Liberal arts anthology 2016 by Dawson College

SUM

Liberal Arts Anthology MMXV - MMXVI

SUM The Liberal Arts Anthology MMXV-MMXVI

Edited by Noam Barsheshat Klio Fotis-Zoubris Laurel Lennox Emily Murphy

Made possible by Beverly Sing Matthew Ste-Marie Student Success Action Plan

A MESSAGE FROM THE EDITORS

SUM; I am in Latin. SUM; a total of the addition of parts. The Liberal Arts program is the sum of its parts; the sum of all the individuals who comprise it. This anthology is a representation of all of these parts and their contributions to the whole. Each submission reflects a side of you that we may not always get to see within the context of the program, and we thank you for sharing those parts of you with us. We extend our deepest thanks to Beverly Sing for her guidance and support, Matthew Ste Marie for his printing expertise, and Athina Khalid, as correspondent to the first year students.

Noam Barsheshat, Klio Fotis-Zoubris, Laurel Lennox, Emily Murphy 3

TABLE OF CONTENTS Liam Burkeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tyranny I 11 A Conversation With Death 12 Anonymous Untitled Photographs 13 Adriana Franco, Emily Murphy an open book 14 Athina Khalid An Imitation of Da Vinciâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Vitruvian Man 17 Sabrina Piccirilli The Western Destitute 18 Marc Lafontaine Untitled Photographs 19 Mikaela Mailly, Hannah Wallace Faulknarian Narrative 20 Kyra Martel-Eastmond The World is Too Much With Us Laurel Lennox

Essay Excerpts 22 Emma Butson, Athina Khalid Untitled Drawing 23 Marissa Kyres Liberal Arts Confessions I 24 bluescycle (bloosickle) 25 Ben Azoulay 4

Untitled Photographs 26 Jeremy Allen, Susan Judith Hoffmann La petite dĂŠfoncĂŠe 28 Cindy Lao Plato and the Arts 32 Athina Khalid Dreaming of Some 33 Emily Murphy Untitled Drawing 33 Chloe Wong-Mersereau Runaway 34 Charlotte Robertson Gown Designs 35 Enrio Evangelista Freezer Burned 36 Julia Crowe Liberal Arts Confessions II 37 Untitled Photographs 38 Mikaela Mailly, Hannah Wallace When I was one-and-twenty Ghislaine Sinclar

Promethean Pantoum 40 Thomas Lima-Barbosa 5

Jump Rope Rhyme 42 Klio Fotis-Zoubris Picasso érotique 42 Noam Barsheshat Liberal Arts Confessions III 43 The Ballad of the Old Folk Boys Luca Raskin

Untitled Poem 47 Liam Burke An Imitation of Rossetti’s Persephone 48 Sabrina Piccirilli A Liberal Artist’s Apology 49 Chloe Wong-Mersereau Matt’s 8 AM Attendance 50 The Worrier 52 Dalia Esposito Landscape Photographs 53 L. Campanella, A. Franco, E. Murphy Make America Great Again™ Pantoum 54 Camron Heshmati Calderòn Liberal Arts Confessions IV 55 A Manifesto for the Characters Marika Bateman 6

Behaviour 59 Mariana Furneri Yaourt à la cerise noire Cindy Lao

Similitude 60 Susan Elmslie The Flower Garden 61 Dalia Esposito The Florist’s Garden 61 Mariana Furneri Liam Burke’s Tyranny II 63 Liberal Arts Library 64 Professors’ Autobiographies 66 How to do the Rui 67 Matthew Lang Shakespeare: A Moral Question 68 Noam B., Klio F., Laurel L., Emily M. To Break A Birdie and Untitled Drawing 70 Inderjit Chhina Investment Pantoum 71 Mariana Furneri Untitled Photographs 72 Eva Caruso 7

Pyromaniac Martyr 74 Inderjit Chhina Untitled 75 Anonymous Liberal Arts is the Art of Bullshitting Amanda Mancini and Casey Williams

Petite bĂŞte 77 Cindy Lao Biblical Reference! Biblical Reference! Emma Butson

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve Read Absalom, Absalom! 79 Simon Fanning To the Heavens and Stars Liliane Pham-Bui

Untitled Photograph 80 Jeremy Allen Not Hurrying the Feast Kyra Martel-Eastmond

A Dialogue 82 Erin Cassidy, Aisha Nafees Screenshot 83 Mikaela Mailly Searching Through This Present Teratoma Marc Lafontaine 8

Untitled Photograph 85 Mikaela Mailly Liberal Arts on Social Media 86 Hebrews 12:6-8 88 Noam Barsheshat Lying 90 Emily Murphy Bathtub Series 91 Noam Barsheshat Untitled Photographs 92 Laurel Lennox The Morning After Love and I Love Lucy Klio Fotis-Zoubris

Liberal Arts Portraits 94 Liberal Arts: An Epilogue 98 Adriana Franco Memories 99 Liam Burkeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Tyranny III 101

A Conversation with Death You know, sometimes I used to sit down at a bench with a cup of coffee and watch as people left and entered the metro station. I always wondered who these people were, what they aspired to be, or where they were headed. I mean we all ask ourselves these questions at some point in our lives. Sometimes these questions seem so simple, sometimes these questions just seem too damn difficult to even think of. It’s because it’s scary. Life, I mean. It’s the uncertainty of what’s next. That fear of losing. The thing is, we will always lose. I’ve lost a card game. I lost a shoe. I lost my family, my homework, my house key, and my best friend. Most importantly, I lost myself. And that’s what was scariest. I felt I didn’t have purpose. I was consumed by my own fear and pettiness. I acted like my life was shit and that I could never amount to anything. Until I woke up and realized that all that mattered was having a roof over my head, an education, and a clean pair of underwear on. That’s when I started to be happy. That’s when I realized that the people who were actually there for me could be counted on just one hand. These people also started abandoning the past and putting their cynicism aside. I finally understand. We all make mistakes, and we all lose from time to time. But we learn. Now you finally come and visit me, when I’m just as wrinkled as this leather chair that I’m sitting on. And if I have anything else to say, I’ll tell you that despite the hardships, and the tears, I would do it all over again. I have no regrets. Anonymous

Adriana Franco

Emily Murphy 13

an open book on your last night together you asked him to tell you something that you didn’t know about him he told you about the time he ran away from home— a story consistent with the family problems he’s mentioned he had he then asked you the same question you had asked him; to tell him something he didn’t know about you at a loss, you asked what he did know about you he said “not much really” that surprised you. whether it was because you were closed off ‘cause you didn’t actually like him that much (or maybe you were just afraid to) or if it was because he didn’t put the effort in, didn’t take the time to learn about you it didn’t help his prospects as your mind sorted through ways of ending things in any case, it surprised you. it surprised you because you see yourself as an open book

frank and straightforward about your emotions (most of them at least) open and honest about your experiences (most of them at least) perhaps you think of yourself as a genuine and consistent person and for whatever reason, he saw you in a completely different way it surprised you when she asked you if you were doing okay the other night you responded saying of course you were you always were and you wondered if you were lying to her, yourself, or if you were lying at all and when she told you she worries about you because you keep it all in you thought â&#x20AC;&#x153;fair pointâ&#x20AC;? but it surprised you because you see yourself as an open book who can be picked up and skimmed through while waiting for an appointment or read at a leisurely pace in an oversized armchair with a cup of tea

and she, of all people, should have known that you’re okay and you’re doing okay because you are okay, right? and every time it comes up you change your mind about what happened what you’ve experienced how you’ve felt you’re still trying to compartmentalize each part of your life trying to fold your memories up like colour-coded socks in a drawer but you have no idea where to start and where things go from there you’ve always seen yourself as an open book but it seems that you can’t even read it

Athina Khalid

An Imitation of Leonardo Da Vinciâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Vitruvian Man (1490)

Sabrina Piccirilli

The Western Destitute I’ll just use a simple rhyme scheme and be honest. I’m not here to convince you that I am “deep,” Nor am I here to plant false seeds of emotion for later harvest; Waiting for misplaced value, then taking my scythe to reap. The world, our world, my world, as I see it, Are ones filled with the privileged. Flouring peasants Of a natural system that once sought to challenge them, or so be it. All they, we, I, want now is a sense of disturbed past to validate the present. People who lost this challenge of constant survival, Are forced to replace it with some other threat. Death was made an after thought, still the gainsaid of life, but now a mere rival. Made by the arrival of another end to the match of life, set at the chess set. They, us, I, as I happen to believe, Yearn for our own tragedy and emotional confliction. To remain relevant in a world where the necessary amenities exist and do not leave, One must induce this newly formed, falsified, and internal infliction. Marc Lafontaine

Mikaela Mailly

Hannah Wallace

Faulknarian Narrative He was lying on the edge of the bed, his eyes almost closed, as if he were laying on the beach rather than on a bed on a day in mid-August at noon staring at the sun with an almost painful expression because he had forgot his sunglasses, if he were able to use sunglasses, of course, but he was sitting there not with an expression of pain, but one of love, because when they slowly blink at you it is meant to be taken as a sign of love, or so we think. The sun peaked through the crack in the curtains, illuminating a rectangular strip of hair and one of his squinting eyes, sitting there in a position that could not be comfortable for her at all, but was one of his favoured positions, his body curved in the way that his belly was exposed and his head was half against the bed and half facing her with those loving, squinting eyes. She peered at him through the gap between the eye mask in which she slept, the one with the cat eyes and ears that matched his own as they were the same colour, slowly removed it and reached over to pet him on his belly, and then he began to purr as he always did in the few minutes between her waking up and her alarm sounding on the days she woke up before it. Kyra Martel-Eastmond

The World Is Too Much With Us a cento

He is meek, and he is mild Is too precise in every part Wavering in the eddies of this change Still clinging to your shirt Half a league onward, The beads upon the forehead Of all the things that happened there It seemed best to back away The gentle downward slope gets steeper To the gentle swish of rain The world was ours, each one of us a queen Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what really puzzles

Laurel Lennox

Post-Classical History Critical Review Assignment an excerpt Clearly, there are various components that are involved in the Reformation apart from the religious institutional changes. The Reformation involved the beginning of systematic development of citizen’s rights, freedom of conscience, and education, and it would not have been possible without the unfaltering influence of Katharina von Bora on her husband, Martin Luther. Her strength and determination to have her voice heard in her home, the center for the development of Lutheran thought, penetrated her religious think-tank and made its way into the persuasive writings of Martin Luther. Von Bora achieved great strides for women across Protestant Germany by sticking to her own moral guide of principles and beliefs; and that in itself is a remarkable feat whether man, woman, child, or runaway nun. Emma Butson Medieval Civilization Paper on Women in Early Christianity an excerpt Discussing women in early Christianity isn’t black or white—it isn’t always rampantly misogynistic nor is it blatantly feminist. There are parts of both in each aspect, some leaning more towards one side or the other. Despite Jesus’ subversion of the conventional way of addressing and treating women, Christianity fundamentally succumbed to the paternalistic view of women held by the cultures that birthed it. During his lifetime, it seems as though Jesus saw his female adherents as important. Paul, too, presented a relatively progressive view of women in certain writings, but a condemning view of women in others. Orthodoxy, as well as many of the individuals who shaped it, were primarily influenced by Roman norms, therefore, the Roman view of women seeped in. Gnosticism and Montanism, on the other hand, maintained an important role for women throughout their albeit short-lived existence. Athina Khalid 22

Marissa Kyres

LIBERAL ARTS CONFESSIONS I still don’t know how to spell “medittarenanean” ???? I prefer APA

I’m not even sure what a thesis statement is lol

I still don’t know who Charlemagne is.

I secretly love doing the Post-Classical readings

I’m only here because I can act smarter than other people. I personally find great, spiteful joy when I get a high mark on an essay I did in 1 night after a teacher says it can’t be done. I consistently use one source for parts of essays and cite 3 to make it look like I’m doing more research. I’m always late for classes at 1:00 because I have to heat my lunch. My marks are the reason you have decent R-scores – you’re welcome. I still don’t know how to properly cite in MLA formatting #sorry

I shed a tear when I found out Rui sprained his knee and wasn’t coming back

bluescycle (bloosickle) Lookin’ out the window, starin’ at the road Said I been starin’ out the window, lookin’ at the road But all I see is that it freshly snowed. By the window, waiting for a nice warm day You know me, behind the window, hopin’ for a nice warm day I’ll be waitin’ ages and ages and ages and ages, that’s what they say. This nasty kind-a weather, it ain’t for me It ain’t for me, this nasty kind-a weather, not me But come round April, May, honey, I’m free. ‘Cause it ain’t a rational thing, a seasonal sport in a seasonal place In this nasty kind-a weather, starin’ myself into space But all I see is that it freshly snowed.

Ben Azoulay

Susan-Judith Hoffmann

Susan-Judith Hoffmann 26

Susan-Judith Hoffmann

Jeremy Allen 27

Et qui nous fera l’amour, mesdemoiselles ? Il est douloureux de voir un homme se détériorer. Surtout si cet homme vous l’avez connu à l’apogée de sa vie. Surtout si cet homme était le meilleur des hommes. Surtout si cet homme vous l’avez aimé. Il est douloureux de voir cet homme se détériorer, car en le voyant si faible, vous avez l’impression que tous les hommes meurent avec lui.

J’essaie de me reconstruire. Pardon. Le monde tourne trop vite et les mots, en rafales, viennent gifler violemment mon visage. Le monde tourne trop vite et peu importe ce que je fais, il ne s’arrête pas. Il accélère. Le monde tourne trop vite, mais je reste sur place, je refuse de me laisser emporter par le vent. Le monde tourne trop vite et, toi, tu es déjà trop loins pour que je vienne te rejoindre. Tu es déjà trop loin pour qu’on puisse se parler, déjà trop loin pour que je puisse te discerner. Tu es déjà trop loin, il est déjà trop tard. Le monde tourne trop vite et à chaque seconde qui passe, j’oublie un fragment de ton visage. Le monde tourne trop vite et j’ai terriblement peur de t’oublier.

Confession d’une amante Si demain tu pars, je ne sais pas trop si j’essaierai de retomber en amour ou bien si j’essaierai de te retrouver dans les bras d’un autre.

Lit de mensonge Je crois, aussi terrible soit-il, que je n’aime plus. Que je jalouse, terriblement, mais qu’il n’y a plus d’amour. Que la poussière de nos rêves traîne, mais que l’âme n’y est plus. Que les jours heureux se trouvent à être des jours de pluie. Jolis, mais tristes. Que j’aime l’homme qui fut, mais qui n’est plus. Que je suis amoureuse d’une ombre, mais cours après son chagrin. Je crois que je n’aime plus parce que je ne peux plus aimer.

Cindy Lao 31

Plato and the Arts an excerpt Plato understands art to be the imitation of things, or occurrences in the physical world. Poetry, for example, tells false stories, often where bad things happen, with twisted words that corrupt the hearer (601a). By contrast, I think that art goes deeper than recreating something in the physical world. Through art, one can learn innumerable things. Art shows a viewer what its society deems to be important; often art tells tales that commends certain characters and condemns others, usually based on the values that the culture adheres to. Homer and Hesiod’s work can help readers understand oral traditions of the time and the messages, be it of the gods, they conveyed. Art gives the viewer an understanding of something they might never be able to experience; Homer’s The Iliad brings the battle of Troy to life, giving its contemporary readers insight into what it was like to be a soldier in the Bronze Age of Greek Civilization, and modern readers insight into Ancient Greek warfare, culture, values, and life. Art attempts to describe the human condition; Homer’s Odyssey explores human nature. This epic describes Odysseus’s long quest home—his nostos—and the difficulties he encounters. It therefore describes the desires, such as longing for home, that are a part of human nature. Lastly, I think that art can be used to help explain inexplicable truths. Plato agrees with this point to some extent, and even uses poetic images as a device to help the reader understand what he is trying to say about the truth. However, Plato’s underlying message is that only the philosopher kings should have access to these truths, and that art, for the most part, only corrupts the hearer’s mind. In my view, art should be as accessible as possible as it allows more people to gain insight into the world around them. Therefore, art ought not be censored and should rather be celebrated in all its forms. Athina Khalid 32

Dreaming of Some a cento We were born to be gray. We went to school, Clouds pass and disperse You keep your eyes straight ahead and wonder what youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve missed Life, how and what is it? As here I lie And wonder with a foolish face of praise how free it is, you have no idea how free to go through life and follow no directions But I have promises to keep And I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to wake myself either Emily Murphy

Chloe Wong-Mersereau 33

Runaway I cut across the street corner. My last $6 in my back pocket. It’s more than I had before. He’s chasing me down. My last $10 burns in my pocket. I hurry my steps- I’ve got to escape. He’s chasing me down. The alleyway is dark and dirty, but better than my home. I hurry my steps- need to escape. Why can’t I escape? The alleyway is dark and dirty, but better than my home though then again, my house was never a home. Why can’t I escape? He’s calling me back, Come back home, But then again, my house was never a home. I’m in constant fear of being dragged back. He’s calling me back, Come back now! I want more than I had before. I’m in constant fear of being dragged back. I cut across another corner street. Charlotte Robertson

35 Enrio Evangelista

Freezer Burned The waver came the first of fall when pinched blue hands got on dry nerves. I knew when wind held leaves in thrall and: have I got what she deserves? When pinched blue hands get on dry nerves, and only specters rub them warm, I know theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got what they deserve and grab at words lost in the storm. I half expected hers to hover, echo, transform while they fell, but fat fresh flakes sucked sound from lungs that gasped for words shouted in the storm like two children with ice-numbed tongues. I am falling into fat fresh flakes that leave me numb I am flailing limbs and freezing snot, solitary salt-stained slinking that leaves a mark one could mistake for a snow-angel come undone â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and I am; a freezer-burned angel, forgotten and shrinking. Her golden limbs sprawled like a cat in a sunspot with eyelash-fluttering purrs that melting memory conserves and I, my pinched blue hands have got Nothing â&#x20AC;&#x201C; not what she deserves. Julia Crowe

LIBERAL ARTS CONFESSIONS I totally didn’t make up some of the citations in Beverly’s original bibliography assignment... I think I’ve had a friend crush on at least one teacher each semester. I want Tom Fox to be my best friend, and Laurence Nixon would make a nice addition too.

Global warming makes me nervous.

I love Odysseus, no matter what Bellon says.

Once I had a dream where all Liberal Arts students were on Wipeout and I won.

I secretly love MAPS.

I use (and will always use) EasyBib for all my papers. Sorry Beverly. I can’t spell. I honestly think that the only reason I’m still here is that I was too lazy to switch out and now I’m committed.

Hearing Descartes’ name makes me feel hateful and angry.

All the stereotypes about Liberal Arts students are kinda true. We’re all at least a little pretentious. I didn’t read anything beyond page 1 of Jane Eyre or Casterbridge.

Hannah Wallace

Mikaela Mailly 38

When I was one-and-twenty a cento

I liked you better the way you were, a little moody: rock…paper…scissors you dived, Nothing more. Nothing less. Continuous as the stars that shine that broke up the sky you were probably confounding, astounding Into a fine distraction: Now you are like morning bread I dwell in Possibility – That’s all that I remember. Ghislaine Sinclair

Promethean Pantoum Il croula. Dieu changea la chaîne de l’Europe. Il est, au fond des mers que la brume enveloppe, Un roc hideux, débris des antiques volcans. Le Destin prit des clous, un marteau, des carcans, Saisit, pâle et vivant, ce voleur du tonnerre, Et, joyeux, s’en alla sur le pic centenaire Le clouer, excitant par son rire moqueur Le vautour Angleterre à lui ronger le cœur. Born of a warm island, A stranger to a war-torn nation. Oh! How they mocked Destiny’s hand! Cannon fire echoes a genius’ inception. Awaited heir to the Revolution! Our muskets have tarried for too long! The deafening blows of an unyielding nation Resound in the wake of Marianne’s song! Never does our march linger for long; Our conquest knows no bounds, In Alexander’s steps we press on! The sun shines on victorious grounds. Has hubris ever known bounds? Constant are their steps, steady is their advance; Blood spatters on winter’s grounds, Against them the elements dance.

Scorched were the fields, heavy was the expense; Futile is the capture of an empty city. The Coalition misses not this chance; The tragic retreat of a humbled army. Unthinkable, his return stunned the city. Again into battle they ride their steeds, A still-burning army takes its former glory. In a blaze, the eagleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flight takes the lead. A final charge cannot break their creed; They face defeat with glory on their mind. The swanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s song is a bitter one indeed. War is thus finally repaid in kind. Now history faces this mover of mankind, Now they doubt not a legend so grand. Far from the people I set alight, I find Death on a grey island.

Thomas Lima-Barbosa Epigraph by Victor Hugo

Jump Rope Rhyme Orange cherry lemon soda bubble gum girl lip gloss quota big hoop earrings Cigarette burn kiss print bandit knockoff handbag winter jacket light-up sneakers Sugar candy pencils sharpened French fries tonguing diamond skirt pins pig tail gossip. Klio Fotis-Zoubris

Noam Barsheshat 42

LIBERAL ARTS CONFESSIONS I wrote on my first semester English midterm that “Norman Cantor” wrote the Canterbury Tales.

I don’t actually swim, guys.

Really embarrassing thing I remember writing in my letter of intent that still haunts me today: “I am a voracious reader with a penchant for historical fiction.”

I will not confess.

I never read the Mayor of Casterbridge.

I am currently haunted by King Leopold’s Ghost.

After taking Modern History, I made a body pillow of Napoleon. I sleep with it every night.

I’m pretty sure Gesche made me an atheist.

I don’t care that you should be in science or math, you’re here now. I extracted a strand of Micko’s shoulder hair when he was speaking to Robert Stephens.

I still don’t know why I stayed in this program.

I often mess up the ‘teacher’ and ‘course name’ in my MLA header on papers, and I don’t fix it (even when I know it’s wrong).

The one thing I learned in this program is how to master the art of procrastination.

Gemma Albanese is my queen. I waited for the day after the semester ended to submit Rui’s paper.

The Ballad of the Old Folk Boys Come on down and gather round, here’s philosophy And if you ain’t too careful, you might learn some history. Our story’s set so long ago, in the bush of the evergreens At the other side of the Smoky hills in the land of Tennessee. There was music rinigin’ every Sunday night, at the local honky tonk With the finest souundin’ house band, playin’ a thousand-ten years strong. And if you don’t mind listenin’, you might recognize the names Of the boys that wrote those perty tunes, since those early ancient days. Aristotle strummed the mandolin, a grin upon his face Anaximander picked the banjo and Plato thumbed the bass. With a fiddle bowed by Thales, and Heraclitus, steel guitar, Those boys would fill the barroom floor with folks from near and far. On the last bar of a ballad, the doors flew open wide, In stepped five tall strangers, the music ‘bruptly died. “We don’t like no strangers here, steppin’ in our saloon” Said Plato as he spat tobacco into an old spittoon. “Listen friend, you cats can play, but we think that we have Learned the jive down in the city, and it’s music we call jazz. I’m a drummer named Ren Descartes, I’ll introduce you to my band, Our NEW music is what’s hot, so loud, complex and grand”

“I’m George Berkeley, I play the keys” said a man no one had known, “They call me Gotty Liebniz and here’s my saxophone” “My name’s Johnny Locke and bass is what I groove” Lastly, “Trumpet is the brass for me, and I am Davey Hume” Aristotle and old boys roared with laughter when they heard All this hoo-hah ‘bout some city jazz and this pretentious lookin’ herd. “You think you can out-play us?” cried Thales in reply, Said Leibniz from the barroom floor, “Well I think that we can try”. The crowd had gasped! Could this be the last evenin’ they would play? “I’ll tell you what,” Plato yelled, “we’ll duel musiclay, And if the crowd likes your swing better, than our own lovely songs, Your sounds will have replaced the tunes we been playin centuries long.” New folk took place at center stage and with a steady “two, three, four” The melodies came soarin’ out from piano, bass and horns. The crowd began to cheer and clap to the solos and the leads, This style was so smooth and sly with a thumpin’, drummin’ beat. With a final tone, the set was done, the patrons cheered the guys, “That’s it, I think we’re done for boys” Anaximander sighed. “Try and top that, you hillbillies” teased Descartes with a laugh, So the boys gave it all they got, played every tune they had.

The patrons yawned and groaned and sighed as the bluegrass group played on, “If we don’t get them dancin’,” said Plato, “it’s time for gettin’ gone.” The banjo picked, the fiddle was hot but the crowd could not be moved, “We want them city jazz tunes” they shouted, rather rude. “We told you so,” nudged Johnny Locke as the boys approached the bar, The new folk all high fived each other, smoking their cigars. “A bet’s a bet, you get what you get and you played mighty fine,” Said Aristotle as he sipped his Macedonian wine. Feelin’ shame, they lost the game and followed behind Thales, They packed their bags and left the bar, a place they’d surely all miss. But when there’s new flashy, dancy tunes, it’s easy to replace, The timely old and slightly off, melodies they made. This here’s the story of how the old was tossed out by the new And if you like jazz more than bluegrass, well I’m glad for you. But just remember sounds are sounds and everyone is right, You can debate for centuries more, but I’ll just say goodnight.

Luca Raskin

Liam Burke

An Imitation of Dante Gabriel Rossettiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Persephone (1874)

Sabrina Piccirilli 48

A Liberal Artist’s Apology The last few weeks of the first semester in Liberal Arts were especially difficult. Everything was coming tumbling down, and I was definitely feeling mixed emotions towards the rigorous semester. I was also training at the time with the Dawson badminton team and the balancing act made me feel on top of world but also on the bottom of it. I totally feel what Gilgamesh was saying as “He looked at the walls, Awed at the heights His people had achieved And for a moment –just a moment—All that lay behind him passed from view” (Anonymous 92). Whenever I start losing perspective of the real world, I just remember that I’ve shared some of the programs hardest with the best people. In all truth, I have met some incredible people in this program, people who inspire, motivate and encourage me to continue being whatever it means to be a liberal artist. We might come across as exclusive and elitist, like Odysseus with our “secret signs, unknown to all but us”, but going through the semester together made it worthwhile and enjoyable. Of course our inside jokes will eventually fade and we will all move on, but the experience of sharing the worst and best of the semesters will be eternal. The people of the program make it a great one, and sometimes amidst the stress, we forget the individual characters that make up this program. Yet I think Tennyson’s Ulysses was honest when he said that “the long day wanes; the low moon climbs the deep moans round with many voices. Come my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world” (495 line 57). The semester comes to an end, and we can rediscover the unique art that is in every liberal artist. Chloe Wong-Mersereau

MATTâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S 8 AM ATTENDANCE

The Worrier The day is going swell, despite the stifling weather That little boy all of eight years old looks at the next customer And sees one very wealthy man He knows it was wrong but thinks of his eight siblings sitting at home picking at their plates full of emptiness He ever so slightly shifts his frail weight onto the scale of the coal From the corner of his eye he sees a spark And then he sees it A tiny spark flying, flying, flying He jumps back and runs, runs, runs Away fire of the match coming his way But the boy has no time for fear, only for worry He worries about going home with no money. He worries that one day his father will find out what heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s done. He worries he will never be able to flee. Dalia Esposito

Emily Murphy / Laurence Campanella / Adriana Franco 53

Make America Great Again™ Pantoum If Ivanka weren’t my daughter I’d be dating her Let’s Make America Great Again™ Turn off the lights, turn them off China Let’s Make America Great Again™ We’re gonna build a wall and make them pay for it China She’s bleeding from god knows where We’re gonna build a wall and make them pay for it Mexicans are rapists She’s bleeding from god knows where It’s disgusting Mexicans are rapists Turn off the lights It’s disgusting A complete and total shutdown on Muslims entering the United States Turn off the lights Make America great Again™ A complete and total shutdown on Muslims entering the united States Turn off the lights, turn them off. Camron Heshmati Calderón Note: Lowercase “u” on “united” and lowercase “g” on “great” are intentional. ™ highlights the blatant rip-off of Reagan’s campaign slogan and the branding of the American government by wealthy special-interest groups, a broken plutocratic system of government of which Trump is a symptom.

LIBERAL ARTS CONFESSIONS The grand majority of exams I take in Liberal Arts are studied for the morning of, at 5/6/7 AM.

I read Leopold in a span of 5 days.

During the third semester, I had my wisdom teeth removed. This gave me access to the Oxicodone that I needed to get through the last stretch of the term, and the Modern History paper.

Could not have passed poetry without rhymezone.com

The homosexuality of Ancient Greece turned me on the most out of all the things we’ve studied.

I came 10-15 minutes late to Principles of Mathematics because I was outside the college playing basketball...with Tom Fox.

I always considered philosophy readings to be optional.

I’m what’s under Descartes’ robe.

I am very thankful to all the people in this program for helping me survive these 4 semesters of Liberal Arts.

I feel like Descartes’ and Kant’s readings will haunt me til my days. Still haven’t read past page 4 of Waiting for Godot. Sometimes I pull out my Post-Classical notes, read them for fun, and quiz myself on the material. In a moment of fatigue and anger, I pretty much asked Beverly Sing on a date in Research Methods while she was facing the board. When she turned around to face us, I just hid myself and my shame. Mistakes were made; at least it made for a long standing joke among some of our peers.

A Manifesto for the Characters It’s all about the characters. Every book contains characters whose stories we are taking the time to read. Written by writers and read by readers. Loved and hated. You may say that you are there for the plot but without a hero the plot lies stagnant. So, they say we need characters. They say we need characters who are symbols of determination and peace. Characters who are agents used by the author to share a message with the reader through both action and dialogue, teaching morality and humility. We need characters who are eccentric enough to appeal to a mass audience, but not ‘too out there’. We need characters with superior qualities: strength, loyalty, confidence and an unwavering moral compass. We need characters who show us where to go, what to do, and how to act. What we don’t need is a dictionary definition or a well-worn encyclopedic demarcation of a creative emblem burnt onto the faces of white skinned bodies. A character, literary or otherwise, is a persona, a graphic symbol used to connect one mind to another. Written by writers and read by readers. Loved and hated. On some timeless date someone somewhere decides what it was we needed in a character. But what is it that we want? I want characters who aren’t perfect, who are flawed, but not too flawed. I want characters not caricatures. No cookie-cutter stereo typical Barbie doll character with the same face and body sloppily hidden under mounds of waxy hair and fancy cloths. Character. I thought it meant individual, I mean: separable, singular, distinct, diverse, distinguishable…different. Like snowflakes, no, like finger prints. Human finger prints. I want to read about People. 56

I don’t know about you, but I for one am tired of Cinderellas and Clark Kents. Filled with morality and selflessness. Give me someone else. Can we have a hero who isn’t reluctant? Or is that what makes them heroic? A character arc. A growth. A rebirth. I want characters that are written with all their idiocrasies, ideologies, inconsistencies, and vulnerabilities. A character who serves as more than a mere sketch for human nature is what I need. What is the use of reading about a blurry faced hero with a sugarless-cornflake personality? I want individuality. If we only write about characters who are skin deep then we will only see our neighbors as skin deep. It is through reading that we discover the complexity of the individual’s human mind. I want to open a book one day and see myself slashed across the page with all my flaws and blessings exposed and bleeding. Or is it too egotistical to believe that I could fight a dragon, save a nation, fight cancer, or save a friend? Which begs the question, do I want to mirror the character or do I want the character to mirror me? This is not philosophy, its psychology. I want relatable characters in realistic situations with unreliable outcomes. I want to learn from their experiences, not their actions. The personalities of the characters reflect the world that they live in. Cardboard characters living in a cardboard world painted on the pages of a paper book; there is no depth to that, no flavour or selfcriticism. They’re too easily forgotten, and too easy to burn.

I want my leading characters to have as much personality as my secondary characters. I want my protagonists to be as vibrant as my antagonists. I want villains with layers and folds, I want to try to understand their minds and fail. I want my hero to fight for the wrong side and realise too late. I want characters to be relatable, lovable, hate-able, understandable, plausible, and incomprehensible. Put on glasses, better yet, look through a microscope. Find the details and write them down. The mosaic of microscopic qualities, which make your sister in equal parts beautiful and annoying, are the missing pieces to the multi layered puzzle. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t write ghosts, or twelve foot bronze statues; write humans with fleshy bodies and flyaway hair. Write the character that you would want to read. Write what you need to read. Better yet, write what you believe that others need to want to read. Because there is more to each person you pass on the street than what is on the surface and they deserve to be represented with their individuality expressed in colorful diction on a white page in equalizing black ink. Marika Bateman

“Behaviour” Mariana Furneri

“Yaourt à la cerise noire” Cindy Lao

Similitude

a collaborative poem incorporating students’ similes His joke was funny as static, But I was into him, like light is into morning. His green eyes as lovely as limes, only greener. Can you picture it? That’s how you’ll know how I felt, if the image comes to you as easy as Googling, not slow like dial-up internet. Does that age me? It was the first full day of spring and the blossoms were sudden and easy as logic She made me laugh- as funny as a fish with a fanny pack, that one. No doubt she thought I was as confused as a cat in a doghouse, as slippery as secrets. I can be as stubborn as a stuffy nose. I didn’t tell her that. The afternoon was advancing as slow as a sloth on sangria and I wanted it to last, wanted to take her hand and hold it as easy as walking, as easy as walking home. Susan Elmslie Similes by Sabrina Piccirilli Marika Bateman, Tharsika Vadivel, Noam Barsheshat, Chloe Léger, Luca Raskin, Hugh Gagnon-Smith, Cindy Lao, Petru Dragnef, John Francom 60

The Flower Garden an excerpt Those that begun as tiny seeds planted in the ground without the right to make any sounds, have now become beautiful flowers dancing around. But donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be fooled by the smiles on their faces, they have come a long way thanks only to their good graces. A calloused past has marked them forever and has surely made them grow stronger and better. Dalia Esposito

Mariana Furneri 61

LIBERAL ARTS LIBRARY These are the books that have shaped us. JEREMY A. The Similarion, J.R.R. Tolkien LAURENCE A. Watership Down, Richard Adams EMMA B. The Way the Crow Flies, Anne Marie MacDonald KATRINA B. Oscar et la dame rose, Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt LIAM B. To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee Collins NOAM B. The Violent Bear It Away, Flannery O’Connor SAFIYA B. The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins SARAH B. It’s Kind of a Funny Story, Ned Vizzini ERIN C. A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess EVA C. Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch Albom INDERJIT C. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Ken Kesey STEVEN C. How to Live Forever, Colin Thompson MAEVE D. 100 Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez PETRU D. The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway DALIA E. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Truman Capote ENRIO E. The Battle of Versailles, Robin Givhan KLIO F. Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury CAMRON H. Junkie, William S. Burroughs MARSELA I. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho ATHINA K. The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath CHLOÉ L. 1984, George Orwell ALEX L. Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe CINDY L. Au sud de la frontière, à l’ouest du soleil, Haruki Murakami GEMMA L. The Outsiders, S.E. Hinton JACKIE L. The Glass Castle, Jeannette Walls LAUREL L. The Queer Adventure, Enid Blyton MARC L. The Theology of Death, Karl Rahner

MATTHEW L. Deadline, Chris Crutcher THOMAS L. The Sorrows of Young Werther, Johann W. von Goethe YVONNE L. The Little Prince, Antoine de St-ExupÃ©ry CECILIA M. Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbit EMILY M. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami KEVIN M. Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut LILIANE P. The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Stephen Chbosky ARACELY R. The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas VANESSA R. 1Q84, Haruki Murakami GHISLAINE S. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Betty Smith ANTHI T. History of the Footnote, Edward Gibbon GABRIELLE V. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell THARSIKA V. Inherit the Wind, Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee CASEY W. Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll CHLOE W. A Thousand Splendid Suns, Khaled Hosseini

Professors’ Autobiographies The books you never knew existed... Susan-Judith Hoffmann: Queen Bee Gargoyles, Reliable Sources, and the Seven Liberal Arts: The Life of Beverly Sing, Patron Saint of Freiburg T. Fox: That’s Some Deep Shit! Simon Fanning: Life Beyond the Shrubbery Fifty Shades of Grain by S. Fanning Right: Studying ‘til 10 Then Partying All Night, the Rui Story Gesche Peters: As It Were Michael Wasser: A Study in Being Adorable Your Mother Doesn’t Love You by Robert Stephens Napoleon and I by Gemma Albanese M. Bergbusch: Shakespeare, the One-Man Show Would You Like A Tangerine? by Susan Elmslie D. Hatzopoulos: The Internet is a Myth How to Comfort Students on the Verge of Death by Liana Bellon Contributors: Ben A., Laurence A., Enrio E., Athina K., Dustin K., Emily M., Kevin M., Kyra M., Casey W.

Matthew Lang 67

Shakespeare: A Moral Question an excerpt

NOÈME. You guys are looking way too deep into this. It was a comedy; Shylock was the villain, and he got defeated. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s meant to be taken lightly. EMILE. I wouldn’t say it’s supposed to be taken lightly… Shylock definitely was mistreated. But the play was meant to end that way. You’re supposed to feel kind of uncomfortable. The play was supposed to be a kind of critique of the anti-semitism of Elizabethan society. HILARY. No, Shakespeare wasn’t commenting on anti-semitism, he was being anti-semitic. NOÈME. But Shylock is the villain. He had absolutely no mercy throughout the play. He could have gotten more money and spared Antonio, but instead he just wanted vengeance. It clearly wasn’t just about adhering to the bond; he concealed his maleficence under the guise of justice. How could you possibly feel bad for him? [...] KANT. (Reads the letter) Hmm... so they’re asking us to give our opinion on whether the play’s conclusion was appropriate given the treatment of the characters in the prior scenes. Hm. Tough problem. To do so, I suppose we must determine whether Shylock acted immorally enough to be rightfully deemed the villain of the play. MILL. If we are to consider whether or not Shylock is justified in exacting vengeance, we must take this Principle of Greatest Happiness into account. Given the way the situation ends up, in court, happiness can be maximized for everyone if Shylock simply relaxes the agreement between him and Antonio. I am not implying that he should let Antonio go, scot free, but that he should not take his flesh and just settle with getting double the amount of ducats, as was offered to him. If Antonio dies, Shylock would only be getting the temporary satisfaction of exacting vengeance by taking his flesh, and Bassanio would be losing his dear friend. The only person who would be happy in this situation is Shylock, and only temporarily, 68

at that. It would thus not be adhering to the Principle of Greatest Happiness. In order to maximize everyone’s happiness, Shylock should settle on letting Antonio live and collecting more ducats. Having more money would be more useful and beneficial for his business, and Antonio living would evidently make Antonio and Bassanio happy. How could you possibly argue this? ARISTOTLE. We can’t really blame Shylock for not acting rationally. We must keep in mind that good character is developed through practice. Good values are instilled in people when they are young, and they have their whole lives to practice these values until they become second nature, in order to become virtuous people. However, Shylock was never given the chance to participate in Venetian society except as a moneylender, which already established him as a ‘bad person’ according to Venetian Christian values. As a Jew he was severely oppressed, and never given any opportunity to foster good relationships with Christian Venetians. How can we expect Shylock to be sympathetic and merciful to Antonio, when he was basically taught his entire life that regardless of what he does, he will never be seen as virtuous in the eyes of Christians simply because he is Jewish? [...] NOÈME. (Reading) Hmm... Okay. Well I guess things aren’t as simple as I thought. Shylock’s not just a villain and the ending does leave something to be desired. EMILE. I’m glad that we wrote to the Intertemporal Board of Moral Conduct. Even if we can’t know Shakespeare’s exact intentions, maybe what is more important is realizing how the play has actually led us to question our own ideas of morality. Whether The Merchant of Venice is terribly anti-semitic or actually quite progressive for its time, the fact that it has engendered so much debate between all of us has to count for something, right? Noam Barsheshat, Klio Fotis-Zoubris, Laurel Lennox, Emily Murphy

To Break a Birdie Park bench meetings in the eve, the stout man fills the seat, “These seeds are for you, as much as they are for me” Equality for all species

Too late to migrate, for the clouds have formed an uprising is in sight, Where all will be reformed The system patrols in full rage, burning away the intellect and sage, they clip your wings and raid your nest, “Birdie,” they say, “it’s for the kingdom’s best”

Fly birdie, don’t you see, It’s easier to flee before the new decrees It’ll be all for one, so none for all Eventually, the kingdom will fall They’ll limit your rations Broken beaks to prevent defiant actions No matter how early you awaken the worms will be taken

Poem and artwork by Inderjit Chhina 70

Investment Pantoum

You’re ready to invest in a relationship, And a girl says she’s head over heels. She’s made of gold so you’ll always love her, But if you can’t provide then she won’t supply. She says she’s head over her brand name heels, And that she’s not a gold digger, she just needs to be spoiled. If you can’t provide then she won’t supply, But she’s a good girl and only smiles for you. She’s not a gold digger, she just needs to be spoiled. She’s not a man-eater, she just has high standards. She’s a good girl, her smile’s all for you. She’s not a criminal, but you’ll let her be a robber. She’s not a man-eater, she just has high standards. She’ll scream your name and use the one on your card. She’s not a criminal, but you’ll let her be a robber, Because she’s got green eyes and she’s just your type. She screams your name and uses the one on your card, Because you’re made of gold and you’ll always love her. Her green eyes are just your type, So you keep investing in your relationship.

Mariana Furneri 71

Eva Caruso

Pyromaniac Martyr Haul the buckets, quickly, swiftly before it stifles their gaze, through the fuzzy haze oh how fields are ablaze The town is torn quickly, swiftly but really how is a martyr born, when no eyes of their own were scorned? Ashes and Ashes and it all fell down Black and singed the sight was grim Smokey hills and vivid rings Sing! Sing! What a tuneful ring the soothing crackles at a raging height A hauntingly vivid sight Buckets o buckets really just empty pails, Sit back poor martyr Take off the veil too slow, what a poke your little cosmic joke How quickly, how swiftly it grew Casualties to be an inevitable anew Old flames disintegrate, a blessing for you

Inderjit Chhina

Anonymous 75

Liberal Arts is the Art of Bullshitting a poem composed of teachers’ quotes

I Am America The goddess of red ink Erase my freckles and I cease to exist as life ends at the fucking shrubbery Put together all sorts of creatures, lions against giraffes, bears against Christians For a thesaurus is the devil’s work … Let’s push it back to Diocletian, oh when he’s around it’s like he gets rid of Ebola The social kids sometimes call him the Arch-duck…but he doesn’t have Napoleon’s oomph, and isn’t Napoleon too cute for words? And I know it’s paedophilia but hey they’re the Greeks I mean big deal someone stole a fucking chicken You know what? Your mother doesn’t choose to love you, it has nothing to do with you and my kid’s an idiot And Ontario kind of looks like a chicken drumstick Also don’t put your anus in my forcefield, I’m going to jump out the window into the a-ol-ive gr-ouve-s But who cares we’re all going to die FREIBURG! BEES? Grandpa poked me And that’s where the physics hit the fan This is the end of our story …It’s fucking beautiful You’re unique, you’re special (you look like an Esther) keep believing that even if it’s not true Go forth and try not to multiply Amanda Mancini, Casey Williams 76

“Petite bête” Cindy Lao 77

Biblical Reference! Biblical Reference! a Faulknarian narrative

As she sat there (as they all sat there but in different spaces as it would have been proper then) in that dense jet-blackness that her mother encouraged her to sit in as it helped her write when she (the Matriarch) could not, there was a hint of bodily moisture in the airthat dank dewiness which littered all their laptops that night, she (the Daughter) kept writing and writing and writing with page after page of something like an essay (but none knew what the essay was supposed to be like only that the Essay was supposed to have a length of 12 pages) she kept flipping through those none-known essay pages which looked like a not-essay to her but she would submit it anyways because thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what they did in that third term of the two year sentence. Coffee or espresso or expresso as some of them called it flowed through their dwellings; it had a bitter richness, a familiar smell since the beginning of the two-year sentence that connected them like the AMT trains that rolled by so late that evening- the smell kept wafting and wafting and wafting with page after page after page of that not-essay that they were all writing. In their heads there was the ghost king Achilliean chorus saying letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just get this page after page after page after page after page in this not-essay done as they all wrote and wrote every word for the shadowy ghost king. A chosen few had read the book which informed the not-essay long before the cramming began; they came out on top, laying in bed while the rest were all writing their not-essay and they had written an essay that was the exception to the not-essay- the actual Essay. The ghost king of the title of that book haunted them all that night before the not-essay would come to its slaughter marked by the red bloody ink they all knew from examinations. That not-essay was a vessel which all their stress rattled bodies floated upon-sinking and sinking with every word until they saw the rescue boat on the 12page horizon and she sat there because they all sat there and because they all sat there so did she. 78

The ghost king’s name flew out of those individual printing machines but had the same collective whispering of His (the ghost king’s) voice printed on jet-black ink (like the jet-blackness of that night which they wrote it) but would shortly be deftly marked by the red bloody ink coming from the hand of the Professor hailing somewhere (from a land far from where they wrote: Albania maybe but none knew) but none of the not-essay writers cared; they were too scarred by the third term of the two year sentence and too scarred by the shadows of that ghost king’s name and what he so inevitably did to those Congolese who saw his name but did not know how to pronounce it as they did (or type it as they did over and over on pages and pages and pages). They seemed to all close their computers at the same time that night or morning; none-knew. It all collapsed into the same thing because that coffee or espresso or expresso smell weaved the night and the morning together. With that coffee or espresso or expresso smell and that not-essay and that red bloody ink and that ghost king’s name whispering across all those pages they were united in their not-essay-ness and the third term of the two-year sentence-ness and they were also united in that praying that they would just pass their not-essays, hoping that the red bloody ink would mark only and solely their not-essays. Emma Butson

Pin by Simon Fanning 79

To the Heavens and Stars I thought “What if ?” You thought “Why not ?” I said “Should we ?” You said “Can we ?” So I asked the Heavens You prayed to the Gods I counted our chances You counted our time Then I swore to the stars You screamed at fate I crossed my fingers But you were too late. Liliane Pham-Bui

Jeremy Allen 80

Not Hurrying the Feast a cento Sepia portraits of the hairy great, as if it did not know theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d changed. Success so huge and wholly farcical, and my fingertips turn into stone. Things are as still and motionless throughout; Cats are stretching in the doorways and picnic parties return from the beaches. This is the world we run to from the world. I think thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s how I was at twenty-three. As a man grows older he does not want beer, bread, or the prancing flesh; from judgement, it would seem, he has refrained. Here in the scuffled dust is our ground of play. Kyra Martel-Eastmond

A Dialogue During Fox’s Math & Logic Class Between Liberal Artists, Erin Cassidy and Aisha Nafees an excerpt AISHA. So, what’s time? ERIN. Time is not real AISHA. true, but then what does it depend on? ERIN. Nothing is real. The universe is a hologram. AISHA. this is mindboggling!!! If we’re a hologram, then where is the real us then? ERIN. Maybe we are a simulation, or maybe it’s the matrix? AISHA. nah, holograms, simulations, and matrix are human productions… we’re something else and we depend on time but time is not real??? ERIN. But what if we are simulations by 4th dimensional intelligence? Within our universe, time is real in the smart physical sense, also natural circadian rhythms (AISHA. ?so we’re a part of our actual existence that we’re unable to perceive?). Humans ought to stop messing with the universe (AISHA. I agree). AISHA. hmmmm… very smart logic… but then what’s the ultimate dimension? ERIN. Not sure, but I’m sure you’ve heard things here or there about our advances in Artificial Intelligence. What if we successfully unify a thinking, feeling computer? What if they put a bunch of them together, isolated? Humans => robots .. (AISHA. no we’re not robots. Trust me. We’re math not science) Did something make humans? God? Aliens? Whatever it was, it was before the Big Bang. This is what I do instead of readings on my bus ride lol AISHA. but how can we apply time to anything (our existence, God’s existence, Big Bang?) when time itself is relevant and like us (and everything) a creation of/by something/someone else? ERIN. Time is not real. 82

Screenshot by Mikaela Mailly 83

Searching Through This Present Teratoma It had been just over a week since he last saw his grandmother at the annual family Easter celebration, and six weeks since the inescapable bane of modern medicine that incubated inside of her had been discovered. Now, walking through the arid walls covered in a coat of pink paint which served only to mask the hard truths of the hospital wing, he crossed the threshold of impending death, where the very nature of healing had been abandoned and replaced with a comfortable steep decline into nothingness. He numbly turned his neck leftward toward her bed where she lay, covered half by blanket and half by a cold pale light. A long succouring tube ran along her with the visible components converging around her neck. Beside the bed sat his father, two of his uncles, and a close family friend, all of whom had been there for quite some time, yet none of it intimate. He sat down next to the bed and gawked at the brittle body of what once was his grandmother; with her hairline receding like a withering forest and her body caught in some type of physical purgatory, he failed to see any remnant of a human on the outside. She only seemed able to move her lower jaw to let air squeeze in and out of her lungs, frantically trying to exhale the soul that she had kept so pure for as long as she humanly could. Wherever the air she breathed was expelled, he turned his mouth and nose in the opposite direction, so as to avoid catching the infection of what he thought to be the sanctimonious soul. Regardless of whatever corporeal humanity was left of her, he was blind to it as she was blind to all of them, and so, unlike his relatives who had buried their noses into their phones to search for pictures of the past that would inevitably be put into a funeral slideshow, he concentrated on her face, trying to converse in a way in which he could not with those who felt and acted perfectly alive. He tried to imagine her as more than just another puttering relative who fulfilled a role in his life, searching for a part of her that was unobscured by prayer and the appraisal for 84

the divine that he had always considered to be her main function in life. Recalling the drive home from the Easter celebration, the vivid image of her resting beside him, searching for some type of warmth, sprang up. Even then he could sense the imminent outcome of her prognosis; a reminder of ephemerality, that the forces of life return all to from whence they come. This last contact was spent with her shrivelled legs, coiled inward in a position toward her own upper torso. It had become clear that this giver of life, this present teratoma, who had raised ten children, had reverted to the very sort of offspring she birthed. Reluctantly trying to establish a final connection, he held her hand and felt nothing but dead skin on dead skinâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;always to die, and stay dead. Marc Lafontaine

Mikaela Mailly 85

Andra Tudor / Anthi Tsobou / Matthew Lang

Hebrews 12:6-8 an excerpt “You live in a spoiled generation, my boy. Comfort is the pitfall of the youth! When I was -” When I was your age, I’d get a lickin every afternoon, but you’d never hear me complaining about it! By now, the boy could predict his gran’s every word, with all the right pauses and intonations. Her life story had been ingrained in his mind after years of weekly lectures, which had all taken place in this very living room. Not much had changed here in the past nine years. Perhaps the brick walls had become barer; the chipped plates that used to adorn them were now shoved underneath the greying couch. The boy figured the locked wardrobe across from him could not have been opened once during the entire nine years, as the large beaded necklace which never ceased to intrigue him was still caught in between the wardrobe’s two doors. “Stop mind-wandering, boy! Well, in those days, all that counted was hard work and obedience. I say, your great-uncle was out working since he was a young child just to keep us well and alive!” The boy’s line of vision had lowered slightly, so that all he could see was his grandmother’s body. The woman’s round torso distorted the pinstripes of her cotton pyjamas, turning what should have been thin, blue vertical lines into disconnected figures of navy and white. The boy squinted, trying to discern faces in his grandmother’s nightshirt. For a brief moment, the boy thought he saw a man drown in the centre of her vast belly, disappearing into one of the many folds of her stomach. “You can’t grow if you don’t hurt, I tell you. When things get too 88

simple… ” Old Marilyn’s breasts, free from all the constraints of a brassiere, were bobbing increasingly vigorously as she became more and more agitated. They seemed to be separate entities, detached from her body, bouncing every which way and claiming the territory around them. They caused the pinstripes on her shirt to form waves that grew and grew until the surrounding air seemed to waver along with them. The purple-green splotch on the boy’s thigh pulsated too, and when he looked down at his twigs of legs, he realized that he was sinking further and further into the plush chair, and his legs were being replaced by off-white cushion. His hands fumbled to try and tear away at the engulfing material, but soon the boy’s skin began to lose its colour and he could no longer keep track of where his arms were. The brick wall behind him grew taller and darker as his skin faded, and all that existed was his grandmother’s enormous breasts and her sharp shouts and the shaking of the room and the wardrobe that crept closer and closer. A whine escaped the boy’s mouth and he shut his eyes tight; he was ready to surrender to Old Marilyn’s Living Room. Noam Barsheshat

Lying the boy held me high spoke kind words I think. Yeah, he spoke soft words the things he wishes he could be the things he wishes we could be I listen and promise I care Yeah, I think. Maybe thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something holding me down Maybe thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something holding us down I can breathe for now, we can breathe for now I think. Emily Murphy

Noam Barsheshat 91

Laurel Lennox 92

THE MORNING AFTER LOVE a cento Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, carefully fiddling with emotion. Lolling and rolling, diving and surfacing; we are for each other. Then comes a moan of pain, of lunging appetite and power. â&#x20AC;&#x153;yesâ&#x20AC;? shivering and sighing, gasping at the maximal heart rate, shivering like the morning after love. Klio Fotis-Zoubris

Klio Fotis-Zoubris 93

LIBERAL ARTS 2014-2016

and a self-description in six words or less...

Ommu Abdul-Rahman

Laurence Audesse-Keenan

Katrina Baldassarre

Starbucks lover and politics enthusiast.

Always reading, quite literally always.

Complains about money spent on food.

Noam Barsheshat

Safiya Bashir Sherif

Marika Bateman

Wearing clean socks today.

The girl who always asks questions.

Oh goodness *rolls eyes*

Micko Benrimoh

Liam Burke

Emma Butson

I’m Micko and I swim.

“Why are you like this Liam?”

Determinist by day, existentialist by night.

LIBERAL ARTS 2014-2016

Steven Camia

Single attractive bagel looking to mingle.

Samantha Douek

Petru Dragnef

I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make this deadline.

Existentially challenged.

Dalia Esposito

Klio Fotis-Zoubris

Adriana Franco

Diamond seeking darling waiting on Fifth.

Oxford comma spokeswoman.

Very good very nice.

Gabriel Grau-Brown

Dustin Kagan-Fleming

John Francom Silent.

Witty, cunning, serious, hardworking, loyal Machiavellian.

Achoo achoo achoo achoo achoo sorry.

LIBERAL ARTS 2014-2016

Marc Lafontaine

Consistently vying to needlessly break the rules.

Matthew Lang

Cindy Lao

I’m tall, dashing, brilliant, and modest.

An ephemeral whisper in the wind.

Gemma Lavoie

Chloé Léger

Laurel Lennox

Outside jogger, chocolate eater, critical procrastinator.

Canadian granola spice girl.

Maya Luks

Amanda Mancini

Kevin Mancini

Excited to finally get some sleep.

A mess but trying her best.

The explosive power of bran muffins.

Life, Liberty, and Liberal Arts.

LIBERAL ARTS 2014-2016

Kyra Martel-Eastmond

Emily Murphy

I like history way too much.

Renaissance teeny bopper.

Sabrina Piccirilli

Hailey Polcsak

Shy, ambitious, creative, and compassionate artist.

Almost learnt to obey deadlines...not.

Charlotte Robertson

Aracely Romero

The world’s greatest secret agent.

Creative, tenacious, dangerously clumsy, history-loving geek.

Liliane Pham-Bui

“I go to seek a Great Perhaps.”

Luca Raskin The Lou abides, man.

Ghislaine Sinclair Sometimes has bangs.

LIBERAL ARTS 2014-2016

Anthi Tsobou

Andra Tudor

Tharsika Vadivel

Salt and grapes and olive oil.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m fine :)

Underneath the shyness is sassy attitude.

Gabrielle Vendette

Casey Williams

Evandra Zingaro

Recklessly optimistic, highly motivated, slightly efficient.

Alice-obsessed Australian looking for Wonderland.

Traveler, hardworking, caring, optimistic, inspiring, ambitious.

Liberal Arts: An Epilogue

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of perspective, it was the age of Esther, it was the epoch of Descartes, it was the epoch of Plato, it was the season of Faulkner, it was the season of the pantoum, it was the spring of Shakespeare, it was the winter of Napoleon, we had four-dimensional space, we had the Burgundians and the Peloponnese, we were all trying not to multiply, we were all reading Merriman - in short, the period was so far like the periods we studied, that some of its most unique individuals insisted on learning and teaching, for science and for MLA, in creating the experience that is Liberal Arts.

Adriana Franco

MEMORIES Getting dunked on by Tom Fox First term, always finding someone to study with in the library Liam’s brief tyrannical reign and rules

Marc Lafontaine dancing for Marie-Therese Blanc

Gabriel’s Joe Fresh

Gemma Albanese teaching us how to use a semi-colon

Hearing about the Bonaparte family’s sex life as though it was in a celebrity gossip magazine

When we got excited about tax reform during the French Revolution in Gemma Albanese’s class and our collective nerdiness peaked before our eyes

When Marie-Therese Blanc gave us chocolate before our final

Dionysios Hatzopoulos calling us his children before retiring Susan Elmslie giving us breadsticks to use for poetry Crying of laughter in Gemma Albanese’s class when speaking of dead children stuck in chimneys Contributors: Emma Butson, Steven Camia, Petru Dragnef, Matthew Lang, Amanda Mancini, Kevin Mancini, Emily Murphy, Liliane Pham-Bui, Ghislaine Sinclair, Anthi Tsobou, Casey Williams.

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