The eDome
Welcome to
the eDome: Performance Edition
Cyndi Sperl '10
Mauricio Gonzalez '10
Jack Lee '10
Dakota Richardson '10
Maya Hackett '11
Nina Rodriguez
(Admissions)
Thomas Benfield '13
Katherine Sweeney '13
Interview With Subin Lee '10
(Digital Art, Drawing/Studio Arts)
Interview with Mr. Soden
(Ceramics Teacher)
Intereview With Shelly Knutson '12
(Dance)
Interview With Theo Freidman '11
(Photography)
The house smells like deviled eggs. Kids are running around cloth-covered tables with flowers on them, until being sternly and quietly captured by their parents. The people in their black dresses with angel pins and suits with ties with butter stains stand around the living room. Only saying a few words: he was such a nice guy, so unexpected, poor Barb and Henry. Once everyone says the proper phrases, they continue on talking about the housing market and their optimism for its strong return. In the kitchen, the middle aged women stand, eating as much pasta salad as their gobs can fit. They quiet their gossip and crude assumptions as Barb passes in a daze to carry out more hors d'oevres. They fuss with her, saying they've got it don't worry, you shouldn't be on your feet, sit down, relax but she ignores them, continuing to gather the plates. Addison picks at the pills on her sweater. She sits next to him, near where his head lies. She looks down and mumbles to him, "I'm sorry about this; they really don't deserve to be here, they didn't know you. Not like we do." She looks around nervously, "You never liked anyone, you remember that time we were sitting at Johnny's? You went off that day." She giggles to herself. "You started going off about how they would stare at you. You stood up in your booth pretending to be the neighbors staring at your Easter green colored car, 'Nice ride.' You turned around, 'Go #_&* yourself, Gary.' Your wife has your b_!!$ stored in the backseat. You always could make me laugh. I am going to miss you."
Sadie St. Germain '10
Paige Chilson '10
Ever Vapid
Dancing on point
on those
barren salt flats.
Beat for beat
tap for tap.
White and dry,
chapped as those lips.
Who knows what logic defined either as comforting.
As hopeful.
Barren. Dry
salted as the rain
you make me make.
Sea gulls orbit
and carry on sans sanctuary.
Your lies,
like caterpillars,
linger in your head
Until they are ready
ready to hatch
ready to set upon
every ignorant shred of trust
you've ever had the privilege
to seize.
You.
Only too vapid.
But I bask in it.
Ever loyal.
Ever foolish.
Biting my tongue
Until I taste my blood.
Allie Blanchard '11
Theo Friedman '11
McKonkey's Bowl
"This is honestly the worst chair lift on the whole mountain. It is placed right on top of the ridge, with no protection on either side. The wind just destroys your face," I mumbled to my brother, with my face shoved down the neck of my jacket.
"Ya, it really is, dude. Remember, try to get as much speed as you can, when we get off the lift."
McKonkey's Ski Lift at Park City is one of the best lifts on the whole mountain, for two reasons. First, the chairlift ride is long, but quite amusing, as you become a firsthand witness to people trying to ski the steep and deep, right under your feet. Hopefully, you can laugh out the chills caused by the cold wind running down the back of your neck when somebody face plants into the powder. Secondly, getting off the lift, if you head in a straight line, you are given the option to hike up to McKonkey's Bowl.
My brother and I sway on the high-speed six-pack, as it unhooks from the cable and carefully places us on the downward ramp. Immediately, I plant my poles and hear the creek of titanium as they bend in the sub-freezing temperatures. The pressure of my huge 140-pound frame, trying to get as much power from one push, causes this sound. Simultaneously, my brother and I start skating with our heads down, and our skis pointed straight towards the roped entrance.
As we pass the wooden hut to our left, we see a metal sign dangling in the wind, on it Ski Patrol, placed perfectly below the start of the climb. Twenty feet pass the hut, we reach the point of the climb that becomes too steep for us to stay on our skis. We click off our skis, clamp them together, and throw them on top of our shoulders as we slowly walk through the roped entrance.
Taking one-step up the mountain, my heart starts to beat, and my mouth becomes bone dry, while my nerves chill my skin. Performing our standard handshake, my brother and I completely miss huge high fives, followed by my brother saying, As a wise man once said, lets do dis. Both of us follow the footprints laid by the ski patrol earlier that morning.
Nothing is worse than hiking in full ski gear, in the dead of winter, at high elevation. As we finally reach the halfway mark, steam starts to pour out of my jacket, the heat of my body rising through the only exit. Our bodies start to overheat with the hard work and huge amounts of clothing being worn. Suddenly, as I take a deep breath, the thin air barely fills my well-opened lungs, and I make my first mistake, asking myself, how steep is the slope over that cornice?
Will Hearty '10
Excerpt from "Escape from the City Lights"
The sun radiates down, piercing my entire body with unbelievable heat. Beads of sweat slowly slide down my forehead, cheek, neck, and continue on. I look around. Why am I not in the city where I fell asleep? I don't recognize this place. As I search through my memories I come up short handed. This field of rolling hills means nothing to me. A rustling comes from the distance. I glance over to see a family of rabbits. Oblivious to my presence, I watch with wonder. The mother conveys the typical storybook adorability. But looking into her deep green eyes, I could see hatred. It is clear the maternal instincts the rabbit has; she loves her babies. However, it is no secret to me; I see the unhappiness she has with the father. I wonder if she wants to run away forever but is trapped by her dominant mate. I glance back up to see the vacant spot where the family was just then. Animals equal humans. Relations do not differ to a great extent.
Gwyn is the rabbit. She wants to leave him but can't why won't she leave why won't she leave? For her, she must accept the bad in order to maintain the good. New York City, a jungle which Gwyn has accepted as her domain. Marriage does not always bond two people. Documents - sign here - signatures - typed promises. This is no Romeo and Juliet; this is a deal. Stay with me, and you won't get kicked out of the country. That's what he said; that's why Richard married her. They were in love but now she's trapped. Trapped forever; she can't leave him because leaving him is leaving her home, her job, her life, her world. Domination of one - no one is equal. I want to help I want to help I want to help. Where am I where is Gwyn why am I not where I thought I was?
City life noise floods in. My eyes are closed, but I see the bright yellow shining through my lids. I'm holding on to the dream. I don't mind the isolation, anywhere but here. My eyes accept defeat and gradually reveal themselves. Reality soon awakens as well, and I am completely aware that I fell asleep on the veranda. I lie in the sun, absorbing my surroundings. Within 5 minutes, I hear the jingle of keys at the door. Welcome home, Richard.
"Hi, little cutie, I'm back! Do you know long division?" Richard asks the moment he crosses through the doorway.
"Yes," I answer. If I get called cutie one more time I am going to scream. I'm not five years old, and long division is not cute.
"You're such a cutie, here's a bag."
How adorable, I went to school. Thanks for attempting to buy my love with that bag. I wonder if he actually remembers how old I am.
Bronwyn Long '10
There is a coffee stain on the social fabric of this time,
That reeks of putrid milk spilled over a smooth piece of cloth
That is the American Flag,
No longer Red, White, and Blue,
But Red, White, and
Stained,
Unable to emit the scent
Of its pure dye,
Black and Brown Ugly blots, naked to the eye.
Inner circle is circumscribed by WARNING SIGNS,
Big Job, Big House, Big Dog, Big Family,
Stale ingredients coalescing into the bland boiling pot of utopia,
That shall sugarcoat one,
But artificial saccharides hide the underlying lie,
This cannot possibly be the American Dream.
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing,
Allow me to unzip this layer,
Here are my quirks, odd-shaped nuts and bolts,
Here is me,
And your media-mediated circle of life, America
I've given you all
And now I'm nothing,
But another needle in this smoldering haystack of Dicks
And Janes.
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From L to R: Katherine Smyth '10, Allie Blanchard '11, Dakota Richardson '10, Theo Freidman '11, Andrew Cherikos '11
"Untitled"
By Mauricio Gonzalez '10
"Granola Family"
By Amanda Daisy Lees '10
"You See Differently
When Looking At Me"
By Sharnae Moore '10
"Every Color, Any Color"
By Taylor Watson '10
"The Homeless Veteran"
By Brian Ferrell (B4ell) '12
Lizzy Steiner, Literary Editor
Lizzy Steiner is a sixth-former who hails from beautiful, sunny Longboat Key, Florida. She has been writing since the tender age of seven, at which time she purchased a large spiral notebook and proceeded to fill it with silly stories and strange imaginings. Although her experience lies primarily with short fiction, she enjoys writing of all kinds. Her other interests include acting (she has made frequent forays unto the Berkshire stage), filmmaking, music, and fashion. This is Lizzy's second year as a Dome staff member.
Maura McGovern, Art Editor
Maura is a four year senior from seven minutes down the road in Egremont, Massachusetts. Although her drawing skills are lacking (she can barely even draw a flower), she loves taking pictures and then fooling around with them on her computer, wasting all sorts of time she could be studying. She also dabbles in mixed media, also known as throwing things on paper and seeing if they look cool. Other than art, Maura enjoys jumping around stage and saying things really loudly (also known as theater) and drinking tea, and wishing she could buy expensive clothes. This is Maura's second year on the Dome staff.
Randy Reyes, Performance Editor
Randy Reyes is a current senior at Berkshire School and is happy to be a part of the Dome this year. During his spare time, Randy hangs out in the dance studio creating artistic pieces on whatever emotion he is feeling for the day. When he is not doing chemistry homework, Randy enjoys catching up on episodes of Grey's Anatomy and listening to Ingrid Michealson's indie tunes. Randy hopes that people will find themselves, find inspiration, and simply enjoy the different artistic aspects of this year's Dome issue.
I Saw You in the Garden Last Night
"I saw you in the garden last night."
"What?" I murmur idly. Tracing circles in dry patches of dirt, I silently wonder if there are many anthills in the Southeastern portion of Asia.
"I said, 'I saw you in the garden last night,'" he repeats himself. Jeremy hates repeating himself, especially when he knows I've already heard him once before. He scowls in my direction, but I only half notice, because I'm still immersed in thoughts of arthropods. How many kinds of ants are there in Cambodia? Are they black ants? Red ants maybe? Are they the kind that bite? With this thought, I pick up a six-inch long stick, its ruddy bark a meager covering for its milky white skin, and ready my hand to smash any crawling, unwanted invaders.
"It's hot out, but that kind of dense, wet hot that soaks into your clothes, and consequently your skin as well. Although it is only the third day of August, this eighth month has seemed to drag on for an eternity.
What kind of ants do they have in Cambodia? I ask Jeremy. I can tell that this will be the kind of question that irks him. There are many questions like this, rhetorical ones mostly, such as yesterday's "What is the definition of True Love, Jeremy?" or last week's, "If you had to be a giraffe, Jeremy, what type of giraffe do you think you would be?"
My latest irksome query doesn't elicit a single response from him, physical or vocal. Instead he's fixed upon the familiar once again.
"You were in the garden last night. I saw you," he says, his right eye hidden by a covering of fine white lines. Tiny fabric scraps of sun punch through the canopy of laurel oaks overhead, and the pause-play sequence of arbor shadow makes Jeremy play the striped jailbird. Pointless needles fill Jeremy's eyes, but he doesn't squint. Jeremy never squints.
Jeremy is seventeen years old. His hair and teeth come down in tall yellow shoots, unripened bamboo stalks of fiber and molten shist. Jeremy lives in a blue house with orange clapboard windows and leavened wooden paneling.
"Why were you in the garden?" he repeats again. But, really, I'm not even listening.
Lizzy Steiner '10
"Let Go"
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