CNC Confluence October 2017

Artwork By: Lacey Crombie

The

YOUR OFFICIAL COLLEGE NEWSPAPER

Confluence

OCTOBER 2017

THE EARGASM EFFECT

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A NEW LANGUAGE FOR A LACK OF WORDS

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Kyle Rowell

Editor In Chief The Confluence

Harman Dandiwal Organizer CNC Students’ Union

I Hope this Helps Kyle Rowell, Editor In Chief

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Submissions, inquiries and requests can bemadetonews@cncsu.ca,inpersonatthe CNCSU room 1-303, or mailed to “The Confluence c/o CNCSU 3330-22nd Ave. Prince George, BC V2N 1P8.

All submissions are welcome, the authors of edited works used in the confluence receive a $20 cheque upon publication.

Advertisement rates are available upon request.

Those of you who’ve followed my work for a little while know I like to stay positive with my editorials . It’s a scary time to be positive. Very angry men are comparing the sizes of their nukes. A 45 year old man named Marshall is making freestyle raps about the President of the United States. Hundreds of people were gunned down at a country music festival in a sunny neon lit desert, famous for lavish hotels and bad Discovery Channel programs . We live in a time when the phrase, “those Nazi’s sure are obnoxious”, makes sense. Falls a melancholy month, and usually thats not so bad, but right now it’s scary . We’re writing exams and essays and working all the time and cortisol seems to be the drink of choice some days.

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A lot of very good writers have said really important things about all of this, so i won’t repeat them. We can’t forget, but for a moment let's not think about these things. Think about the way earth smells when rain stops, or fuzzy sweaters, or the people who all helped each other in Nevada. Think about the people propping each other up. Think about the person Mr. Rogers knew you could be, or the artist Bob Ross knew was inside you. Our world is scary, but we don’t have to be. Some of the articles this month have a truly visceral punch to them, and that’s fantastic. Some tell narratives that build spirit in spite of struggle and fear. All the work following my ramblings is incredible. Instead of adding more news this month, something we’ve all had a pretty heavy dose of, I’ve put something silly at the end of this little publication. If nothing else, I hope this helps.

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Diwali FUNDRAISER EVENT

SAT OCT 28 CNC GYMNASIUM DOORS OPEN AT 5 PM

LIVE DJ PERFORMANCES DINNER & PRIZES

Tickets available at: CNC Students’ Union CNC International Office

Child - $20 Student - $25 Community - $35

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Join us for Diwali, the festival of lights!

Donations to support Student Hardship Fund

The Eargasm Effect

by Ann Hart

I shift forward to sit on the edge of my chair. My chin rests upon my fiddle. Head tilted to the left, arm stretched out, and fingers ready to trap each string in sequence, I breathe. Opening my eyes, I pull my magic wand across the strings for the thousandth time. I feel the sound vibrate through my jaw and to the top of my head. I listen to those sneaky forms that spark in my brain. I watch my bow and am still fascinated as a curl of white, powdery rosin rises in slow motion; my cocaine.

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The first time my mother brought me to a violin lesson, I was immediately disappointed. Firstly, the woman not only gave me a practised, toothy smile, but she began to enthrall my mother with words for what felt (to my seven-year-old mind) like hours.

I jumped at the first opportunity I could find in their mind-numbing discussion, and laid my thoughts bare. “Can we get on with it!?” I blurted. That night I had scales and bow exercises. Frustrated, I finally quit after four years of brutal conservatory sprinkled with only tiny hints of fiddle and folk tunes. Then I discovered Gavin Lake Camp, which gave me the one thing I wanted most: FREEDOM.

Gavin Lake Camp let me hear the sparks in my brain. I could play what was not on the music sheet because there literally was no sheet music.

My friends and I would gather around a snapcrackling campfire and jam until three o’clock in the morning. The following day was spent on benches, under a make-shift yurt, being taught songs that made one want to move just as fast as your fingers could play. This was what learning truly was. The passing of vital information through experience and genuine passion, not paper and theory. It showed me what I could create, not what I must repeat perfectly by December 15th. I can still see the awkward recitals that would most likely house a small crowd of shuffling, sleepy eyed grandparents and crying babies.

Though I may seem ungrateful for the few years filled with a television static and repetition, I did learn. Of those lessons, the best lesson of all (though ironic) was to be comfortable. For some that may be sticking within the limits of sheet music and never slouching. Another may only care about becoming a master at one song. For me comfortable means holding the bow halfway up the stick, finding any and every way to spice things up and (though merely a preference of style or playing) calling it a fiddle. After all, an old fiddler from Baltimore once said: A violin has ‘strings’, but a fiddle has ‘strangs.’

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My bow is my magic wand. It looks like one and works like one. Music can change people in mysterious ways just like magic might. Magicians use tricks and mind games. I use sound. I can make those around me feel melancholy. I can play quick notes that make thoughts race, thus creating suspense. I can even turn anger to joy and give boredom inspiration. We all have gone to concerts or observed the roaring mayhem of a crowd, so entranced by the music that is simply being wielded by the icons on the stage. Most of the time, those who present the songs did not even write them, and the magician behind it all is left to pat himself on the back. Though this may be the case, at the end of a long day I can still sit down, exhausted, and music will fill me with energy.

The possibilities of what can be done with improvisation are impossibly exciting. I get goosebumps inside and out, sometimes combining multiple ideas at once and wishing I could bottle them all. Quickened pulse, sweaty hands, and far away eyes always predict a perfect victim. There is no word that can accurately describe the feeling when all the sounds converge or what creates the intense rush upon the event being one with what I hear. I can only compare it to the spike of adrenaline a sky-diver or race car driver must get when they’re about to jump, or tear across the finish line. It is a feeling that is new each time and cannot be quelled, unless satisfied by a session of intense jamming that will last for hours on end.

Clutching the Fear at My Throttle By: Ashley Giannisis

My father signed me up to do a motorcycle riding course when I was seventeen years old. I remember riding on the back of his motorcycle years before, when I was about eight years old. As we leaned into the corners I would snap my eyes shut. I did not want to admit how afraid I was. Closing my eyes and riding my nerves out was much more favorable. To this day I find myself holding my breath when I am suspended over the pavement, as I carve out the sharp curve of a far-off road.

I gripped and twisted the throttle. As I pulled my CB Two-Fifty onto the road. The wind wrapped around my body, and as each block passed by I felt a more familiar sense of ease. As I followed my father, I noted my ungainly maneuvers were highlighted by the way he moved around so effortlessly. Upon reflection, two clear snapshots are suspended in my mind: the glow of the yellow street lights casting a brassy tinge off of the asphalt, and the echoes of our two motors humming, then growling and finally roaring as we would pick up speed. My father’s bike was expectedly much more gutsy than mine. He was riding a Kawasaki ZX One-Thousand, and it sounded mean.

I imagined that my bike sounded more like a mosquito hovering around your ear, causing you to itch.

Anticipation nagged at my heart to beat faster, as if anxiety would help me anymore. I followed my father to a roundabout, and I should not have worried about which turn off he might take, considering we continually circled the roundabout several times before taking an exit. I could not help laughing at the peculiar path we were on. I followed his tail lights over to Cottonwood Island Park, and before I knew it we were riding down the trails.

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The grooves in the Cottonwood Trail became less daunting with my father’s words: ‘keep your eyes up,’ and ‘look where you want to go.’ I could not quite shut my eyes now, so I focused on the tail light ahead.

I considered the fact that I may need to swerve around debris. After a moment I concluded that my body should reflexively correct my balance, right?

Rocks, twigs, dips, and corners all left me clutching my handle grips tightly. We followed the Cottonwood Trail until we were cruising parallel to the Fraser River. Of course I held my breath as we passed beneath two ominous bridges. The gaps between the piers resembled large cavernous mouths.

After following the Fraser River away from the bridges I felt exhilarated. My nerves smoothed out as we continued across Fort George Park in the moonlight. Our ride then shifted toward a new direction. Heading North on the John Hart Highway, we took the first right hand turnoff onto Hoferkamp Road. Just before the first bend on Hoferkamp, my father turned off the road and into the tree line. Yet again, we were creeping along a trail and I assumed that after the last set of trails I would be well adjusted enough to handle the ride.

After we rode the town, up and down, we arrived back home. I thought about how I had taken my father up on the riding course so that we would have something to share.

That night we most definitely shared in making a memoryeven in spite of my electric nerves. When my mother came outside to see why we had been out so late, my father and I stood in front of my motorcycle, smirking as we hid the brush and dirt (which was painted all over it) from her sight.

Although I do not recall much of our words shared, nor the exact order of the stops on our journey, I will always remember the feeling of the wind, the trails, the dirt, the thrills, the mischief, and my father beside me.

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The trees were dense and surrounded by an inky darkness. As I was struggling to keep up to my father I felt sparks of fear rise up inside of me. Pop-rocks were fizzing in my veins, or at least that is what it felt like. I did not notice my father turning around a bend. I should have kept my eyes up. The loose trail would not allow for my sad attempt to turn a tad too late. I had indeed faltered.

It felt as if my handlebars conducted an electric current through my gloves, into my hands, and straight into the pit of my stomach with a thud. I skidded off of the trail in slow motion, while watching my father’s tail light fade through the trees.

I had landed on a slight incline, with one leg pinned beneath the motorcycle. The dirt and brush kept shifting and sliding underneath me as I tried to push out from under the bike. I finally closed my eyes and waited. In the hush I heard my father’s bike revving faintly. The sound quickly grew louder and closer. He stopped above me on the trail and hopped off of his motorcycle. Before he had plucked my tiny bike off of me, he checked to see that I was all right. Once I had regained myself I rode after him more slowly than before. We arrived in a small grassy clearing.

There was a wire fence along the edges where the clearing dropped off to the cut banks below. Maybe it was just the adrenaline or the pop-rocks in my blood, but the view had struck me. Even humble Ol’ Prince George on that night was more impressive than I would have expected.

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Desperation flows into self-condemnation, I am a shell. I cannot escape what I have done, nor do I wish to undo it, for that would mean to never have felt your breath on my neck. No one will say, but I know they can see it. I humour myself and say those around me are too kind to tell me how absolutely hollow I look. More likely, they simply don’t care. I have been evading my mother. I know she will see right through me; she will know, as they always do.

She will ask me why a husk in the shape of her only daughter now stands before her. To me it seems as obvious as if I had lost a limb. Then again, perhaps no one sees. Perhaps I am proving myself the narcissist by presuming anyone is paying attention. Perhaps one would have to crawl inside my skull to see my brain has turned to soup, liquefied with this festering infection, the broth dripping out of my ears and down my neck. I am irrevocably changed, and I cannot imagine a homecoming from a shift astral as this.

Psychological Stew Angie Lundblom

The sun could never really go out, it wouldn’t.

What was I to do anyway? If I were to attempt to halt the snuffing out of my sun, I would be forced to get closer. That was far too great a risk, the flames could easily torch me. I knew I could no t live without that heat.

It would never cease; it couldn’t, it wouldn’t.

I need not worry.

No. The sun will never go out, it cannot.

I am safest here, I assured myself, just close enough to absorb the warmth I crave, but not so close as to take the chance of harming my own fragile atmosphere. The sun knows I need it, it will never go out, I chanted again and again, making a delusion my mantra. It knew I could not show any of my colours, not a single iridescent flash of the turquoise ocean, without its light, didn’t it? It knows, it won’t go out, it won’t.

I am safest here, I assured myself, just close enough to absorb the warmth I crave, but not so close as to take the chance of harming my own fragile atmosphere. The sun knows I need it, it will never go out, I chanted again and again, making a delusion my mantra.

It knew I could not show any of my colours, not a single iridescent flash of the turquoise ocean, without its light, didn’t it? It knows, it won’t go out, it won’t.

No, I won’t seek a remedy for what ails me.

Instead I’ll keep it safe, bubbling behind my black eyes.

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I was the earth, contently rotating around the sun, steadily, year after year, presumably for eternity.

Eternity was a concept I was not aware of but still succeeded in taking for granted. Eternity can end, and it does. It did. The sun has gone dark, extinguished slowly, as I watched from my comfortable distance.

Stockholm Syndrome Briana Ireland

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Sisters In Spirit’s Vigil

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She was five years old And helped her mother smoke salmon Her father taught her the healing powers of sweet grass The smile between her chubby cheeks was widest at potlatch She was six years old Ripped from her mother’s loving arms Her father, jailed and beaten from trying to hide his daughter Crying eyes, seemed never ending, never smiling again She was eight years old Only spoke English, her hair cut short Starved and beaten, with a blank stare Hugging the bible, her only comfort. Thank you, Jesus She was thirteen years old Pregnant with the priest's child The pain of labor equal to the pain of being raped A shoebox baby, buried with no gravestone She was sixteen years old Adopted by a priest and his wife Hugging the same bible as the father, her father Swallowing pills as she swallowed the words of John and Luke She was thirty years old Four children, two miscarriages Feeding her husband whiskey until he passed out No beatings today, Thank you, Jesus She was forty years old Numbed by whiskey and pills Her husbands passing seemed like a blessing Thank you, Jesus She was fifty-five years old The government gave her sixty-thousand dollars All of a sudden she had family again With enough money to commit suicide, overdosing on pills. Thank you, Jesus She was fifty-six years old No more beatings, not even from her heart Laying lifeless, hugging the bible Where were you, Jesus?!

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From Left to Right: Khatsan Drummers, Kamal Binder, Brenda Wilson

Sisters in Spirit Vigil Stephanie Jack

Prince George’s annual October 4th Sisters in Spirit candlelight vigil was a well received success in the eyes of the community. This is an initiative that was first started in 2005 by Status of Women Canada, to conduct research and spread awareness of the growing numbers of missing and murdered women and girls across Canada. Today it is now a nationwide community with many attending the event to listen to the powerful and inspirational words about this important issue.

The event started off with a thoughtful speech from CNCSU’s chairperson Kamal Bindra and a ‘Welcoming Prayer’ from Darlene McIntosh, a Lheidli Tenneh elder and CNC Cultural Advisor. The special guest speakers such as Dawn Hemmingway (a representative from UNBC), Brenda Wilson (High of Tears activist), and Don Sabo (author of Highway of Tears 2006 symposium). Along side powerful First Nation Performances from the Khastan Drummers and Candace George. The event was organized by CNCSU’s Stephanie Jack and announced by BCFS’s Ken Solonas.

My Family had recently moved to a new neighborhood that’s closer to school. During the first few weeks my seven year old and three year old children had made friends. One day, my three year old decided that he was going to go play in our neighbor’s trampoline on his own and left the house. My husband and I were panicked, searching up and down the street before a young girl, whom is a friend of our daughter’s, turned around the corner with our son in tow and we rushed to them in relief.

Even though, everything was alright thanks to this remarkable girl, the terror of what could have been will always haunt us.

Perhaps, if someone had done the same with any of the victims from the Highway of Tears, tragedy could have been avoided. Let us make a difference, so this will never happen again.

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On a more personal note: As an indigenous woman in Prince George, I have always been wary of the dangers of the world we live in. I am thankful that our community is changing for the better and looking out for one another.

A New Language For A Lack Of Words

By: Hannah Nainchtein

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I would not be the artist I am today if my grandfather had not reached the end of his life when I was ten.

The death notice resulted in an early and abrupt move to Seashelt in May, a month taken out of my life--not a vacation. The trip was a bleak ordeal, but I like to believe that something powerful was born from the melancholy. This period is defined by my family as the rapid decay of my grandfather, but for me it is not about the death of a half-hanged man.

Rather, it is about how I began to perceive and communicate with the word, the way I will for the rest of my life.

My family and I were all staying in a house set on the side of the Pacific that seemed rather large for one man. The house provided some sanctuary from the seemingly endless rain, but I found myself outside more and more often the longer we stayed there. I was trying to escape from where we grew stale, mulling over the mathmatics that come with death.

I began leaving whenever possible, partly not to be a burden of unwanted interaction, partly to explore the shoreline and whatever ocean aliens were to be found on it. Usually on my outings I would be accompanied by a sketchbook and some pencils. I had always loved to sketch; in fact, I cannot remember a time in my life without someone commenting on my artistic ability, but I never really saw it as anything with purpose, just another way to pass the time. Rapidly over the few weeks I spent living on the coast my hobby of drawing was amplified.

Perhaps it was because I felt isolated, perhaps because I had wanted to give my grandfather a filled sketchbook before he died or simply there was nothing else for me to communicate through, but I began drawing every moment I was near the shore. At the time I was unsure why it captivated me so much, so I began sketching and falling for every misshapen, algae crusted pebble I could find.

I was subconsciously falling in love with the landscape of life, while trying to escape the bitter stench of death that was lingering in my life. I had been trying to capture some of the world’s immortality with a pencil. Even though I had no voice, no one to talk to, I had life communicate to me via landscape. I have always been called an artist, but I think in that brief moment I became one. Now I know the sea has a heartbeat, how lucky am I to be able to sense it.

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The cancer was not quick by any means, but it was sudden for us, so there was work to be done. Still, I found it odd how my family interacted around me once we knew of the coming death. Their subtle changes in conversation, the topics avoided, made me feel like the illness affecting my grandfather had stolen their air too. More than once I would enter a room to stifled murmurs of his name, causing me to wonder if they thought I did not know what was happening to him. I have never been one to pull voices out of others, so instead of using speech for a resolution, I would make my peace with the stifling atmosphere and walk out the door.

It was 4 A.M. when I woke up to the sun and to the precipitated awakening of my future, fluent in a visual dialect as an artist. I knew if I left the house fast enough the tide would still be fully out, a sight I could not wait to witness, and it proved to be worth the early wake up. To this day, I have never experienced a place so intimately or been more awestruck by my surroundings. It was like the sea was breathing with each tidal ebb and flow: if the ocean had lungs, they were filling with air. It was here I experienced one of the most happily melancholic premonitions in my life. Everything here leaked life and I began thinking the ground had pores which were in a constant state of cold sweats.

No wonder the ocean is called a body of water. I learned to love the salt water, even though it could give a breeze the ability to rip you down to your skeleton in seconds. I never feel more alive, then in the presence of the Pacific. Here the earth sweats and breathes heavy, here it is active.

To everyone else, it is infinitesimal and insignificant, a moment a child was looking over tidal pools at 4 A.M. in the middle of May; however, for me, it will always be one of my everything moments, when I realised that movement, the feeling, sound, air, and sense of a place could be my medium of communication. the epiphany hit me as if the ocean was sending love notes.

Hey, you

HEALTH & DENTAL PLAN IS NOW ACTIVE For making claims online, follow the steps below: 1. Create an account online at student.greenshield.ca 2. Submit direct deposit info 18 THECONFLUENCE

3. Download GREENSHIELD APP

Happy Halloween

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Feel Free To Colour In this Owl

Support and Crisis Contacts and Help Lines • Crisis Line- for immediate 24/7 support and information and referrals: 250-563-1214 Toll Free: 1-888-562-1214

• Youth Support Line: 250-564-8336

Chat line at www.northernbccrisissuicide.ca

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• Bounce Back teaches effective skills to help adults overcome early symptoms of depression and improve their mental health: www.bounceback.ca