Notes from the Underground: Fall 2018 - I Am Entirely Up to Me: Notes from the Underground: Maclay Upper School's Journal of Creative Writing, #5

Editorial Staff

Editor-in-Chief: Anna Kate Daunt

Assistant Editor-in-Chief: Isabel Hutchinson

Art Editor: Helen Bradshaw

Assistant Art Editor: Lucy Smith

Fiction Editor : Holden Crumpler

Assistant Fiction Editor: Holly Sims

Nonfiction Editor: Jainey Coates

Assistant Nonfiction Editor: Lexi O’Rourke

Poetry Editor: Emily Roden

Assistant Poetry Editor: Spencer Sundberg

Copy Editor: Simon Corpuz

Copy Editor: Lilly Simons

Copy Editor: Haley Mainwaring

Submissions Attendant: Will Daughton

Submissions Attendant: Abbey Stejskal

Front cover art: Lauren Fleischer, Up to Me

Back cover art: Jackson Hugill, Underbelly

On Our Title

We take the title of this journal from a novella of the same name by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. The novella is an existentialist piece, written before Dostoyevsky’s greatest works and before Existentialism had really taken root in literature. The unnamed narrator is frequently named an anti-hero and is described by the note on the back of the Dover edition as a profoundly alienated individual in whose brooding self-analysis there is a search for the true and the good in a world of relative values and few absolutes. The novella opens with the words I am a sick man. This is not to say that Dostoyevsky’s novella are about art and darkness but rather that this novella and art confront darkness. The powers that be don’t like this, but art endures and fights on.

A Note from the Editor

I was standing in the front of the classroom with a dry erase marker in my hand and a loose agenda in my head. The other editors were scattered around the room frantically arguing. In an attempt to calm everyone down, I was loudly shouting over everyone and Dr. Beaven was sitting in the corner of the room whispering shhhhhhhh. This was our first meeting for Notes from the Underground this year. Arguably, none of us had any idea what we were doing. After the meeting, I remember sitting at home in my room, thinking of all that had transpired. I realized how much we needed to do in order to make this journal a reality.

With all the chaos surrounding it, many anticipated that this would be a rough year for Notes from the Underground. Many were (understandably) reticent of our ability to produce this edition of the literary journal.

Yet here we are. We overcame the obstacles. We obtained the goals we set for ourselves.

However, this journey was far from easy. For instance, last night I was up well past midnight, trying to figure out how to order the numerous submissions we received. To assist my visual mind, I wrote the name, author, and major themes of each submission on a notecard. As I was looming over the display of notecards, arranged as if I were playing a giant game of memory, I looked for underlying themes and motifs connecting each piece. After a period of restlessness, I realized that the pieces contained an underlying theme of defeat. In the past, the literary journal has never shied away from difficult topics. This year in particular, though, many of the submissions confront substantial, yet imperative issues. Although reading these works evokes my own pain, the fact that each contributor not only turned to art as a means of catharsis but also possessed the courage to share it with the world deeply inspired me.

Like each contributor, I turn to art in times of difficulty, and my life is certainly not short of difficulties. As a student and artist, I understand not only the difficulty of the struggle, but also the mercilessness of the system we are trapped in.

After each hardship I’ve faced, I’ve had to return to the place that offered me the least amount of comfort and solace: school. As if the struggles I face on a daily basis are not enough, I walk into a system where I am defined based on my ability to reach a certain standard of perfection, whether that is through a grade, a standardized test score, or an officer position. Rarely do I ever make decisions out of desire; instead, I am forced to create within the confines of the system, to complete my daily outlined tasks to move out to some bigger and brighter future that will somehow be better and will for once, truly fulfill me.

Yet, I know that my search for something truly fulfilling in this lifetime will lead me nowhere. Although this realization is important, it often feels burdensome. However, consciousness is the only way to be free. As we push the boulder up the hill, we must be aware of the meaninglessness of our everyday struggles.

Although this seems depressing, it provides me hope that Sisyphus and other individuals who possessed this knowledge continued to endure. In order to experience this resilience, they had to have been happy. What gave them happiness despite their daily struggles? What was able to give them hope? Sisyphus awaited his daily descent. Even though there is nothing enthralling about this short journey, he was able to rejoice in his temporary relief.

Out of the many things in my life that give me hope, the journal that you hold in your hands is one of them. The power to write, to destroy barriers, to question reality, and to reach whatever conclusion that needs to be reached – that is power, that is hope. This is our descent. This is why we put so much effort into creating this masterpiece. This is why we put pen to paper. This is why we allow ourselves to feel joy and pain and share it with others. Although this may be a temporary escape (all worlds and words fade), I am grateful for this relief.

To the submitters, thank you. As I read the plethora of submissions and grappled with the pain that emerged due to their relevance, I realized the hopefulness in my sorrow. There are others questioning why they push the rock up the hill every day. There are others experiencing loss. There are others undergoing heartbreak. There are others suffering from their personal limitations, mental illnesses, and day to day hardships. Yet, you continue to persevere despite your doubts. You remind me that our individual struggles may appear vastly different on the surface, but we are all united under a common fate. Despite this acknowledgment of futility, we continue to persist, for moments such as this reveal the true beauty of living.

Self Portrait Part II

Helen Bradshaw

Ghost Mother, Book 3, Section 7

By Nahal Suzanne Jamir

after H.D.’s Helen in Egypt

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He could name The Mother,

but the other, he could not name;

she was a melted candle, a dried-up piece of meat, a raisin in the

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Not Eve, not Snake, but

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a hidden child, hidden in a closet (a wardrobe?) or behind an oak tree, or inside of a tree, a tree of

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an intimate sorrow, a secret kept

even from her—her own mother who was her own self, the innermost.

Only The Mother could be named,

and the other, she was a wailing duck in a pond by a cemetery near a father’s gravestone—in any case, a cause of shame

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to sisters.

It was not that she was beautiful/exotic

from a land in the middle of many mountains. True, she stood on the mountains,

brave and then weak—falling sometimes.... as the men warred on and killed themselves;

It was not that she was beautiful/exotic

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(Sometimes flying in the hot blue above the mountains...)

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There were other mothers, in spite of The Other,

as beautiful/different, as young—as brown, as old.

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It was not that she was different, from a land

in the middle of many mountains,

a desert filled with hollow men and rats and strange (chanting) songs,

a desert she had to leave....

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But I stared and stared across the brown sand and the brown skin

and the cacti and the shattered glass

and the smoldering hatred of her (some my own)

until my/her/his/our eyes cleared, the fog in them cleared—

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(her foggy eyes exotic and beautiful, but cannot see....

mine not so and still cannot see)

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and the naming of things ended and the mountain sank

and the two rivers met and the two lovers kissed

and the secret of Mother ended

and the lights were so far away (candles signifying HOME and a Southern woman’s

cross-stitched pillow...not my mother....not Southern)

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[the twitching, the fastness/slowness that feels like a dirty flame dancing, the feet dancing like, like a bird, like a prayer-bird strung up, like a prayer that feels like a bird, or like the cry of children playing....the children are playing.....what are they saying? what are they?—happy? Please—]

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and the two—

Broken Picture Frames

By Lilly Simons

Sometimes I direct my gaze upon the broken picture frames

That capture the essence of light

That used to be.

I center my eyes upon the shard of glass

That splits between my beaming mother and father.

The busted frame that masks the glee

of a young boy that used to be my brother.

The faded image that encompasses the life that

I used to have.

Maybe we were on vacation?

How could we be so happy? But it doesn’t matter.

It’s sliced by a dagger, cut with a sense of darkness that I can’t explain,

It’s shattered by a hatred that I can’t grasp,

But then I realize that I am just looking at a simple, inanimate,

busted picture frame.

A broken picture frame. And it is exactly that,

Broken

Ground Zero

by Rachael Stockel

Happiness. It’s the little things in life that make me happy, like finding the partner of a sock that’s been lonely for months or having my favorite song come on Spotify when it’s raining. When you’ve experienced so much loss, it’s the little things that get you through.

Obsession. I replay moments from my past obsessively. How could I have done that better? Said that more eloquently? Gotten a better grade? Sometimes, I blame you for it. Honestly, I blame you for a lot of things. My anxiety, for instance. My OCD. You think I got like this on my own? No. You made this. You made me doubt myself until I physically couldn’t do anything else.

Anger. Is it spite? Probably. I probably want to show you that I don’t need you. I’m fine on my own. Is that my fault? No. You made this choice.

Survival. Instead of confronting my issues and anxieties and angers and insecurities, I push everything behind me. I keep adding more and more things for me to do. I can’t breathe when I have time to think. I get angry. I get overwhelmed. I can’t relax. Being busy is my distraction, my disguise.

Acceptance. Frankly, there’s no nice way to say it. You ruined me. I will always be scared. Scared to stop. Scared to let loose. Scared to screw up. Scared to disappoint. Scared to live.

Sadness. I see them everywhere. I see them everywhere, and yet, where are you? Was I not good enough? Am I not what you wanted? How could someone do this to someone else? I don’t understand.

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Reality. I fake a smile. I go on.

The One Where Two Mirrors Reflect Each Other

By Jainey Coates

You aren’t supposed to talk to yourself in the mirror. Who does that?

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Somebody punch me in the face. Please.

Just spread me out all over the floor. I want to be on the floor.

It’s solid there. And cool.

And jazz plays but only the snails can hear it. They slime-dance like this<><><><><>

Who do I think I am?

Don’t I know I have everything?

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Everything.

I can feel it if I really try.

It’s there.

You aren’t supposed to be able to tickle your own skin. Something about reflexes.

I don’t know why.

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I like other people touching me. It’s like I’m really here.

I guess I’ll just have to take my shoes and rip them off my feet by myself

I’ll just have to stand on them. It isn’t that hard.

Maybe that’s the problem.

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Sometimes the grass tickles between my toes and Sometimes I just crush it into the bedrock

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(And sometimes it just tickles too much, and I have to call it a day and put my feet back in their shoes. Was I cursed with über sensitive soles? That’s just another form of flattery)

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Does my existence make me the villain of the grassy knoll?

I can’t help but take up space. Trust me, I didn’t choose this.

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What kind of person talks to herself in the mirror?

Trifecta

Lucy Smith

Breaking Free

by Jordan Jones

Above the noise

Under the darkness

Past the trauma

Away from the chaos

Underneath the problem

Beyond the fixable

Within a broken soul

Despite the heart working

Without the doctors

Without the disease

Under lies a girl waiting to be freed

A Story Of Becoming

By Spencer Sundberg

I was fifteen and sitting in a hospital when I finally realized how lucky I was. Before this specific visit to the hospital, my rare blood disorder, pyruvate kinase deficiency (PKD), was something that embarrassed me. In layman’s terms, PKD causes my red blood cells to prematurely break down. My low red blood cell count causes anemia, jaundice, enlargement of spleen, and more. With a mild case like mine, I had not yet required blood transfusions or any surgeries. Even so, my younger self never thought about this. What I thought about was how the jaundice made me look different from everyone else. I thought about how I had to drive to doctors just for them to explain what I already knew, or thought I knew. Quite frankly, before this visit to the hospital, never once had I considered myself lucky.

After driving two hours to my pediatric hematologist in Jacksonville, Florida, I was tired and unamused. My mom was sitting with me in the waiting room when I read the sign Hematology and Oncology Floor. The last time I was at this hospital, I was thirteen and surely unaware that oncology meant the study of cancer. As soon as I read the sign, I looked around and saw a basket of yarn wigs to choose from. A small girl then came up to me wearing a wig. She asked if I wanted to try it on. It was in that moment that I realized how ignorant I had been all this time. This young girl was in the early stages of leukemia, and there I was complaining about having to drive to Jacksonville every couple of years for a doctor appointment. I had always known that other people had more serious afflictions than PKD, but it took the girl standing in front of me to truly recognize life as a lottery that I just happen to be luckier