IronyMay 2022 Volume 10 // Issue 2 |
Contents
26 Works / 15 Contributors
Saira Ahmed, Anna Dobbelaere, Sarah Ducheneaut, Harry Guan, Michal Kadar, Keira Lane, David Lin, Lucia Liu, Ava Maghsoodlou, Andrew Park, Seoyoung Hwang, Ryan Fu, Ruba Thekkath, Tiffany Yu, Karen Zhang
Saira Ahmed, Anna Dobbelaere, Sarah Ducheneaut, Harry Guan, Michal Kadar, Keira Lane, David Lin, Lucia Liu, Ava Maghsoodlou, Andrew Park, Seoyoung Hwang, Ryan Fu, Ruba Thekkath, Tiffany Yu, Karen Zhang
Written
"Kafkaesque" by Andrew Park
At 4:30 in the morning I finished grading a practice exam. I did not pass. I turned off the lights and walked to the bathroom in the dark. I used too much mint toothpaste to brush the taste of coffee microwaved with cocoa powder out of my mouth.
I went back to my room with a book, Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. I’d had it for a month and already renewed it once. I was looking forward to reading it. I hunched over my pillow. My knees dug into my spine. My spine dug into my neck. My neck dug into my shoulders. My shoulder ground my elbows into my hard mattress. I pushed my chin into my pillow to ignore the bleeding. I started from page 43, which is where I had stopped reading.
Oshima says that Kafka is running from something but searching for something. How ironic is that? To be running from something but searching for something. That’s what I was doing, too. Running from my practice exam score and my life and whatnot. I didn’t know what I was searching for. But at least I have one up on Kafka. Not the “Hunger Artist” one.
Kafka’s father is killed by Nakata, and Oshima says that Kafka’s life is ironic. Fate controls man, and man is driven into tragedy by his virtues. Hopeless, but the entrance to hope.
At 7:03 I felt a line on my hand and noticed a scab that didn’t exist there before. Wonderful. I’m not sure if it exists even now.
I finish at 8:09 and 27 seconds. My friend is coming to study in one hour, 50 minutes, and 43 seconds. Or more likely, quite a bit past that. She’s not good in the mornings.
Kafka is running away. He doesn’t know what he’s running away from. Maybe he knows what he is trying to get to. Maybe he’s trying to fulfill his Oedipus. But fate controls man, and Kafka is a boy. I think it’s ironic. He didn’t know what he was running from or what he was running towards. But he knew what he had to leave behind, and he knew the prophecy he had to fulfill. Of course, I’m using ironic in a liberal sense here. And the word “had” is really not right. But you get the idea. He knew things and he didn’t know things and in the end he’s just let things happen to him and he’s made things happen.
Nakata doesn’t know how to read or write, but he knows that he likes eel. He can talk to cats, but not anymore. He can talk to stones, but now he isn’t alive. Dead people can’t talk, to cats or stones or other people. He doesn’t know anything either, but he knows what’s important. He knows where to find cats, and he knows that doors that are opened must be closed, and that you must sleep when you are tired and you will wake up when you are done with sleeping. I think he’s ironic too. Again, bear with my loose use of the word. He lacks memory and does not exist in the past or present. At the same time, he is driven by the need to fulfill the future, even if he doesn’t know it.
Kafka is an adult, but he is fifteen years old and he stays fifteen years old and when he grows up he has learned nothing. Nakata has a child’s reasoning, but he is sixty years old and he knows the important things. Oshima is a homosexual and he is a male but he is female. Hoshino is in his mid-twenties and he has never cared about anything but he cares about his grandfather and closing entrances and reporting a corpse to the police. How very ironic.
Anyways, I don’t think the book is about irony. I think it’s about knowing things and not knowing things. I think it’s about having memories but also lacking memories. I think it’s about trying to be the things that you aren’t, and not being the things that you are. I think it’s about growing up but staying the same. I think and I feel but I don’t feel the right things and I don’t think the good things. Whatever.
Maybe all of this is ironic to you. To me, I think I am very witty and ironic. I feel that I am going to look up the definition of irony and reteach myself what it means. I don’t know that it has any meaning to me anymore. But isn’t it ironic, to write about irony about a book that is and isn’t about irony, when I don’t feel or know what irony is?
I wrote this about the person I am in love with. Or the concept I am in love with. What’s the difference between a concept and a person anyways? A person exists in my thoughts. A concept pays taxes. But I’m rambling now. Oh. Spoiler alert. Maybe I’ll go back and censor all the names, so you don’t know what I’m talking about. Or maybe I will go to sleep and you will read all the names and the book has been spoiled for you, unless you lack memory or you don’t care about knowing these silly ramblings of a sixteen year old. My eyes are burnt but I don’t have dark circles and my wrist hurts and my back aches and there is a grey sky outside and cold air on my thighs.
Well. Time to take another practice test. If I hurry, I’ll finish before my friend rings my doorbell.
I went back to my room with a book, Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. I’d had it for a month and already renewed it once. I was looking forward to reading it. I hunched over my pillow. My knees dug into my spine. My spine dug into my neck. My neck dug into my shoulders. My shoulder ground my elbows into my hard mattress. I pushed my chin into my pillow to ignore the bleeding. I started from page 43, which is where I had stopped reading.
Oshima says that Kafka is running from something but searching for something. How ironic is that? To be running from something but searching for something. That’s what I was doing, too. Running from my practice exam score and my life and whatnot. I didn’t know what I was searching for. But at least I have one up on Kafka. Not the “Hunger Artist” one.
Kafka’s father is killed by Nakata, and Oshima says that Kafka’s life is ironic. Fate controls man, and man is driven into tragedy by his virtues. Hopeless, but the entrance to hope.
At 7:03 I felt a line on my hand and noticed a scab that didn’t exist there before. Wonderful. I’m not sure if it exists even now.
I finish at 8:09 and 27 seconds. My friend is coming to study in one hour, 50 minutes, and 43 seconds. Or more likely, quite a bit past that. She’s not good in the mornings.
Kafka is running away. He doesn’t know what he’s running away from. Maybe he knows what he is trying to get to. Maybe he’s trying to fulfill his Oedipus. But fate controls man, and Kafka is a boy. I think it’s ironic. He didn’t know what he was running from or what he was running towards. But he knew what he had to leave behind, and he knew the prophecy he had to fulfill. Of course, I’m using ironic in a liberal sense here. And the word “had” is really not right. But you get the idea. He knew things and he didn’t know things and in the end he’s just let things happen to him and he’s made things happen.
Nakata doesn’t know how to read or write, but he knows that he likes eel. He can talk to cats, but not anymore. He can talk to stones, but now he isn’t alive. Dead people can’t talk, to cats or stones or other people. He doesn’t know anything either, but he knows what’s important. He knows where to find cats, and he knows that doors that are opened must be closed, and that you must sleep when you are tired and you will wake up when you are done with sleeping. I think he’s ironic too. Again, bear with my loose use of the word. He lacks memory and does not exist in the past or present. At the same time, he is driven by the need to fulfill the future, even if he doesn’t know it.
Kafka is an adult, but he is fifteen years old and he stays fifteen years old and when he grows up he has learned nothing. Nakata has a child’s reasoning, but he is sixty years old and he knows the important things. Oshima is a homosexual and he is a male but he is female. Hoshino is in his mid-twenties and he has never cared about anything but he cares about his grandfather and closing entrances and reporting a corpse to the police. How very ironic.
Anyways, I don’t think the book is about irony. I think it’s about knowing things and not knowing things. I think it’s about having memories but also lacking memories. I think it’s about trying to be the things that you aren’t, and not being the things that you are. I think it’s about growing up but staying the same. I think and I feel but I don’t feel the right things and I don’t think the good things. Whatever.
Maybe all of this is ironic to you. To me, I think I am very witty and ironic. I feel that I am going to look up the definition of irony and reteach myself what it means. I don’t know that it has any meaning to me anymore. But isn’t it ironic, to write about irony about a book that is and isn’t about irony, when I don’t feel or know what irony is?
I wrote this about the person I am in love with. Or the concept I am in love with. What’s the difference between a concept and a person anyways? A person exists in my thoughts. A concept pays taxes. But I’m rambling now. Oh. Spoiler alert. Maybe I’ll go back and censor all the names, so you don’t know what I’m talking about. Or maybe I will go to sleep and you will read all the names and the book has been spoiled for you, unless you lack memory or you don’t care about knowing these silly ramblings of a sixteen year old. My eyes are burnt but I don’t have dark circles and my wrist hurts and my back aches and there is a grey sky outside and cold air on my thighs.
Well. Time to take another practice test. If I hurry, I’ll finish before my friend rings my doorbell.
"Deep Infatuation" by Anonymous
Your ravenous, dim eyes swallow me whole.
My mind feels drunk on adoration.
You and your arms grip intent on control.
Every word you say fills me with hot coals.
Chilled hands on my neck cause strange sensations.
Once you begin, I wonder what you stole.
Wandering eyes always swift on patrol,
Pronounced rib bones sharp with temptation,
You and your hands grip intent on control.
Curiosity peers through the keyhole,
inside, only you can cause elation.
As you move, I wonder what you stole.
Hold me tighter so I can feel in full,
Tell me when to begin my mutation.
You and your grasp grip intent on control.
Please don’t leave, I’m here for you to console,
I need you more than promised salvation .
Your fingers grip ceaselessly on control.
When you finish, I wonder what you stole.
My mind feels drunk on adoration.
You and your arms grip intent on control.
Every word you say fills me with hot coals.
Chilled hands on my neck cause strange sensations.
Once you begin, I wonder what you stole.
Wandering eyes always swift on patrol,
Pronounced rib bones sharp with temptation,
You and your hands grip intent on control.
Curiosity peers through the keyhole,
inside, only you can cause elation.
As you move, I wonder what you stole.
Hold me tighter so I can feel in full,
Tell me when to begin my mutation.
You and your grasp grip intent on control.
Please don’t leave, I’m here for you to console,
I need you more than promised salvation .
Your fingers grip ceaselessly on control.
When you finish, I wonder what you stole.
"Let us die when the spring comes" by Seoyoung Hwang
As the piled up snow on the grass start to melt
and the slippery sidewalk becomes wet
As the fragrant flowers start to bloom
and pink petals shower by the riverside
As the frozen river starts to thaw
and wild fish swim against the flowing stream
As the young bumblebees start to buzz
and the gorgeous butterflies emerge from its chrysalis
As the time of the sun start to extend
and hibernating bears wake up
As the color of the sky start to change
and the song of the bluebirds fills the air
Let us die when the spring comes
and the slippery sidewalk becomes wet
As the fragrant flowers start to bloom
and pink petals shower by the riverside
As the frozen river starts to thaw
and wild fish swim against the flowing stream
As the young bumblebees start to buzz
and the gorgeous butterflies emerge from its chrysalis
As the time of the sun start to extend
and hibernating bears wake up
As the color of the sky start to change
and the song of the bluebirds fills the air
Let us die when the spring comes
"Liquids of Spring" by David Lin
a string of liquid,
flowing out my right nostril,
the other blocked and clogged,
i find comfort in the tissues that catch my mess
i wonder if i have allergies or a cold?
every morning since 4th grade!
is today going to be the dust, wind, pollen or the sun?
will my next sneeze be your neightbor’s lawn sprinkler or the niagara falls?
my head in shambles...
my eyes are itching
my throat is tingling
why is zyrtec still not working!
in the tranquil rooms
only my sniffles and the test paper ruffling can be heard
in the background plays a dreadfully melodiful spring time song: pulling a tissue out of the box.
unable to to finish my test
i only finish the kleenex box
springtime melts the kleenex boxes
leaving only a white mountain of tissues
others check the melted snow for spring time
but i check for the first sign of a red liquid dripping out my right nose
rough cliffs from the mountain of tissues,
drying my skin under my nose;
tissues soon become necessary for other liquids.
when i stand in the back of the class
my classmates see new liquids through my eyes and nose
there are liquids
red like the roses of spring,
Next to my nose
white like the tulips, and
Through the nostrils to my lips
clear like a Tear-Shaped Diamond
At the corner of my almond eyes
i am as spiritful as jane eyre’s “half-blown rose”
i pray for a moment of peace,
for my mind is drained with each drain of the nose.
a fleeting relief falls over me
knowing my next battle is with my left nostril.
begging for spring to end i internally cry out of desperation
hoping that the timer ends on the test
and to finally lose all colors
flowing out my right nostril,
the other blocked and clogged,
i find comfort in the tissues that catch my mess
i wonder if i have allergies or a cold?
every morning since 4th grade!
is today going to be the dust, wind, pollen or the sun?
will my next sneeze be your neightbor’s lawn sprinkler or the niagara falls?
my head in shambles...
my eyes are itching
my throat is tingling
why is zyrtec still not working!
in the tranquil rooms
only my sniffles and the test paper ruffling can be heard
in the background plays a dreadfully melodiful spring time song: pulling a tissue out of the box.
unable to to finish my test
i only finish the kleenex box
springtime melts the kleenex boxes
leaving only a white mountain of tissues
others check the melted snow for spring time
but i check for the first sign of a red liquid dripping out my right nose
rough cliffs from the mountain of tissues,
drying my skin under my nose;
tissues soon become necessary for other liquids.
when i stand in the back of the class
my classmates see new liquids through my eyes and nose
there are liquids
red like the roses of spring,
Next to my nose
white like the tulips, and
Through the nostrils to my lips
clear like a Tear-Shaped Diamond
At the corner of my almond eyes
i am as spiritful as jane eyre’s “half-blown rose”
i pray for a moment of peace,
for my mind is drained with each drain of the nose.
a fleeting relief falls over me
knowing my next battle is with my left nostril.
begging for spring to end i internally cry out of desperation
hoping that the timer ends on the test
and to finally lose all colors
"Fixations" by Anonymous
When big things begin to come out of control I get itchy,
the backs of my hands, my ears and my arms
I scratch and I scratch and it harms.
Smooth skin gives way to raised red bumps give way to scabs
I used to think if I kept going then it would give way but I will never be done,
While there is still blank skin I’ve only just begun.
There are always scabs to pick and hairs to pluck,
Grades to check and skin to scrub.
A shrinking self is the biggest little thing I’ve found,
When did I start to mix up building things up with breaking things down?
Maybe, just maybe, f’I make my life small,
For once I’ll be able to control it all,
No big things to fear, just small things of mine,
My things must be perfectly lined up and right,
A perfect vignette of a perfect slight life.
My na’il beds bleed and so do my hands,
This hunger is dulling whoever I am,
It doesn’t feel good anymore,
I don’t know what to do,
I knew this would happen; it’s true.
But I’m not done yet
I’m not there,
“There” was never real I don’t know if I care
About me about you,
The big things too,
How could I focus on big things–when there are little things I must do.
the backs of my hands, my ears and my arms
I scratch and I scratch and it harms.
Smooth skin gives way to raised red bumps give way to scabs
I used to think if I kept going then it would give way but I will never be done,
While there is still blank skin I’ve only just begun.
There are always scabs to pick and hairs to pluck,
Grades to check and skin to scrub.
A shrinking self is the biggest little thing I’ve found,
When did I start to mix up building things up with breaking things down?
Maybe, just maybe, f’I make my life small,
For once I’ll be able to control it all,
No big things to fear, just small things of mine,
My things must be perfectly lined up and right,
A perfect vignette of a perfect slight life.
My na’il beds bleed and so do my hands,
This hunger is dulling whoever I am,
It doesn’t feel good anymore,
I don’t know what to do,
I knew this would happen; it’s true.
But I’m not done yet
I’m not there,
“There” was never real I don’t know if I care
About me about you,
The big things too,
How could I focus on big things–when there are little things I must do.
"Everything looks a little different" by Anna Dobbelaere
Everything looks a little different
against the moving lights
in the car window's reflection
enveloped by soothing sights
The light's reflection in the blue abyss
now, peering through the window
with the moving lights beyond it
and perceiving the dim glow
Everything looks a little different
after it is done
because when it is finished,
a new perspective has begun
against the moving lights
in the car window's reflection
enveloped by soothing sights
The light's reflection in the blue abyss
now, peering through the window
with the moving lights beyond it
and perceiving the dim glow
Everything looks a little different
after it is done
because when it is finished,
a new perspective has begun
"after life comes afterlife" by Anna Dobbelaere
do you ever feel as though
everything you do,
everything you feel,
everything you see
you have already done
felt
seen?
as if we are only repeating a memory
all of our choices,
made up in our heads
already decided
what if we are only repeating a memory?
if we are already dead
and the afterlife is repeating
our former lives
again and again
and again
everything you do,
everything you feel,
everything you see
you have already done
felt
seen?
as if we are only repeating a memory
all of our choices,
made up in our heads
already decided
what if we are only repeating a memory?
if we are already dead
and the afterlife is repeating
our former lives
again and again
and again
"Circle of Madness" by David Lin
Kinematic - Δ x = v0t + 1⁄2 a t^2, vf = v0 + at
Why are you free falling, my lower eyelid?
I know you are tired but just...
Twenty more problems.
My initial velocity and motivation, a high
Negative gravitational acceleration,
Now a final velocity and drive, v=0
At a time, t = 12 am
Work = Force* Distance cosθ
If only I could just work, one more problem
A change in my kinetic energy
Changing my future potential energy, gpa, and university
Will my weight, = mass*gravity and burden,
Be greater than the tension of the string?
Will it finally break my last string of mental health?
Conservation of Energy - mgh = 1⁄2 mv^2
A harmonic pendulum hypnotizes me
pulling me into massive psychic force
My mind in a somniferous fashion, bashes any hope for locomotion
My physics homework comes in on a trojan horse,
disguised as a poise for success and devotion
Friction - Fs = μFn
My head and heart
Losing energy to its push-pull force
An internal battle of physics, sleep, and sanity
A big head
and a matching normal force
Collision and Conservation of Momentum - p=mv, mv=mv
Body free falling until collision with the desk
An Inelastic collision
Energy not conserved,
Transferring momentum and energy into
A final tug of my blanket
A cart on the coming to a stop
Circular motion - ΣF = mv^2/r
My mind kept in circular motion
Seeing Kaleidoscopes
Sleep deprivation beyond sanity.
I briefly dream of a gorilla hanging on a rope
like the blue review worksheet:
Number 2. Find the tension of the rope.
A forceful tension vs. nature’s gravity.
I only want to find an A+
Centripetal force, the only force keeping me in a circle of madness
I briefly dream of my successes to whom I owe:
Intercession
Ms. Shreve, Ms. Gopal, and my parents
Woe to any student who enters kinematics!
Why are you free falling, my lower eyelid?
I know you are tired but just...
Twenty more problems.
My initial velocity and motivation, a high
Negative gravitational acceleration,
Now a final velocity and drive, v=0
At a time, t = 12 am
Work = Force* Distance cosθ
If only I could just work, one more problem
A change in my kinetic energy
Changing my future potential energy, gpa, and university
Will my weight, = mass*gravity and burden,
Be greater than the tension of the string?
Will it finally break my last string of mental health?
Conservation of Energy - mgh = 1⁄2 mv^2
A harmonic pendulum hypnotizes me
pulling me into massive psychic force
My mind in a somniferous fashion, bashes any hope for locomotion
My physics homework comes in on a trojan horse,
disguised as a poise for success and devotion
Friction - Fs = μFn
My head and heart
Losing energy to its push-pull force
An internal battle of physics, sleep, and sanity
A big head
and a matching normal force
Collision and Conservation of Momentum - p=mv, mv=mv
Body free falling until collision with the desk
An Inelastic collision
Energy not conserved,
Transferring momentum and energy into
A final tug of my blanket
A cart on the coming to a stop
Circular motion - ΣF = mv^2/r
My mind kept in circular motion
Seeing Kaleidoscopes
Sleep deprivation beyond sanity.
I briefly dream of a gorilla hanging on a rope
like the blue review worksheet:
Number 2. Find the tension of the rope.
A forceful tension vs. nature’s gravity.
I only want to find an A+
Centripetal force, the only force keeping me in a circle of madness
I briefly dream of my successes to whom I owe:
Intercession
Ms. Shreve, Ms. Gopal, and my parents
Woe to any student who enters kinematics!
"The Welkin" by David Lin
A captive of my bed, in a cage built by my depression
for obscure durations
become a dull display of dismay.
In ugliness I submit in isolation.
Quietened cries forming a stench
in the room, sensation
deteriorating,
A captive of my bed
in a cage by my depression.
The moon is my only companion.
My phone without any vibration.
Dark side of nature accompanies till dawn.
Staring out the window,
we share lifelessness in submission to isolation.
Lifeless but bright.
Deprivation with consolation.
Creativity and motivation hidden under a thick duvet cover.
The moon smiles with an understanding
above the cage by my depression.
The plain white cage stays uninteresting. In captivation,
even cooped up fowls
need a colloquy.
But only soliloquy found
in submission to isolation.
Restlessness is my handcuff,
denying myself of any salvation
but when the stars confront itself,
rebirth a supernova
I was a hostage of my bed,
in the cage built by my depression
A key unlocks, leaving a star remnant – without submission to the isolation.
for obscure durations
become a dull display of dismay.
In ugliness I submit in isolation.
Quietened cries forming a stench
in the room, sensation
deteriorating,
A captive of my bed
in a cage by my depression.
The moon is my only companion.
My phone without any vibration.
Dark side of nature accompanies till dawn.
Staring out the window,
we share lifelessness in submission to isolation.
Lifeless but bright.
Deprivation with consolation.
Creativity and motivation hidden under a thick duvet cover.
The moon smiles with an understanding
above the cage by my depression.
The plain white cage stays uninteresting. In captivation,
even cooped up fowls
need a colloquy.
But only soliloquy found
in submission to isolation.
Restlessness is my handcuff,
denying myself of any salvation
but when the stars confront itself,
rebirth a supernova
I was a hostage of my bed,
in the cage built by my depression
A key unlocks, leaving a star remnant – without submission to the isolation.
"Sleepless Night" by Andrew Park
I twist and turn and try to sleep
My blankets flung in fitful wrath
My mind is filled with prancing sheep
But I must walk the sleepless path
The night is hot, but the fan whirs
Trying to wash me in cool clothes
The slightest noises make me stir
The flies, they are my hated foes
The summer night is hot, it’s true
But more distracting are my own thoughts
Telling me what I must do
That everyone will one day rot
I give in and leave my room
A knife I grab, this house my tomb
My blankets flung in fitful wrath
My mind is filled with prancing sheep
But I must walk the sleepless path
The night is hot, but the fan whirs
Trying to wash me in cool clothes
The slightest noises make me stir
The flies, they are my hated foes
The summer night is hot, it’s true
But more distracting are my own thoughts
Telling me what I must do
That everyone will one day rot
I give in and leave my room
A knife I grab, this house my tomb