Lucas Numa VI, Bobby Luca II, Declan Murphy II, Miguel Angel Rincon II, Keaton Sahin II, Alex Uek II, Javi Werner II, Reid Corless I, Nikey Cruz I, Rijs Johansongordet I, Javi Rios I
Before we begin, I would like to make a special shoutout to appearances. Namely, seeing is believing, looks are deceiving, and perception is an illusion. See what “eye” mean?
But what does Jacob Collier have to do with appearances? As a multiple-Grammy-winning, 25-year-old jazz prodigy, isn’t his music more important than his mien?
Well, the intermission of Jacob Collier’s Djesse Volume 1 premiere concert was a unique moment where my eyes were not transfixed by his act.
Praise to my eyeglasses, which bring into focus the spidery phantom of Jacob Collier, a multiple-Grammy-winning, 25-year-old jazz prodigy, as he flees the audience.
Praise to the ochre walls of MIT’s Kresge Auditorium, behind which Jacob Collier now splashes water on his face.
Praise to Jacob Collier’s Instagram story. In the transient universe beneath my iPhone screen, Jacob Collier proclaims the release of Djesse Volume 1 atop a balcony in Kresge. The pipe organ’s many pipes illuminate him, orange-sweatered, like a Jack-O-Lantern.
Praise to the pipe organ, which today shines a few photons onto me.
Keaton Sahin II
Praise to the program’s font, spindly like Collier’s hands, that spells “All Night Long” and “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic.”
Praise to the boy sitting next to me shouting buzzwords like “negative harmony” as his father thumbs through the program.
Praise to my bladder, which throbs against its overflowing contents like a drunken wildlife instructor trying single-handedly to stop an avalanche.
Praise to my daydreaming brain, which forgot to make my legs take me to the bathroom. My fingers, touching the factory-painted green of my chair, search for a memory.
Reid Corless I
Praise to Kresge Auditorium, which once loomed over me at my elementary school’s Field Day. As I shook the sand from my shoes after a weak long jump, I practiced playing Debussy in my head and gazed at Kresge.
Praise to my piano teacher. I didn’t know it as a ten-year-old, but he graduated from MIT.
Praise to the factory-painted green sign of the “Made By Me” pottery store in Cambridge. I would always scooter around my verdant neighborhood, my ten-year-old left leg stabbing the ground like a ravenous connoisseur’s toothpick, and turn right at the green “Made By Me” sign. Flying down Sacramento Street to the playground, I gathered my friends, and we would ride to my neighbor’s house and play under his magnolia tree. This neighbor, an MIT professor of music, gave me my first keyboard, but I never really thought about that. Such was the defect of a childhood spent dreaming.
Javi Werner II
Praise to Jacob Collier’s childhood, which was most definitely spent dreaming.
Praise to the intermission of this Jacob Collier concert. Amid the premiere of the four-volume album of a spunky creature from across the Atlantic, there is a pause.
Praise to the members of the MIT Orchestra, who proceed onstage gingerly. They would probably be cramming for their biological engineering exams and computational linguistics exams, pursuits which a cheeky Jacob Collier told the audience were far more interesting than music, if not for the years and years of strumming and humming arpeggios in a moonlit bedroom, wondering.
Weapon
Wood, Graphite, Carbon
Babolat, Head, Wilson
A Soldier’s Choice
Ammunition
Red, Green, Orange, Yellow
Penn, Dunlop, Wilson
A General’s Choice
Battleground
Hard, Clay, Grass
Australia, France, England, United States
A Country’s Choice
Seagulls Flying, Dolphins Diving, Turtles Nesting, Ocean Surface Blue, Not a Color You Knew, Ocean Waves Pounding Against My Chest, Tight, I Lost My Breath, Ocean Wind Whistling, Sun Blazing, Skin Bronzing, Ocean Waves Thundering, Water Thrashing, Foam Spraying, Ocean Sand Chilling, Stars Dancing, Moon Illuminating, Ocean
Green, scaley, sleek Lizard If approached too quickly Gone Other times, will stare down intensely Stands its ground, indignant and fearless, unless too close Lightning quick Escapes to thick brush for safety Gazing intently at its predator Coast is clear Returns to its warm ground
A Poem Written in Concrete Form: Red Diamond
Royal Beautiful, Rare Red like a Perfect Rose Multi-Faceted, yet Clear as Day Red like a Pure Sunrise Elegant, Majestic Grand
A Poem Written in Inventive Form: Shuttle Run
Deep Breathe — Approach Line, I am the Commander of This Court — Focus
Sprint … Bend, Touch
T A E P E R
Sprint …… Bend, Touch, Breathe
T A E P E R
Sprint ……… Bend, Touch, Breathe, Push
T A E P E R
Sprint ………… Bend, Touch, Breathe, Push, Cramp
T A E P E R
Sprint …………… Bend, Touch, Breathe, Push, Cramp, Exhaustion
H S I N I F
Gasping for Air — I am Confident and Proud, I own this Court — Complete
(based on The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger)
By Eli Bailit III
A couple years back I was at camp. It was this phony theatre camp my parents had sent me to so I could “further my natural talent” or some rubbish like that. I don’t really like theatre at all, if you want to know the truth. I mean, it’s not as bad as the movies, but it’s still phony as hell. One time when we were little, Allie and I went to see a dinky community theatre show of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.” Now I can barely stand dramas for one thing, but those fairytales, boy, they kill me. They really do. Allie and I almost fell out of our seats, how corny it was. I mean, the dwarves were taller than goddamn Snow White herself!
Anyway, the camp was full of phonies – I swear to god, you’ve never seen so many. It was like the goddamn phony olympics. The folks at this camp were fairytale kind of phonies. And there was this one girl, Louise, who was the worst of them all. She would have won every goddamn gold medal at the Phony Olympics, no kidding. Old Louise was one of those girls who acted funny around guys. This was a couple years back, and I didn’t have much taste for girls yet, if you want to know the truth. I think I was just a late bloomer. Of course Old Louise picked me as her target. There are some girls, especially the younger ones, who are jerks to boys when they like them. This Louise must’ve really liked me, since she was the biggest phony jerk you’d ever seen. Half the time she’d be all, “Oh, Holden, your acting was superb today,” and then the rest of the time she would be an absolute menace. Man, that phony two-faced act killed me. She would pull my hair, step on my foot, anything to really piss me off. I would have let one go at her, too, if she wasn’t a girl and all, trust me.
Javi Werner II
One day, old Louise started this new act – she would call my name over and over and over until I turned around and paid attention to her. I had really had enough, though, and so one time I just didn’t turn around. She kept calling my name with that same whiny voice: “Holden, Hoooooolden!” You won’t believe what she did next. She took a hula hoop and chucked the thing right at the back of my neck. I told you she’d win the Phony Olympics, since that throw would have made her the discus champion. It hit me spot on and I was red for days. Anyway, I was mad. I went up to the camp director, Mr. Snobmeiser or something phony like that, and told him what was going on. I’m not a snitch, I’m really not, it just had to be done. Old Louise had the brilliant idea to run into the bathroom and hide. Snobmeiser went in after her and they came out five minutes later.
I had a feeling something was wrong since old Snobmeiser was looking right at me and Louise had tears in her eyes but a goddamn smirk on her face. Snobmeiser told me I had really upset old Louise and I ought to apologize to her. Me, apologize to her?! That’s one thing I just can’t stand about girls. They look so goddamn pristine and innocent that people assume they did nothing wrong. And these adults, they take one look at you and think you’re the bad egg. Louise had used her little girl cry card and now I looked like the jerk. That’s when I knew I had to get the hell out of that crumby place.
As you ignore the scabs of snow on your ankles and stuff your sweaty snow pants back into your boots, you recall your past experiences at your neighborhood park. Baseball practice reminds you of the hot stench of sunscreen and the itch of brown grass as you stood in right field. You were always assigned right field. As for your park’s soccer clinic, which Dad goofily assured you would “build character,” you can only remember the hot tears draining from you out of shame at your klutziness. Sledding, fortunately, requires much less athleticism than soccer or baseball, which is why you’re okay with revisiting the park for your tenth birthday celebration.
Nikey Cruz I
Droplets of muddy water ooze from your laces as you tighten them. Standing, you grab your gloves from the bench, which soak your already pruney fingers. You cannot feel your cheeks, your nose might as well be an icicle, and you dream of licking undissolved hot cocoa mix from a steamy mug, but it doesn’t matter. You could keep sledding forever.
You wave your orange saucer sled at Dad. He gives a thumbs-up: one more time. It’s your tenth birthday, and he will indulge you.
Making sure that your boots sink into the snow with a heavy crunch, you approach your friends. Stephen blows into his gloves. Michael shakes the snow off his coat. Theo’s wet hair is plastered to his forehead as if he started moussing it and gave up.
Bright blurs of jackets and sleds whiz down the slope like jelly beans rolling down the roof of a gingerbread house. The meandering, endless, icy descent fills your bones, for just a moment, with dread.
It’s the same dread you felt when your neighbor Harold, who seems really old because he’s thirteen, tried to teach you how to skateboard. He twirled around on that thing like a dancer. You, however, gave up after your fifth round of bloody knees.
The difference here, you tell yourself, is that sledding is easy peasy. Gripping your orange saucer sled, you leave your friends and plod to the edge of the hill. Particles of snow buzz in your vision like static on a TV screen. Dropping the sled on the ground and plopping down on your bum just a bit too hard, you push off. The sled veers off to a much steeper part of the hill. You fly toward a mound of carefully packed snow that looks like a skateboard ramp. The sunscreen stench, the grassy itch, and the hot tears of yesteryear come flooding back.
When you hurtle into the air, you can hear yourself swallow your spit. You do not think about your tenth birthday, or how you will drink hot cocoa when you get home, or anything like that. You hear yourself swallow your spit, and then you are flailing on the ground, your tailbone exploding with pain. Dad shouts and runs down the hill, but it is too late. Thin blond reeds, vestiges of dazed summers at the neighborhood park, hover over your body like a farewell.
