooth landingAnd I am unglued.Th e baby behind me cries

For a Few

Wobbling MomentsPoem • Katrina Gibbs

Sculpture •Alexandra Khoder

Drawing • Maki Nakajima

Sometimes when I sit in Spanish, I like to close my eyes and navigate.I think myself to an island off in the middle of the Atlantic; the Gala-pagos.And I sit with my plush textured penguin shaped paragons of an im-mature imagination.

We sit together and we discuss what we are doing here.I’m spilling my guts about living under the unbearable pressures of my understanding incapable mother,And they are actually eating the guts of fi sh on an adjacent rock, and with each bite, they seem to digest what I’m saying. I feel better without bile stinging my throat, and they feel better when they aren’t hungry. Mrs. Maika would say it is a mutualistic relationship. I just think it’s called friendship.

My favorite penguin comes up to me, and we sit together on a rock in saturating silence. His name always seems to escape me. My eyes are bark brown, his sea green. Neither of us want to talk, but we watch as the sunset tie dies the skies nearby, and we wait. We are waiting to be yanked back to real life.

Suddenly, the sun fl ares red. Th e penguins are in chaos. Th ey bite at my skin, angry that my intruding life is distorting their imaginary one. As I am ripped back into Spanish class, prematurely, in that god-damn mirror room, my heartbeat slows to a lazily painful 10 beats per minute. I look at my paper.I look at my teacher.I look at myself in the mirror.

I am as gray as slate, and my body aches.I watch my class in the refl ection until i look back, at the boy with that elusive name I cannot recall. He’s looking in the mirror too.We share eye contact, and his face is slate gray. My eyes are bark brown, his sea green.Th e bell rings and the mirrors shatter. My face is slammed against something. Hard.

I open my eyes, and I’m lying on the ground of the mirror room. Feet shuffl e past, and my teacher calls me to the front of the room. Something about my recent narcolepsy spurring from the beginning of the subjunctive tense.

She is going to call my mom.

GalapagosAdventurers UNITE!!

Fiction • Leo Neuringer

Depression and I became but one.It became routine:I danced in my footsteps.Gave into my murmurs of yesterday,Suff ocated in silks and patterns, Drowned in my puddle of pity and needles forgotten,And decided that it was comfortingTo weave in my weaknesses,To drown in this tapestry, To see how much this spindle could take,Until I let it burst.

TapestryPoem • Miriam Ward

Digitaln Photograph • Justin Passaretti

3:04 pm. I walk into the kitchen.Something is out of place;Where? I catch a glint of color in the corner of my eye,And like an owl to a mouse, I zone in on the prey. I suspiciously make my way over to the counter, And see a cup of black coff ee, and a post it.Dad’s in France.His coff ee has been sitting here staining an “I *heart* dad” mug, since he left at 4:36 am. Ten hours and twenty eight minutes Aft er his departure I am informed that he is no longer on my continent. I stare blankly at this jaundiced cube of paper, with a folded corner, and a full day of wither on it,Which now bears a resemblance to old tofu,And ask myself why he doesn’t bother to tell me when he is leaving. If only this was tofu. Th en I could curry it, or put it in soup, and digest it in pleasant obeisance,But I don’t want to internalize this.Th e note stares me down, With its wingman emitting the odor of burnt caff eine. Th is is my inheritance.

UntitledPoem • Leo Neuringer

Little Ant I have stepped on,will you be missed?Is there a family at home,expecting your kiss?Will your funeral be fi lled,each tiny pew packed,with tears, memories,and your honor in tact?May I attend the proceedings,thougth be it ironic?To ease your family’s painI’d like to share a certain tonic:One day I will returnto the same ground as you.No better, relentingto a cycle always true.Th e day will soon comewhen I too am crushed.We’ll meet again, decomposing,as equals, as dust.

DustPoem • Sarah Niss

Digital Photo • Julia Pasqualini

Editorial StaffEditor-in-Chief

Layout EditorsNiki GollanJerry Nolan

Alexandra Khoder

Secretary

Senior Literary Editor

Junior Literary Editor

Treasurer

Literary Staff

Dale Neuringer

Miriam Ward

Sarah Niss

Katrina Gibbs

Stephanie AlimenaSpencer Black

Elizabeth BurnsGracie Byrne

Robert CoordsRosario Gallagher

Katrina GibbsNiki Gollan

Sophie HessekielMiles HirsonMolly Jordan

Alexandra KhoderSarah Krikorian

Jenna Langbaum

Art Staff

Clay MacGuireLeo NeuringerSarah NissJerry NolanMatt OlsonMisako OnoMeggie RixEleanor SmithKelsey SmithNathaniel SmithNat SteinJessi TremayneMiriam WardGwendolyn Wiegold

Gracie ByrneCatherine Hedge

Misako OnoJulia Pasqualini

Jessica RothEllie Tremayne

Bonnie Avery

Leo NeuringerGwendolyn WeigoldAlexandra KhoderRyan CavataroSarah KrikorianSarah JordanDaniel Acevedo

Faculty Advisor

Catherine Telfer