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ALL THINGS FLOW, NOTHING ABIDES. HERACLITUS
EDITORIAL
Hello, Thank you for opening Flow, our second issue of the 2019-2020 year. Our team at Incite welcomes you with open arms. While we faced reduced funds this year and had to cut down our print issues from three to two, we hope that Flow will help make up for some of the loss. With the obstacles we have faced and the pilot projects we have implemented this year, at this point we really are going with the flow.
To me, Flow is about patterns and states of being. It’s the push and pull of tides, the
rollercoaster of human life and the look of that irresistible sage satin dress. But there is much more to “flow”. If you are inspired by this theme or something within this issue, then get to writing, drawing, painting or designing. That’s what we made this for.
This is our very first staff and online-only issue. Print out what speaks to you! Read a
page or two (or 27)! Admire the art! Appreciate the flow. x
Sincerely,
Neda Pirouzmand Editor-in-Chief (Content)
ART by MATTY FLADER
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CONTENTS in attempting to fix myself lubna najm 06 forward katie ann lee 10 ocean’s girl sara emira 14 purgatory srikripa krishna prasad 16 the plastic slipper neda pirouzmand 20 no one remembers shit about the water cycle ariella ruby 22
FLOW
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NOTHING ABIDES. NOTHING ABIDES. NOTHING ABIDES.
NOTHING ABIDES.
ART by LARISSA SHULAR
in attempting to fix myself WORDS by LUBNA NAJM
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In attempting to fix myself I gather broken pieces for what feels like an eternity Searching the shores, trying to escape the tides of my mind An ocean meant to devour me until no light remains I’ve escaped, but the water always tries to drag me back The shore is covered with glass pieces that the ocean destroyed Glass pieces of me Now, in my arms, all the pieces of myself sit, having been found Pieces stained scarlet by my own blood The blood from so many cuts that the broken pieces give me My body shakes from the weight of it all My whole self, resting broken in my arms When did I become this broken? That I can’t even carry the weight of who I used to be? Who was I, and who am I now? Who will I be, when I’m so broken and empty? In attempting to fix myself I lay out my broken pieces on the sand Each one broken so uniquely The edges uneven and jagged Sparkling in the rising sun With blood stained hands I hold each piece of myself My arms, chest, legs...heart Trying to remember how it fit How this mess of brokenness used to be me Back when I was whole And I was innocently beautiful Now, all I am is stained in blood And drenched in water from the dark ocean chasing me The ocean of self doubt is so easy to drown in In attempting to fix myself I fit two pieces together Were they originally together, in who I was? I don’t recall I barely know that person from back then I barely know myself now All I know is that these two pieces are together now I bind them And the ocean roars Angry at me for attempting to fix myself The ocean comes over me Drowning me in its hatred I lose myself again Lost in the dark depths of my thoughts In that cold ocean where time has no hold Hopelessly drowning until the last bubble of breath escapes me Then I realize, for the first time, I can break free I already have two pieces together I can fight So I swim against the currents that have been my cage I swim, though I can’t see I swim, kicking violently I swim... Resurfacing and breathing in air once more Walking from my lonely home to the glass shore Glass pieces of me
In attempting to fix myself I decide to add another piece from the glass shore I add to my two pieces My hands, what I used to destroy myself My hands, the tools to break apart They shake, they fumble, but they stay strong They are determined to piece these broken shards Into something whole I fit another piece Another piece Another piece There is a sheet of fixed glass in my saltwater hands The afternoon sun shines brightly in the sky Drying the dark water from me I struggle to fit the next piece The shards are so sharp The cuts sting, I can’t hold back the tears Tears purify my blood That wash the scarlet away And I can see myself healing It’s not a beautiful process But it’s happening In attempting to fix myself The last piece is placed There it goes Falling from my grip To complete everything I sit in clean tears A quiet river of completeness My hands aren’t shaking I’m not bleeding But my skin is scarred In my hands So whole, though all the edges are misplaced All the colours skewed The shape irregular and out of place So different than anything I’ve ever seen Made from a disorganized mess of brokenness There sits a dead heart Whole, empty, waiting for a first beat To kickstart a new beginning In attempting to fix myself I don’t remember who I was before life started to hurt But I remember how I tore myself apart How I became someone so broken and lost How I had found comfort in the dark How I had forgotten the taste of air in my lungs How I had stayed drowning and trapped by the ocean Empty of everything, for so long But it’s this sloppy heart I have crafted from struggle That rekindles a lost passion From my own self destruction It’s strange to say out loud to the universe now With the sand and blood mixing on my skin
“I am whole again” x FLOW
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ART by LARISSA SHULAR
forward WORDS by KATIE ANN LEE
There’s a little girl, barefoot and racing towards the water. Her feet kick up the hot sand, and she giggles every time it wins — every time it slips out from beneath her, and she stumbles. The falling is part of the fun. A little ways behind her, her father sets up beach chairs as her mother applies sunscreen to her little sister’s back. She knows her parents will glance up every few minutes to check on her. She knows to stay within their sight, and ultimately that she is safe.
When she reaches the water’s edge, she doesn’t slow; she’s never been one for
little by little, especially with a goal in mind. If she wanted to go into the water, she would do exactly that and would not look back. She lets forward momentum and gravity submerge her quickly and completely. The laughter and music of the beach becomes muted, and she glides, suspended in the all-encompassing tide.
She swims at a steady and unbothered pace, pulling against the tide as it rushes
in and pushing with it as it rushes out. Although her progress isn’t linear, she is calmed by the regular and amplified beating of her heart underwater. There is no hurry; there is no fear. She knows that as long as she keeps moving forward, back, forward, she will reach her destination.
Finally, she raises her head and fills her lungs with ocean air. She knows she’s
done it — she’s far enough — because it is too deep for her to stand. Eyes closed; she floats on her back, letting the sunlight seep through her closed lids and its warmth reach her skin through the clear water.
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An absent-minded smile crosses her face as her breathing slows to the rhythm of
the ocean that holds her. In this moment, she is both separate from time and completely present. No longer fighting the tide, she rests. x
FLOW
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ART by LARISSA SHULAR
FLOW
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OCEAN’S GIRL
WORDS by SARA EMIRA
Home is not a place; it’s a feeling, a state of being.
I wander I know no home feel no attachment to land, But the ocean Will always have my heart
What’s the use in being attached to a land That changes in the hands of its leader? I’d much rather give my soul to an ocean To a spirit too wild to be shaped by the laws of the land A beautiful rebel It’s at times like this When I’m at my lowest That I take long drives to the ocean at night As the waves caress the coast One by one They embrace me Serenading me in a language only we know Welcoming me home Breathe in I feel my lungs filling with the cool air And I’m brought back to my childhood The bustling streets of Alexandria Eating mango ice cream in the glistening sun Impromptu karaoke in the back of a taxi cab Breathe out I open my eyes and I’m brought back to the present Looking at the ocean And longing to be home Soon, I promise myself But for now, I drive away Knowing that no matter where I go The ocean will always be my home x
SERENADING ME IN A LANGUAGE ONLY WE KNOW.
PURGATORY
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ART by SABRINA JIVANI WORDS by SRIKRIPA KRISHNA PRASAD
When you wake, there is a train in front of you. A perfectly ordinary, old, black train.
You find this odd without quite knowing why. You find this terrifying without quite knowing why. You turn away and take in your
picturesque surroundings.
A pretty yellow fog is rolling in, lit up by the glow of the sun, like fire in the sky. You peer into the calmly rippling waters by the patch
of grass on which you stand. The waters are clear and tinged with amber. They are also black and depthless. You trail your fingers through the ripples. The water feels oily and clings to your skin as you withdraw your hand. It does not want to let go. You are reluctant to let go, too.
You smile. You do not particularly want to smile, but you do. A thought itches at the back of your mind. Your cheeks are beginning to
hurt, you try to capture the thought, but it dances nimbly away. A pretty yellow fog rolls into your mind, as perfect and lovely as the one you see. Your smile broadens automatically, all your confusion draining away. You turn back to the waters.
Such pretty waters. You could sink into them. The blackness calls. The ripples dance. You reach your hand forward. A swell of water
rises. It interlocks perfectly with the spaces between your fingers. You reach your other hand forward.
The train lets out a long whistle. The water lets go of your hands and you feel its loss acutely.
You do not like that.
You feel a dull, curious irritation as you turn towards the train. There is thick, grey smoke rising from it, and because of this, you
almost miss the person watching you.
They are staring at you from an open train compartment.
The smoke curls lazily around them. Their eyes glow red. They wave frantically, beckoning. There is desperation in their posture, in
their stance, in the unceasing movement of their arm. You have to come, they seem to be saying with their body.
You step forward. The pretty yellow fog is shifting, and some grey comes through. The stranger’s eyes burn into you, but you are not
scared. This person seems more...comforting. They feel safer than the waters behind you.
You feel — something else. Something outside the dullness in your mind. Something like awakening. The thought from before comes back,
slowly. You think, danger — you think, the water is controlling me, you think, I need to get to that train — you think —
Something wet crawls gently up your ankle. You look down.
A perfect, shining band of water encases your bare foot. As you watch, it creeps up your leg. Your mind empties and you smile again.
Pretty yellow fog, you think distantly, staring at the sky. You are lying on the ground. You don’t remember getting there.
The train gives one more whistle, but it is far away now. You think the stranger shouts — guttural, unnatural, piercing. It does not matter.
Nothing matters but the water cradling your body as it welcomes you home. x
ART by GRACE KANG
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I’M
EXHAUSTED
FLOW
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THE PLASTIC SLIPPER WORDS by NEDA PIROUZMAND
I feel dwarfed by the overwhelming castle before me. Prince charming is late, as usual. As people stroll by, my eyes remain glued to the floor. I pretend to smooth the top layer of my dress, even though I’m well aware that it will remain forever wrinkled. The dress was awfully itchy for something that seemed so free and comfortable in the movies. The skirt cage is a lot more of a hassle than I think Fairy Godmother would have predicted. I guess Disney makes anything seem possible. It’s easy to feel the gaze of about twenty youngins on me. They are all clustered together. I slowly turn away from where they are standing. I’ll entertain them at some point, but if one more kid comments on the colour of my dress, we’re going to have a problem. I was not prepared when it happened the first time. “Aw hi you! Welcome to the Magical Kingdom, the most magical place on Earth! It is so, so nice to meet you. My name is Cinderella, what is yours?” I had practically mastered the singsong tune of Cinderella’s voice from the 1950 adaptation. This kid scrunches up their face like they’d just swallowed milk that had gone bad. “You’re not Cinderella.” A couple parents turn around at this point.
“Oh, you silly goose, you! That’s a funny joke, but I’m right here!”
I do a little twirl for good effect.
“Mmm, I don’t think so. Her dress is supposed to be silver. Yours is blue. Her shoes are glass. Yours are plastic. And she’s supposed to be pretty.” Ouch. That last one hurt. The McDonald’s ten piece Chicken McNuggets Meal treated me well after my shift. I hadn’t actually seen the original Cinderella, or any version, period. I only used a couple YouTube clips to get her voice right and speed read a summary of the movie on IMDB. This kid got to me so much that I forced myself to watch the whole thing as I downed my medium Mcdonald’s fries. Pretty sure I practically drank the ketchup too. Ew. It was worth it though. I learned that silver was a bit of a stretch. OG Cindy’s dress was more like a very light blue or even a grey. But, it certainly was not the Google Docs blue that I wore everyday. Kid one, me zero. 20
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“CAN I BE A PRINCESS TOO?” In training to become a Cindy Copy, I was fed countless corporate speeches raving about how magical Disney is. Sometimes I feel that magic. Other times I don’t. It took a while before I could get past what that kid said. It just stuck with me, I didn’t know how to shake it off. A different kid changed that. She was walking alone, and only later did I realize that her family had been arguing well a ways behind her. You could tell she was struggling, dragging her stuffed Mickey Mouse behind her, which was quite literally double her size. It would have been funny, except for the fact that she really did look sad. Another rule they taught us in training: no one, absolutely no one, can be sad in the Magical Kingdom. When she looked up, I did the very thing that I had spent hours practicing. With my fingertips to the clouds and my forearm at a 90 degree angle to my arm, I moved my right hand in the trademarked window washer motion. And I smiled. And she waved back, quite perfectly actually, as if she’d been waiting for an opportunity to show off just how good she was at washing the window.
Later, the girl came back.
“Can I be a princess too?”
“You can be whatever you want to be.”
“But how do I be a princess?”
“Why do you think you’re not there yet?”
Perhaps that was too philosophical for someone so young. I think I scared her away. Hopefully she would eventually realize what I meant. Now, back to these twenty something youngins. For them, I’m a symbol of a figure they’ve grown to admire, someone they wish they could be. But I’m also here, in my overwhelming skirt cage and itchy dress, to show them that they can be whoever they want to be. And maybe the reason I’m in my Google Docs blue dress and my plastic slippers is because no one can be that OG 1950 Cinderella — we can only be versions of ourselves. And now I’m crying. Why? I don’t know. It’s up and down, it comes and goes. I don’t have time to tell you my life story, and it’s far from a fairytale. I think right now though, I’m just happy to have met that kid. x
ALIEN
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BARREL OF BLUE (CONDENSE)
FOOD FOR THOUGHT (INFILTRATE)
CONCH HEART (PERCOLATE)
I was chasing after something all summer long. It was slippery, elusive, buzzing with song. It could not be held, did not want to be grasped. Maybe because summer never does last. This thing that I wanted, it glowed in the dark. Too blurred to discern, it simmered and sparked. It was radio radio radioactive. It was love that was held and then lost and retracted. It was the canal by twilight, coffee breaks in high heels, staticky club nights, and a barrel of eels. Slippery, blue, glistening, wet. Stole my soul, ate me whole, took its toll, but through it all, empowered my mind like a rocket-fueled jet. Those were the eels I wanted to squeeze. But they slipped through my fingers so I fell to my knees.
In dreamtime you walk Up a spiralling path Kicking dust in your wake As your eyes peel back To reveal the sun Stretching over the sill Of the windowshaped hole Of your house on the hill Its wide yellow beams Warm the thighs of your jeans, the skin, the denim, the stitches, the seams. Those rays kiss your neck. Dream dust scratches your throat. Warmth that tingled now burns Ash of urns makes you choke. Gushing gulps of clear water Could quench gullet’s need. Dreamtime is caustic Sleep starts to recede. In the hypnagogic state Your mind floats in painless hurt Days’s cold shock stuns your back Sleep’s sweet dreams grab your shirt Gravity’s gone And the water you sipped Floats up to your brain Where your thoughts are now fish Your skull’s a glass bowl Cerebral water’s white noise Fishy thoughts wanting food Feed off pellets and boys.
The carapace cracks. Thin light trickles through the chasms and slants that have opened to you.
NO ONE REMEMBERS SHIT ABOUT THE WATER CYCLE WORDS by ARIELLA RUBY
We are all born with shells, but some shells are thicker. Calcium carbonate conceals the flicker.
THE STORY OF SAND (PRECIPITATE) The story of sand I see at the beach: The top-most layer Is white like bleached teeth. It yawns in dawn light, Still cool from moon’s glow. Sun rises to zenith, Whispering things that it knows. At first touch, heat feels nice; Crushed white shells bask and twinkle. They think back to a time When they sheathed mollusks’ wrinkles. They slept in the depths Of a vast ocean sound. But the tide swept them in, Smashed them up, broke them down. Now these shells are mere bits That glow pearly at night. The sun stole their faces In the fierceness of its light. They fester at noon, Like colourless soot. Dreaming of vacation with the clay underfoot.
BACHELOR IN PARADISE BUT YOU DON’T CATCH FEELINGS AND YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE ON THE ISLAND (EVAPORATE) I live by the seashore In a house of muted shells The wind whistles through the cracks And the sand stings my face on windy nights But the sky is serene and endless The tossing of the sea teases and beckons At sunset, I look beyond the glowing surface of the waves Towards the shore Searching for a small ship on the horizon That will dock and carry me away. x
incite magazine volume 21, issue 1.5 “flow” Published February 2020 Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication. We aim to unite a community of creatives by promoting self-expression, collaboration, and dialogue within out university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, multimedia, and event production is carried out by our wonderful student volunteers. If you’d like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com. + @incitemagazine + facebook.com/incitemagazine + issuu.com/incite-magazine editor-in-chief (content): Neda Pirouzmand editor-in-chief (art & production): Matty Flader layout director: Manveer Kalirai treasurer: Tenzin Gyaltsen communications director: Elena Wells events planner: Shaya Sujanani content editors: Sara Emira, Grace Kang, Srikripa Krishna, Katie Lee, Lubna Najm, Arielle Ruby, Adam Sapa, Sowmithree Ragothaman art managers: Sabrina Jivani, Sandy Luu, Larissa Shular, Sarah Stewart, Rebecca Zhong layout designers: Lily Green, Saadia Shahid cover credits: Flow by Elena Wells
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