symposium
II.I. A H SC
symposium a conversation on creativity an arts and humanities students’ council publication
volume 2 issue 1 winter 2015 Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The sole responsibility for the content in this publication remains with the authors and artists. The content does not reflect the opinions of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students’ Council (USC). The AHSC and USC assume no liability for any errors, inaccuracies, or ommisions contained in this publication.
letter from the editors cre a tiv i ty /krēā`tiv dē/ n. e
1. the faculty of being creative; ability or power to create. 2. the ability to bring imagination to life. 3. the faculty of arts and humanities at Western University. 4. the ability to produce something new--a new perspective, paradigm, idea, reality, etc. 5. the process of merging your perspective with the world in order to give your audience a fresh way of observing something... while attaining immortality. 6. the ability to go from A to B in the fanciest, shmanciest way possible. 7. the ability to produce where nothing was before. 8. everything contained within this issue of Symposium.
Editor-In-Chief
Maryam Golafshani
Academic Managing Editor
Serena Quinn
Creative Managing Editor
Gordon Haney
Copy Editor Layout Editor
Eric Zadrozny Calyssa Erb
art by
Jill Smith
reading you tao lin at a large, chain book store Travis Welowszky the sky was green that night, and she looked sort of beautiful when we took the stairs up to the first floor. we decided to go to the department store so we went to the department store and sat down. she pointed at the things that made her feel empty and i fell in love with her there, reclining backwards in a sandpiper brown leather loveseat chair as she sang in an A-minor key, leaving long, trailing white scratches on my surface that i could never buffer out. ‘i am going to touch you very, very hard,’ she said. and she did. we decided to go to the book store so we went to the book store and sat down. she pointed at the things that made her feel whole and i told her she was a genius, a gentle beacon that made me less meaningless as she sang in a D-major key, echoing evenly through corridors of condominiums where people would always wither out. ‘i am going to take you very, very far,’ i said. and i did.
art by
Danielle Brideau 1
The Peculiarities of Mr. Richard Davis Clarke Jonas Trottier It was 3 o’clock. Richard Davis Clarke was standing alone in his pantry, as had become something of a habit of his in recent months. The pantry, he had realized one Saturday afternoon, had an almost meditative tranquility about it. Tucked away behind the kitchen, it was quiet and dark, and most importantly, it was the last place in the house that Mrs. Clarke would think to find him. As Richard stood in the pantry he was firmly aware of just how ridiculous he would look should he be found there amongst the bread and vegetables. He did not, however, allow this thought to bother him. Rather he be found here, thought Richard as he allowed his head to tilt back and his eyes to close, than subject himself to the soul-deadening ennui of another afternoon lolling about in the parlour with his wife. The silence, he thought, was nice enough; but the smells were what had brought him back to the pantry more and more often over the past weeks. It was a kind of olfactory escape from the stink of the city which seemed to penetrate every other room in the house. The heavy wooden door which led to the pantry seemed an impenetrable barrier to the smells of the outer rooms. The pantry contained no trace of the heady smell of exhaust which spewed from the motorcars which had begun to crop up on the street outside. Nor was there any hint of the comparably caustic stench of his wife’s perfume which she used, liberally, in an attempt to cover the fetid stink of the rotten person on which it sat. No, inside the pantry was a world dominated by the pleasant yeasty smell of fresh bread subtly coloured by a collection of others. Smells which ranged from faint to imaginary, but all of which could be singled out and brought to the forefront of perception, if only Richard were to focus on them. To begin, there was the magnificently musty smell of the soft grey blanket of dust which had been allowed to settle on the uppermost shelf of the pantry. The dust which was a part of the air itself and which itched at his nostrils with every inward breath. Next came the almost imperceptible scent of the various vegetables which littered the shelves. The earthy smell of the carrots, the sterile waxy smell of the turnips, the faint perfume of the kale, all suspended together in the air with the dust and the sharp smell of the bread. Finally, there were the metallic smells which came from the many lids on the many jars lining the shelves of the pantry. Jars of jams, marmalades, pickles, peas and beans—each lid giving off a distinct aroma made unique by the contents of the jar on which it sat. As Richard stood in his pantry breathing in the bouquet of odours which filled the minute space, his mind carefully emptied of all emotion and stress, he 3
made a decision so comparatively massive in size that it was hard to imagine it fitting within the four small walls of the pantry. But to Richard, whose eyes remained closed and who had suppressed all sensory input save for the aromas which were wafting up his nose and into his consciousness with each steady breath, the pantry was infinite. It was bread a thousand kilometres in every direction, seated on vast fields of kale, all illuminated by a night-sky specked with a hundred–thousand shining metal lids. And it was there, Richard decided, surrounded as he was by the infinite leagues of olfactory bliss, he wanted to die. Not then precisely, but most definitely there. Richard could not conceive of a more peaceful passing than in amongst the smells of his pantry. And so, as he continued to stand there, he began to consider the details of his death. If he were to be the one to bring it about—as it didn’t seem particularly likely that he would happen to pass naturally whilst standing in the pantry—he would have to use a knife. A firearm would be quicker, he conceded, but he was loathe to admit the sulfurous odour of the shot into his little hide-away. No, a knife would do better. A knife, in fact, was loosely poetic given the venue. And what was more, thought Richard, the slightly retarded speed at which his life would end would allow for him to experience the shifting olfactory landscape of the room as it would quickly become overwhelmed by the hot ferrous smell of the blood spilling out of his open artery. As he considered these things Richard was, quite suddenly, struck by the absurdity of his present situation. Richard, as he understood it, was perceived to be a serious, respectable grown man who had built a comfortable living for himself through his work as a merchant. In actuality, he was a man whose marital dissatisfaction had reached such a height that he found his greatest pleasure whilst standing in a tiny squalid room, surrounded by root vegetables. And what was more, a man whose first thoughts when considering the prospect of cutting himself open were not of the pain of the process, nor the hardships which would face his wife in his absence, but rather of how pleasant the scent of his own blood would be mixed together with that of a dozen loaves of bread. Absurd as they were, the facts of his predicament were undeniable. His marriage was miserable; that misery had driven him to voluntary isolation within the cramped confines of his pantry; and when he entertained the idea of suicide he was filled with a swelling sense of joy and excitement, rather than the cold clawing feeling of dread which he felt it ought to inspire in a welladjusted mind. It would be on a Sunday then. He had always liked the idea of Sunday. 4
prisoner’s prayer (the lost) Helen Ngo “What city are we in?” I dare to ask the boy whom I have never met, whose posture is as straight as the loaded gun that clinks—hard—against his skin, which is darker than the desert night itself. He walks in step with me, hard military boots echoing against the barren Earth, so unlike the sound of my bare feet being worn against the callous ground across the miles. The fear of 235 of my sisters ricochets throughout the night, and I realize for the first time that silence is strong enough to strangle, and as forceful as the ropes wrapped around my wrists. He turns to me, all ebony skin in sharp contrast against the undeniable crimson imprinted on hands that are worn with scars. Tawny eyes betray his startling youth, and a fire lit by human ashes. They carry the hurt of the ages, a perfect mirror of this wasteland— as well as a regret so fiercely hot that it almost burns through me. A moment—his Commander’s back is turned toward the horizon; he snatches my hands and slices savagely, aimlessly in the dark. The short knife slips against my wrist; my breath catches as I feel my lifeblood begin to slip from my veins, as freely as the Ouémé River running in the springtime— drops stain the sand, finding their way back to Mother Earth. His voice is a gunshot in the dark as he whispers in broken Arabic, “Ukhayyatun,”—little sister—”you run, and never look back.” Strong hands shove me into the unknown. I am off, a firework into the darkness, aligning myself with the land mapped onto my heart, looking only to Circinus and the call of the antelope to guide my way. As I flee into the Nigerian midnight, to safety— leaving behind my sisters and our captors in the forsaken wilderness, I let myself cry for the unnamed boy from the other side whom I hope to never cross paths with again in this wretched life. I send up a prayer to God for mercy upon his soul as I realize that I am not the only one who needs to be saved. 5
Corry Faulkner
Brie Berry
1. In the dark You bent words into light, as if I could become them We are heaving and I don’t write about the moon anymore. God, I wanted to save you too.
2.
Taylor Davison
you so much I don’t know what to do with my hands Yours were a steady trickle A sighed meander Through the waves of my hair White knuckled, a slow Nile An asp clutched at my breast They say: “she was a hurricane”, but you were an icy river The first sun of March Some tepid melt A thaw I drowned in That I cannot come to touch Or ever hold.
Untitled For the most beautiful of reasons I lay here without sleep In the most delicate of seasons Between chill and summer’s sweep Vacillating between bargains, Dark morning and mud, knee-deep Minds of makers thawing Catching what they can for keeps
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My, oh my, I’m running Catching what I can for keeps
8
Rebecca Doyle
Pale by Comparison Emma Lammers Scene 1: A streetfront at the height of the Harlem Renaissance. Low evening light; distant upbeat jazz music. Silhouetted by a large neon sign that reads The Jazz Plaza is NICOLE, dancing. We cannot make out her features, only that she is an excellent dancer. After a few moments, ASHLEY falls in behind and shadows NICOLE’s steps. Light from a streetlamp turns on them like a spotlight. We see that NICOLE is black and has a grace that transcends her plain clothes, while ASHLEY, white, is dressed in ruffles and cannot keep to the beat of the music. ASHLEY: Can we go over that again? The two-step, or whatever you call it? NICOLE: The Charleston basic? (Does the step. ASHLEY copies it awkwardly.) You got the timing. You just gotta let yourself go a bit more. ASHLEY: (Laughs) You sound like the exact opposite of my grandmother. She’s always going on about self-discipline and modesty. (They start to dance again) If she saw me now, she’d have kittens. NICOLE: Really? My old lady loves the Charleston. Taught it to her myself. ASHLEY: Well, she’s black. NICOLE: (Stops dancing) You really think that makes a difference? ASHLEY: Why, sure. You’re much more passionate than white people. NICOLE: I don’t know… ASHLEY: You put your whole heart into everything. It’s lovely to watch. I bet that’s why those southerners thought you’d make such good workers. (An awkward pause. NICOLE does not meet ASHLEY’S gaze.) ASHLEY: (Nervous giggle) Oh god, was that too far? I’m sorry. NICOLE: (With visible self-control). No…oh no. I’ve heard worse. (Looks up at the sky) It must be time for rehearsal. You should go on in. ASHLEY: (Checks watch) Yeah…we’re friends, aren’t we? Nicole? NICOLE: Yeah. ‘Course we are. ASHLEY: I’m sure they’ll pick you at the next audition. NICOLE: As long as I can keep that black passion in check, right? Be seeing you, Ashley. NICOLE walks out of the glow of the streetlamp and exits stage left. ASHLEY watches her with an expression that is part pity and part envy. Blackout. Scene 2: The jazz music of the previous scene mutilates into psychedelic rock. Mixed blue and green lighting highlights a 1960s boudoir, with ASHLEY and NICOLE sprawled on large cushions. Both are dressed in a bizzare combination of negligees and traditional West African robes; both are obviously stoned. NICOLE: No dream. I’m wide awake and see it all. No colour beneath another, no race below…(she repeats this line in a quiet singsong four or five times). ASHLEY: Y’know, sometimes I hate being white. We’re – we were – are – so damn oppressive. Can’t get along with anyone until we slave them or nuke them (fit of giggles). But you, you’re so cool. White people’re jealous of black people ‘cause they’re so cool. You have art, the dance, the dance… She trails off, rolls over, and starts to stroke NICOLE’S ankles. NICOLE sits up and mimes placing a crown on her head.
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NICOLE: I bet one of my ancestors was a queen. I got a feeling... But don’t tell nobody that queen Nicky’s black. No, tell them, tell them that out of African has come American, the roots of culture and grace. Race grace. Racial grace, glacial race…(Falls into a trance, just staring, still as a statue. Music fades out) ASHLEY: (Lies on her back looking up at NICOLE) I love - that you’re so brave. The protest marches, could’ve shot you y’know. Or do you want to die standing - on a throne of coffee coloured – you’re perfect, you know that? No evil in your race, just jazz beat and rock. Wouldn’t have coffee or sugar without you…oops, shouldn’t say that, it’s racist. I’ll make up for it, I’ll worship you instead. (Prostrates herself on the floor.) Queen Nicky, queen of black beaten blemishless perfect. Perfect. Fade to black. Scene 3: A nightclub, present day. Young men and women, mostly black, are seated at the bar or at tables, all dressed in grunge style, laughing and talking. Someone is doing a sound test on the platform at upstage right. He is joined by a friend, who grabs the microphone and starts beatboxing. Others laugh and cheer. NICOLE jumps up onto the stage and dances. Again we see she is a natural, but now she beams with self confidence. Cries of “Yeah Nicky!” “Damn girl!” etc. ASHLEY enters from stage right and shyly approaches the sound check man. ASHLEY: Excuse me, is Nicole here? (Several people stare and even snicker at her flouncy dress.) NICOLE: Right here, Ash. How’s it going, girl? (puts an arm around ASHLEY’S shoulder and leads her downstage.) ASHLEY: I dunno, good…have you talked to Darren? NICOLE: Yeah, I - listen, hon, your name won’t be on the list. I’m sorry. ASHLEY: What? But – NICOLE: Hey, I think you’re great, but Darren wants people with a bit more drive for the showcase. ASHLEY: Drive? NICOLE: You know, passion, enthusiasm. He said you, um, were a bit stiff at your tryout. ASHLEY: I was nervous! What is he, racist? NICOLE: Hell no! One of the guys he picked is Asian. You just – you don’t have that fire, Ash. ASHLEY: (Starts to cry) Like I’ve never been discriminated agianst. I’m a woman, aren’t I? I get called a slut as much as you do. NICOLE: (Hugs her) I know, I know. I’ll help you for your next tryout, don’t worry. You just gotta learn to be less afraid. ASHLEY: I’m not allowed to be afraid, because if you’re a pretty white girl you must live in a pretty white house with lots of pretty white money and no art. NICOLE: You’ve got Mozart and all of them. ASHLEY: No new art! Grandma can keep her friggin’ Mozart. (Gestures to platform) This is yours - new African American music. What do I get? NICOLE: (Irritated) Oh my god, Ashley, this is the twenty-first century. We can share. ASHLEY: Yeah? Not all black people are as forgiving as you. Let’s do a survey. (Gets up on platform, shouts) All right, who here wants to share their culture with white people? Ashley stares out at her audience. There is no response; they are in tableaux. She leaves the platform and mirrors NICOLE’S hunched posture. Faint jazz music. lights fade out except for spotlight on NICOLE. NICOLE does a few dance steps until she notices ASHLEY shadowing her. NICOLE throws up her hands and exits stage right. A pause, then ASHLEY runs after her. Curtain.
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A Summer Past, Things Forgotten Chelsea Brimstin
Remember when we used to sit on that old swing in the park, imagining we could pump our feet like a linebacker sprinting through the air, diving onto the decaying roof of Crazy Scottie’s old shed, or our dreams of lipstick and high heels wondering: maybe if we painted our faces the right shade of candy apple red Noah Anderson would finally show us whatever it was he was hiding in the back seat of that old beat up mustang. Or what about the time your mother caught us climbing out of your bedroom window, eyes cloudy with the haze of moonshine, yellowing papers resting against our candy apple lips, clumsily rolled into misshapen lollipop sticks as a thin line of smoke slithered up the side of our
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12
ghost white faces – I don’t think I was allowed to see you for three weeks that summer. Remember when I woke up to the raging buzz of my cellphone carelessly hidden beneath that sweater with the polka dots you left on my bedroom floor, only to find myself whispering words of teddy bears and cotton candy because Noah Anderson shoved his hand between your fishnet stockings, stealing your birthmarks and acne scars. Do you remember the sea of black pouring into the pews not knowing whether to take a knee and wipe their foreheads or sink into the cold embrace of the dark brown wood? Do you remember the light beaming through those tacky window paintings like a patient blinded by the radiating glare on an operating table? Do you remember what it was like to wish you could forget?
Sophia Lloyd-Jones
The Frog Prince Evan Andrew Pbsema I read you the story of the princess and the frog and you told all your friends, so that a dozen little girls went around kissing frogs that gave them salmonella. Green webbed feet, buggy eyes and tongues in the reeds by the edge of the sidewalk. In the hospital you asked me where all the princes were and told me you no longer believed in frogs or beauty in dark places.
Ella Gonzales
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Basement Matthew Zdulski Keys jangle on his utility belt Like sleigh bells. Baseball cap, blue collar, cargo pants, Crisp whistling: Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, Clementine. Quiet books, muttering students, Disturbed by squeaky cart wheels, The rustling crack of a fresh garbage bag, This is his domain. Tangy air like citrus cleaner, dank mop-water, Hands sturdy with purpose: Push, grip, screw, wipe. Hands of habit too: Pull hat down, adjust glasses, flatten moustache. Stop and chat (at length), Echoes of unions, families, bureaucratic failures, health, how’s your Mum? He hasn’t forgotten. He’ll be there tomorrow.
Rebecca Doyle
15
The Not-So-Secret Life of the University Writer Dessa Hayes Well, now that I’m finally finished all of my midterms, I don’t have an excuse not to sit my butt down with my notebook and write that story that’s been in my head since Homecoming. No more aimless Tumblr surfing, no more playing Kim K Hollywood, no more binge-watching Netflix: I’m going to write. After one more episode of Orange Is The New Black... Okay, one more, then I swear I’ll write something... Okay, I lied; I watched four episodes. But now, I’m ready to share my golden idea with you... On Homecoming, I was walking –fine, more like staggering– down Broughdale when I saw this guy wearing a Western bandana on his head. It reminded me of how Axl Rose from Guns ‘N Roses always used to wear bandanas in the 80s, which reminded me of the 80s in general, which reminded me of neon clothes. Then, I started thinking about how weird it would be to live somewhere that had no coloured dyes, where there was only white, brown, and grey clothes. I started imagining this Victorian-era dressmaker slaving away in her shop, testing countless powders and juices, but failing to stain her plain materials. I know that they had coloured dyes in the 1800s, but for the sake of the story, we can imagine that they didn’t. If I feel like it, I could turn it into some philosophical metaphor for the failings of originality in a post-Romantic culture. I probably won’t though: that seems too much like work. I texted my best friend to tell her about my golden idea, but I didn’t quite get the enthusiasm I anticipated: after questioning my current sobriety and wondering how the hell I got from bandanas to a world without coloured dyes, she told me that it sounds like a stupid, implausible story. But what does she know? Science girls can’t appreciate literature unless it’s about sparkling vampires or sadist businessmen. If I’m going to prove to my friend that my story isn’t crap, I need to start with the perfect name for the dressmaker. After all, nothing kills a story like an ill-named protagonist. Except maybe a “Then I woke up” ending. Or an “And They All Lived Happily Ever After” ending. Or no ending at all. But I digress... The dressmaker is an everywoman, but she’s still got a distinct personality, so I don’t want something too common like Emily or something too weird either, like Dessa. I also don’t want something too young and modern like Kimmy or too elderly like Edith: the dressmaker is in her early 20s, but she still lives during the beginning of the Industrial Age. It sounds like this is turning into a Steampunk story. Is it Steampunk? Or is it historical fiction? Or is it both? Or should I think about this while I go get a coffee? After burning my tongue on my caramel macchiato, I’ve tearfully decided that the genre doesn’t matter: I’ll leave that up to you to figure out. What I do need to figure out is the perfect name for my heroine. I scrolled through some lists on a baby-naming site and found “Ruby”: not too common, not too outlandish, not too young, not too old. Plus, it relates to the whole colour aspect of the 16
novel. I’ve found a winner. I’ve also found that nail polish that I forgot to return to my roommate. Whoops! I should give that back. Or maybe I should redo my nails first, they’re looking a bit chipped... Now that my nails are nice and glittery red, I need a good first sentence. Not something clichéd, like “Once Upon A Time.” I guess since it’s a short story, I should dive right into the action: “Ugh!” Ruby cried. “Why won’t this work?” I hate it. I’m bored already. “Ugh!” Ruby cried. “Why won’t this work?” “Ugh!” Ruby cried, scrubbing violently at the dress with a handful of paprika. “Why won’t this work?” Wow. How does one scrub violently with a handful of paprika? “Ugh!” Ruby cried. “Why won’t this work?” “Ugh!” Ruby cried, scrubbing violently at the dress with a block of paprika. “Why won’t this work?” Ruby scattered the paprika onto the dress, pressing helplessly into the wool material. All this talk of paprika is making me hungry. I need a snack. Half a container of hummus later and I still have one sentence that makes me seriously question how I’ve managed to become a Creative Writing major. Maybe I should try a different approach: There were no coloured dyes in Ruby’s shop. Way to state the obvious. There were no coloured dyes in Ruby’s shop. All that Ruby wanted was some red dye for her dress. I’m going nowhere with this story. Why didn’t I think of something easier to write about, like teenage love or an alien invasion? Or teenage love during an alien invasion? Maybe if I forget about– ugh, who’s knocking on my door? If it’s another guy selling Doomsday pamphlets... It’s not a guy trying to sell me a Doomsday pamphlet: it’s my boyfriend, trying to sell me a movie date. I told him that I need the evening to write, but he’s ignoring me. He pulled up my browser to show me the new releases, but I forgot to close the baby-naming site. Crap. Now he’s freaking out, because he thinks I’m pregnant. I tried to tell him that some writers use them for naming characters, but he doesn’t understand. Engineers, go figure. Now that he’s calmed down and accepted my fourth explanation, he’s sitting in my living room with the other half of my hummus container plus half of the contents of my fridge on his lap, screaming obscenities at some televised football players. He’ll be happy in this makeshift man cave for the next three periods, but for some reason I can’t concentrate anymore. I watched the trailer for that new Ben Affleck movie and it sounds awesome, a trillion times better than this Steampunk/historical fiction/crap story that I can’t even start. I’m starting to wonder if my science friend was right after all... You’re probably asking yourself how I got into the Creative Writing program with such weird ideas and such poor writing skills. To be perfectly honest, I’m asking myself the same questions right now. But there’s got to be some reason that I haven’t yet been unleashed into the streets to become a hobo. Maybe I’m not such a horrible writer. Maybe I just need a little midterm-free time to figure some things out. Like how to scrub violently with a handful of paprika. And how to pry my treacherous brain from social media. 17
Yara El Safi
The Expiration of Art Rachel DiMenna There is a Tibetan Buddhist tradition known as “mandala of coloured powders” in which monks meticulously place millions of grains of coloured sand on a flat platform to create incredibly intricate works of art. Shortly after the work is completed, the sand mandala is deconstructed; days of painstaking labour wasted. In 2014, a century after the industrial revolution, pointe shoes are still made, for the most part, by hand. A pair of satin pointe shoes, made by hand, ergonomically designed to fit different types of feet, and sold commercially for over $100, last a professional ballerina half a performance. As they are used, the supportive material in the shoe deteriorates until they are no longer functional. In two acts all the labour, material, and money that has gone into the creation of a pair of pointe shoes has been reduced to a heap of fabric with no residual value. Similar to sand mandalas, this seems a waste. However, pointe shoes at least have some function that redeems them. They are a tool used to enhance the art of ballet. Ballet, historically the art of the cultured upper-class, is a justifiable form of art, the practice of which cannot be considered time squandered. After all, every young boy or girl with a leotard who spends thousands of dollars on classes and hours a week doing plies at the ballet barre will dance for his or her entire life. It may be that ballet classes and pointe shoes are not so justifiable. The exceptionally low odds of “making it” in the arts has prompted society to consider the practice of the arts a waste: a waste of time, money, and effort. Ballerinas in particular come with an expiration date. They dance only as long as their bodies will allow. With luck, they avoid serious injuries and retire in their twenties. That, then, is a waste of talent. If we conclude that neither the practice of ballet nor the creation of pointe shoes amount to anything, we have amassed quite a sum of “waste”. Why, then, do dancers and Tibetan monks pursue these art forms which come with a looming expiration date? Dancers and artists spend years of their life pursuing a practice which may never amount to anything because art makes these years of their lives worth living. The lines of boys and girls standing at the ballet barre in first position are not only being taught ballet. They are learning discipline, creativity, innovation, and passion. There is an age when serious artists with dreams of becoming Anna Pavlova, Michelangelo, or Meryl Streep become aware that their dreams have an expiration date. More often than not, they will continue to practice the art beyond that date because they know every moment spent 20
art by
Danielle Brideau
doing something they are passionate about is not a moment wasted. As an amateur dancer, I did not go through two pairs of pointe shoes a show but did destroy a pair every two months, acquiring quite a collection of useless shoes. However, I’ve kept every pair. Just as my years of dancing fifteen hours a week were not misused, neither were the hundreds of dollars I spent on shoes made of fabric and paper. Every discarded pair of shoes is a reminder that I did what I loved despite the knowledge that my body was not naturally suited for ballet, despite the late nights when academic studies and sleep were sacrificed to polish eight counts of choreography, despite the rejections and the injuries, and despite the knowledge that the expiration date on my childhood dreams of becoming a prima ballerina passed years ago. My years of ballet were not a waste - I spent years creating art which I can only define as passion incarnate. The pile of destroyed pointe shoes are not trash. Someone poured their heart into creating them so I, in turn, could wear my heart on my feet (dancer’s typically don’t have sleeves). So the relationship of pointe shoes and ballet is not waste created for the purpose of waste as I implied earlier, but art created for the purpose of art. The deconstruction of sand mandalas are meant to represent the impermanence of life. In a world where billions of creatures are walking around with an expiration date, is our every action not a waste? As we strive to add some permanence to our existence, create a legacy, billions will fail. Does that make billions of lives a waste? Scores of undiscovered talent wasted. Years of labour wasted. But does a failure connote a waste? Unfulfilled dreams insinuate a dream once existed and a new one has been formulated in its place. This existence of dreams, this passion incarnate, this art is what makes our impermanent lives worth living. No life permeated with art can ever be considered a life wasted. 21
Excerpts from a love letter? Dempsey Bryk
Good morning and goodnight I just want to let you know I’m falling faster up now And I just might Hit the ceiling fan and spiral out of control and ignite As I fall back through the atmosphere to your feet, Luckily I missed the chandelier but I got damn close And I punched a hole right through the lampshade And I was doused in spilled milk as I whizzed passed the table And I bumped my head on your leg right after I though I was done. So here I am King of no-mans land Standing on your aglet Knowing how much your shoes need to be tied And wishing I could wrestle these anacondas And do it myself. But I don’t regret Jetting in my tiny toy biplane Around your head and waving
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Alanna Sulz
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Supernova Samah Ali
Five hundred needles pricking my skin as I hold your face near. Way after five o’clock, our shadows are gone. And the moon is full. The bed, warm, as I stare into the twinkling stars found within your pupils. And, somehow, they never burn out. What a lovely season. Fall. Falling in love with someone as warm as you and I find myself lost. Lost in our tangled legs. Lost in your stars. Lost in the light, but found in this bed where we stay warm. The sensation of needles quickly fades as it’s replaced by a fuller beard. Now winter, you keep it long for warmth. Protection from the icicle your heart became. But don’t worry, my love, I’ll take on the cold weather. The polar vortex you have become spins me round and I find myself blinded in the dark sky that once cradled your kaleidoscope of stars. The stars I got lost in. The stars that showed me the way home. The stars that started the passionate fire in our hearts. Now all that’s lit are candles. Candles that will warm the heart you’ve frozen over.
art by
Jill Smith 25
Prompt 01: bathroom stall Jennifer Nangreave We’re in the bathroom and she’s laughing so close to my face I can taste her in every pore. She is vodka coolers and nervousness but her hands are steady on my upper arms. I’ve always loved her hands. They never touch me without want. I am nose-numb drunk and all I can see is the redred of her mouth and the crinkle of her eyes and she’s telling me something hilarious. I’m laughing so hard my whole chest aches. She drags me closer to whisper the punchline to the joke, and the ache floods into my whole body, a plug pulled from somewhere. I’m laughing so hard I barely notice (I notice). We kiss the air between us because we can’t kiss each other. (We have rules about this. We wrote up a document about it. We were holding hands at the time.) We can’t ruin this. We’ve been told that we could ruin this. I look at us in the mirror, red and wide and bitten, each of us clasping the other. We could ruin this. * I find her cradling the toilet bowl, barely conscious. I brought a chair with me because I’ve been here before. I comb her hair into a bun and coax some water into her. She says things at times like this, things about how she really sees herself. I can’t fathom the depth of that hatred. I pat her shoulder and try to talk her out of it. “I’m the worst,” she whispers, like it’s the punchline to a joke. I’m not laughing.
26
art by Corry
Faulkner
cover artist
Tay l o r D avis o n