Incite Magazine – January 2018

incite VOLUME 20 ISSUE 2

again

Repetition is a strange concept. We attempt to create the same, but eventually confront subtle differences in each iteration. Childhood movies reveal a deeper story at the reruns. Our echoes cry back to us in a slightly different pitch. If our first love was a bouquet of bright red, every love after is a basket of pink hues. We helplessly watch our parents age through the annual family photos. Yet, perhaps the most poignant repetition is our continuous efforts to remember. When we sink into the soft beaches of memory, the sandcastles that we construct refuse to stand against the tides of passing time. The campus that cradles a sense of belonging, the distinct aroma of home, and a foreign city that grew familiar are among the many things that gently alter during every reminisce.

Although we will never wholly replicate our initial pursuits, we can find comfort in words and art that immortalize our revisions of the past.

Further, our previous experiences have doubtlessly sculpted our current quirks.

We simultaneously hold onto the “before” and feel irritated about routines that trap us from another “after”. If we were to repeat history, we may have followed an entirely different trajectory and grappled with a separate series of chance encounters. We may have developed more intimate relationships with others, or worked just an extra bit harder to achieve our career goals. Since we cannot turn back time, however, we become grateful that we learn from previous mistakes and see each moment of our lives as a new beginning. After all, to repeat is to seize the chance to try again.

For our editorial board, Again is fittingly the second chapter of a yearlong saga.

Our first chapter, Burn, initiated a static cycle of destruction and creation. In contrast, Again connotes a sense of movement, a continuance forward. As with any repetition, we traversed through a mix of old and new during our second journey. We reaffirmed a production process that is guided by our tireless embrace for creativity. It began at our brainstorming meeting, where we met our contributors and their ideas. The contributors then worked one-on-one with our editors and curators to finalize their works, which we then placed into our polished layout designs. This time, we also piloted a “Staff Picks” column and took more meticulous measures to ensure the quality of our printing.

Most importantly, we were once again a tangible medium for students to project their authentic selves. For some, this is a healing process that allows them to reconcile past wounds. For others, this is an outlet for ingenious stories and inventive art. Regardless, the penchant for language and the artistic talent displayed on our pages have never failed to astound us. We hope that they will always find themselves in welcoming hands.

As usual, we truly appreciate our dedicated staff team, contributors, and every one of our readers in the McMaster community and beyond. Our printed production is made possible by student funding and support from university partners. This issue ultimately celebrates another creation for you—the ardent creative who rises again, yearning for the ephemeral to stay. x Warmest Regards,

Annie Yu Communications Director 2017–18

CONTENTS

5 6 7 8 10 12 14 16 19 20 22 23 24 26 27 28 30 32 34 35 36 38 40 41 42 44 46 48 50 52 54 55 56 58 60 61 62 64 66 67 68

ART Carissa Siu STAFF PICKS SNAPSHOTS Emily Siskos AN INTERSECTION Leah Sather TRUE LOVE, 2007 Harry Krahn NOVEMBER Evra Ali BE READY Neda Pirouzmand THIS SIDE OF AN EMERGENCY Kayla Esser ART Candy Niu BETWEEN SEVEN AND NINE Srikripa Krishna Prasad WRITE EACH DAY Andrea Abeysekara DISCORD AND THE CONGENIAL PASTIME Ben Anthony COMING OUT Emily Meilleur-Rivers A CLEAN SLATE Tiffany Tse ART Elisabetta Paiano LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER Michelle Yao REWINDING Anabel Yeung RINSE AND REPEAT Josh Ravenhill ART Vivian Liu RELAPSE Nikhita Singhal THE MASTERY OF LOVE Virginia Ford-Roy JUST TO FEEL Shaista Obaidullah RETURN TO THE SEA Valerie Luetke THE LAST TIME Abeera Shahid (I) LOVE(D) YOU Michele Zaman THE DOLLHOUSE Mackenzie Green DE NOVO Asefeoluwa Abodunrin BEFORE AND AFTER Grace Kang IN THE CLOUDS Jeremiah So MOTHER EARTH Aranya Iyer BREATHE Simrit Saini MISSING MY ENEMY Maisie Babiski MEASURES OF PERFECTION Tian Lei DOOMED TO REPEAT Russell Mair HOLLYWOOD Coby Zucker TATA Vanessa Polojac THE DISASTROUS, DEBILITATING DISHES DEBACLE Nicholas Schmid WANDERER Carly Van Egdom CONTEMPLATION Yu Fei Xia ART David Shin ART Lucksiri Fernando & Rachel Kwok

ART by C ARISSA SIU AGAIN

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STA FF PICK S

M US I C

Frank Ocean’s Blonde

M OVIE

Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away Spirited Away by Hayao Miyazaki is my favourite movie of all time. As a child, I imagined going on great adventures like the protagonist Chihiro. After lamenting the fact that I had not stumbled upon anything magical in my life, I turned to writing to create these experiences for myself. I always return to the movie when I look for inspiration in my stories, or if I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. Chihiro’s journey of self-discovery, courage, and friendship transcends age. It also helps that the animation is breathtaking. I hope everyone has a momento which captures their heart and imagination time and time again. x

There isn’t a particularly deep reason why I keep coming back to Frank Ocean’s 2016 album, Blonde. I’ve been sitting here for ages trying to think of one. It’s really just a great piece of music, one that makes you feel so strongly that you can’t help but go back for another listen. There is so much love and sadness, beauty and nostalgia woven into every second of this album. The production is dreamy yet detailed; I’ve listened to Blonde countless times, and each time there’s more to unpack.

Even if you’ve never listened to Frank Ocean or anyone like him, I’d definitely recommend you give this album a try! x

—CATHERINE HU, CONTENT EDITOR

—YU FEI XIA, CONTENT EDITOR

M OV I E MU SIC

Ta-ku’s Songs To Make Up To As a follow-up to his debut EP Songs To Break Up To, Songs To Make Up To offers a contemplative look at the process of healing—moving on from those we’ve left behind and those that’ve left us behind. This record of colossal artistry layers psychedelic vocals atop rich instrumentals, creating a moody yet hopeful ambiance. I often turn to this work of art when I need peace of mind, and find solace with every listen. x

—MATTHEW LAM, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF (CREATIVE & PRODUCTION)

MOVIE

The Parent Trap This Will be Everlasting Love fades in and the credits start to roll. I nudge my Granny and ask her to rewind the VHS and play it again. While the tape rewinds, she gets me a glass of peach juice and sits back down next to me on the couch, magazine open in her lap. Thinking about these afternoons now, I wonder how she managed to watch The Parent Trap with me multiple times a day, almost every day of the week.

She must have heaved sighs of relief whenever I asked her to change it to literally any other film. It remains my favourite movie now, in part because I associate it with her and these memories. In retrospect, her patience for me, my patience for the VCR to rewind, and my undying love for this movie all seem slightly comical. x

—EMILY MEILLEUR-RIVERS, CONTENT EDITOR

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Space Jam In 1996, a little known director by the name of Joe Pytka released his second feature film. He likely had no idea of the profound effect his film would have on the world at large. That film’s name? Space Jam. I’ve come back to this movie—nay, this work of art—upwards of two dozen times. And that’s not just because I worked at a basketball summer camp where we would play it. Every. Single. Week. The first time I watched the film I was a child and missed out on nearly all of the its many intricacies, including its subtle humour, cinematic innovations, and masterful scoring (if you were unmoved by R. Kelly’s soulful “I Believe I Can Fly,” then try pricking your finger; chances are you’re a robot). Not only did Space Jam launch the careers of Michael Jordan, Bill Murray, and Lola Bunny, it also brought the sport of basketball into the public eye for the first time. If you haven’t yet seen this work of art, a notion I find highly absurd, then do yourselves a favour: find a VHS player, a Space Jam tape (it is, in theory, possible to watch this film online, but it’s highly inadvisable as you won’t get the full experience) and prepare yourselves for an hour and twenty-eight minutes of unadulterated perfection. x

—COBY ZUCKER, CONTENT EDITOR

P AI NTI NG

Van Gogh’s Starry Night My eye will forever be drawn to Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

That piece is timeless and somehow appears in every corner of my room. x

—ALI DECATA, ART DIRECTOR

WORDS by EMILY SISKOS

SNAPSHOTS

ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

2014

It was Halloween. My head dipped into the recycling bin as I threw up last night’s memories. Coming to university had been a shock to my system. The first few months were the most disorienting. I struggled to find where I fit, both academically and personally. Despite my shaky feet, I felt free for the first time, with no one to regulate my behaviour but myself. I pushed boundaries and discovered the sweet flight of euphoria, forever entangled in questionable decisions. On the way home I danced with the streetlights, exhilarated. In the morning I woke up on a floor that wasn’t mine, stunned. Over the course of the night my roommate had called me twelve times. She had woken up the neighbours in a panic.

2015

It was Halloween. The late afternoon sun filtered through the window and my stomach bubbled with butterflies when he spoke. Our conversation flowed with mutual curiosity. We talked about what it would be like to run away, how we felt tied to the people we love at home. In these beginning moments, I didn’t realise how much our tentative feelings could intensify over time. I desired to be chosen, even after intimately being known.

That day I lost back-to-back games of pool, but I didn’t mind, because when he won, he smiled. Outside, the leaves were just turning orange—the colour of joy, enthusiasm, and wonder.

2016

It was Halloween. Two stragglers came to our door; they didn’t realize our friends had already gone to the party. “Why don’t you come with us?” they asked. I told them I had too much work to finish. In truth, I had just become acquainted with grief and needed to be alone. I had spent the last several years filling myself up with love for others. I had left too little of it for myself when I needed it most. Feeling isolated, I closed the door. There was a thin line of frost on the window pane.

2017

It was Halloween. I arrived late to the neighbourhood bar, our habitual meeting spot. The man across from me had tired eyes, perhaps from a stressful week. In a breath, he released his tension and smiled. The group held effortless conversation, a privilege granted by long-established friendships. I thought about the vividness of each of our lives: imperfectly human, common but powerful. Lagging behind, I was the last of our group to exit the bar.

Outside the streetlamps glowed softly through the mist, gently illuminating the comradery of the people below.

There is something special about these mundane moments; before, I used to take their cyclic predictability for granted. I reflected that the deepest lessons I have learned at university came from outside the classroom. Lessons of immoderation and temperance, of euphoria and peace, of love and loss and healing. Working through the dissonance has grounded me.

That night, I carried in my pocket a complacent love of living. x

AGAIN

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AN INTERSECTION WORDS by LEAH SATHER ART by IMASHA PERERA

“Miserable day for it to be late.”

She brushes her hair out of her face and glances over to me.

“Yeah, it is,” she yells over the wind. Her hair is whipped back into disarray.

We’ve had this conversation before. The first time, it was dumping rain and I was taking shelter under the covered part of the platform. My clothes were soaked through and I was eagerly awaiting the chance to sit down and wipe off my glasses—if I could find a patch of dry cloth on me—and maybe wring out my socks. She was standing further down the platform (in her usual spot, I have come to realize) staring across the tracks.

“What a miserable day for it to be late.”

She takes a second to realize I’m talking to her, and then nods thoughtfully. Politely.

“Yes, it is.”

Of course, in her heavy-duty raincoat and weather-appropriate boots, I’m sure she doesn’t mind it as much as I do.

The train arrives several minutes later. We sit on opposite ends of the car. She pulls out her book of crosswords.

— The train is late again today. The air is crisp and the sun makes the leaves glow a brilliant orange against the blue sky. I can hardly bear to look at it all. I keep trying to swallow the lump in my throat, but it won’t go away.

“Must be a miserable day for it to be late,” she says, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah.”

— The snow seems to be blowing from all directions today. We’re standing shoulderto-shoulder and stamping our feet like impatient penguins. I pull my scarf closer around my face. She tugs her toque down over her ears.

“This is just miserable. Of course it’s late today!” I say.

She laughs. “Yup.” The ground is already covered with a thick layer of snow. In the distance, the train’s headlight shines through the blizzard. x

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AGAIN

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WORDS by HARRY KRAHN ART by MARIUM SHAHANA

Now where was I? Right, in the looking glass. There I was, and me, looking at me, looking right back in at me. Last night she had been right there beside me in the glass. But where was she now? I remember waking up and stumbling out of bed, tripping over the clothes on the floor, trying to right myself like a pilot who’s lost the horizon. She had been right there, in the hall, looking right back at me. I knew right then that she wanted me to follow her. She was right there and she wasn’t. Right, she had needed me to help her find her.

Hadn’t she? And where did she go?

She left the hall and I followed. And there we were. There we were in the restaurant and she was looking at me.

And the other people were eating their food, slowly and with relish. Their food was on their plates and on their forks and in their mouths and on their shirts. Their eyes widened as they laughed and talked, and all the light in the world seemed drained from the place, sucked into the glass fixtures above their heads. And she was away from me and turning away and starting to leave, and as I looked at all the faces they seemed to me familiar. In the corner by the window, a familiar suit and dress with poppies on their breasts, a glass with familiar flowers, and through the window, rain.

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But she left through the front door and I followed. And we were not where we had been but somewhere else. The shelves were close together in the store but she had squeezed up close to me as we read. Now she was ahead of me, at the back of the store, running her fingers along spines. But between us a crowd was burying their faces in books, reaching up for new ones, thumbing through pages, pointing at quotes, whispering comments to each other. But I could hear nothing as I pushed through them and to the back, through low-ceilinged corridors joined at irregular angles, pushing through aisle after aisle, searching for a face. And there she was, all but lost to me in it, pushing open the door in the back, stepping out the cathedral doors onto the cobbled street that we hadn’t been to since.

Since I had knelt before her, speaking like I was describing symptoms or mounting an argument. Since all I could think about was the dirt on my knees and the cacophony of the cathedral bells as I held her. Since I had forgotten my wallet in the cab, and since she had thrown up in the bathroom, and since I had waited in the hall as she called home, listening to her rising, sobbing voice through the door.

And since she was in front of me, I pushed forward and reached for her through the crowd. But she was looking at her feet,

stepping over the cobbles with short, careful steps, and since the crowd pushed against me, she disappeared into the hotel lobby just before I could reach her.

And it was just as it had been: the chipped plywood tables, the sticky floor, the lurid neon signs, the shining tap handles, the smell of stale beer. She was sitting just where she had sat, with her legs crossed and her hair hanging in front of her face as she stared at her drink. The room was packed.

We hadn’t said much of substance to each other that night. She was newly alone and needed someone to sit with.

And at the end of the night, we had just gone our separate ways. But she had felt real then, in a way she hadn’t since. And it had felt simple and good, as if human nature had gone away and left us to our own devices for a night. All things had looked a little kinder that night.

But as I pushed against the crowd they resisted me. The more I tried to reach her, the more they pushed back. Then I felt hands start to grab at me, grasping at my arms and legs and pulling me away. I was pulled back, back out of the bar and out of consciousness, watching her disappear as I was swept away by the crowd. And as I looked at their strange, silent faces, I realized that they were mine. x AGAIN

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WORDS by EVRA ALI

I slide under the fence. You hop over.

I reach the top of the bubble wrap golf course with scratched legs and mosquito bites. The twinkling of white and golden lights play before us as symptoms of life buzz soundlessly from the distant cityscape. We are a part of the artwork.

The skyline is an oil portrait of la vie en couleur, of suburban nighttime clamour; a spectacle scintillating soft movement and bicycle moons. One hand is damp from the dewy grass, while my other is warmly nestled between your soft fingers.

I don’t mind the bites.

— We are lying on the floor. On a bed.

On a couch. Outside, on the grass. In the back of my car.

You tell me: “I’m more of the throwdown type for emotional reasons.”

You tell me: “I just want to be happy.”

You tell me: “Not everything is about you, Evra.”

It doesn’t matter. The perspective of ceilings from the floor, I realize, is oddly mesmerizing. We sit by the waves as freezing water baptizes our feet over and over again.

I like missteps and imperfections because it makes things feel real.

You are femininity in the form of a shrug, a boy mimicking adulthood.

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Together, we were probably just kids attempting to navigate the Twilight Sepulcher. Here’s to fumbling hands, violent kisses, and feeling personally in love with the strings of moments tectonic to sucking rock candies and keeping our socks on.

— It was spitting softly outside. I walked down the wet, dark path. The moon was bright. You were standing at the bottom of the slope, waiting for me. You looked so cute in your onesie.

It’s hard to measure someone’s meaning to you as if it can be mapped out like a city, with streets and rivers logically sketched to scale with precision and purpose. Things which permit meaning in our lives emotionally can’t be quantified or measured, only felt. The architecture of feeling is often formless and barely holds to the blade of order and rationale.

Letting go is not dissimilar to pulling splinters from skin. My “defeatist attitude” was never about you. We both deserved better delusions.

— I hope the happiness trap doesn’t swallow you. x

The architecture of feeling is often formless and barely holds to the blade of order and rationale.

AGAIN

13

BE READY ART by JASMYNE SMITH WORDS by NEDA PIROUZMAND

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“Just one more time?” She is hopeful.

“No.” This time it is a strong no, but the corners of his mouth are lifted as he says it.

“Your fault for not watching closely enough.”

“Just one more, and I promise I promise I won’t ask again.”

“Some things only come around once, you know. You have to be ready for it when it does, appreciate it while it is happening, and miss it when it is gone.” Now his face is stretched into a full smile. He looks down for a second and fans out the cards. “Pay attention this time.”

She inches forward and takes her pick.

“Watch my hands,” he says. Her eyes desperately search for it but the cards are a blur that her mind cannot keep up with. She is so focused that she would not be able to recall her card if he asked. His hands are moving too quickly, as if they are one with the cards and he—ah. There it is.

His hands go limp as they are pulled out of their dance. The cards are no longer moving. She knows. Even so, he asks with an unfamiliar hint of eagerness, “Want to see it again?”

It is a soft no as the air in the room deflates. She drags herself back to the kitchen table where her responsibilities of biology and history patiently await. The answers can easily be copied from the textbook but she has delayed this mundane task. Unlike the questions she often daydreams about, these questions have no mystery to them.

“Wait.”

She looks up.

“See if you can get this next one,” he says.

Responsibilities can wait a few more minutes. She makes her way back to the living room couch. This time she stays silent. This time, instead of frantic focus she watches and admires, knowing that, at some point along the trick, he has once again deceived the inner workings of her mind. This time there is comfort in not knowing.

He beams with satisfaction at a job well done. “Do you want to see it again?” He is already shuffling the cards, thinking that he knows what the answer will be.

A strong no. “No.” His shoulders slump. “How come?”

It is her turn to smile. “Some things are meant to only come around once, you know.” x

AGAIN

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THIS SIDE OF AN EMERGENCY ART by LINDA JOYCE OTT WORDS by K AYLA ESSER

“DID YOU SAVE A LOT OF LIVES?” That’s the first thing everyone asks.

Truthfully, I don’t know if I saved any. We could never stay long enough to find out.

On my first day volunteering as an emergency first responder in Israel, I began a list of every case we treated.

I thought it would remind me that everyone I encountered had a life larger and richer than the few emotionallycharged hours we spent together.

Looking back, it is less a reminder of the people and more a catalogue of their traumas. 33 hospital transfers. Four car accidents. Four chronic illnesses, four heart conditions, three young children. Two broken bones, one fire, one overdose. One suicide.

The numbers don’t do much to capture reality, the helplessness you feel when you see someone in pain, or the confusion of approaching a burning wreck where everyone is talking rapidly in a foreign language.

At the first car accident, I grabbed the defibrillator and stretcher and jumped out of the ambulance when we arrived.

I could see the wreckage spread across the road: scraps of metal, a small river of gasoline, shattered glass reflecting the midday sun. One of the cars was crushed so low to the ground that you could barely see the passengers. They were

an elderly couple, both heads bent as if sleeping. I yelled to my driver that they were unconscious. I wondered why he didn’t rush over to help.

“You can put those back,” he said in Hebrew, gesturing at the equipment.

I don’t understand.

And then, I do.

I think about the couple. I imagine they had a large family, maybe grandchildren that they were driving to visit. I stare at the man’s wrist, where his watch has come unlatched from the collision. I am tempted to fix it, but I do not touch anything.

Instead, I follow my paramedic to the driver of the second car. His face is white and he is shaking. He asks if the couple is going to be okay. We bring him to our ambulance to avoid the crowds of people now surrounding the accident.

In the van, I take the young man’s vitals and ask if he is in any pain. He shakes his head. He can’t find his cellphone, so I offer mine. I sit beside him as he calls his mother, his father, and his girlfriend, repeating the circumstances of the crash over and over. I see the anguish written across his face as he asks the question, was anybody hurt?

It dawns on me that I am witnessing a changing point in this man’s life, a moment he will carry forever, and it will impact him in ways I cannot fathom. >>

AGAIN

17

I sit beside him as he calls his mother, his father, and his girlfriend, repeating the circumstances of the crash over and over. I see the anguish written across his face as he asks the question, was anybody hurt?

He doesn’t know my name and we will never see each other again, but we are now linked by this experience. When we eventually leave the hospital, this thought lingers.

Two days later, I am on shift with a new driver and new apprehensions. We are parked by the hospital entrance filling out paperwork when we get a call about an elderly couple in a car accident. My heart sinks. Not again.

When we get to the crash, there is no commotion. I walk to the passenger’s side of the car as my medic approaches the driver, my steps heavy with dread. This time, however, the eyes looking into mine are wide with panic. I breathe a sigh of relief and begin the first assessment. I am grateful for the fact that today this family has been spared a tragedy.

Being on this side of an emergency is a strange experience. We know the details about what’s going on, though having access to this information isn’t exactly enviable.

Because inside an ambulance, every patient you see is suffering from the same thing: pain. We witness this pain in all its iterations, in every family, on every shift. It is in the eyes of the father whose toddler can’t breathe, in the pregnant woman who was in an accident and can’t feel her baby kicking. We can’t always solve the problem.

Sometimes, we can’t even identify it. But in those moments, we do everything in our power to make the pain temporarily subside.

Now that I am home, the list is the only tangible reminder I have of this summer.

Looking at it brings me back to each case, each patient, each heartbreak and victory.

It is a list that will never capture the whole story, only moments. I keep it so I will not forget the paths I crossed and the efforts we made. I am aware that the pain in the world is greater than any list could contain, but I am reassured knowing there are people working tirelessly to ease it. x

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ART by CANDY NIU

AGAIN

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WORDS by SRIKRIPA KRISHNA PRASAD ART by THERESA ORSINI

Between Seven and Nine The second hand on the clock hanging opposite our bed is stuck halfway between seven and nine. It jumps erratically in place, loud and steady and pulsing.

I haven’t been able to stop staring at it. It beats out the rapid thrum of my heart, the vibrating hand visible and mesmerizing in the moonlight illuminating the clock’s face.

You’re asleep right now, curled around me, exhaustion from the high of our collective euphoria having pulled you into sleep.

It’s not so easy for me. Every nerve in my body sparks. Fireworks and tingles of electricity arc and dance under my skin. I am a live wire of joy.

Will you marry me? The words are inked into my brain. Will you marry me? you asked, and I said yes, and here we are in the now, and nothing could be more perfect.

I resign myself to a sleepless night, the butterflies in my stomach there to keep me company.

The clock keeps ticking.

— The second hand on the clock hanging opposite our bed is stuck halfway between seven and nine. It jumps erratically in place, loud and steady and pulsing, a grounding force while our world shakes.

I’m taking the job, I say, and fight back tears as your face crumples.

Okay, you say shakily. I support you. A pause. We’ll be okay. I see you don’t believe it and a wave of determination rises in me.

I grab your hands.

We are going to be okay, I say, locking my gaze with yours and trying to convey the depth of my conviction. We’ll be okay, and we’re going to be together one day, and we’re going to get married someday, and I believe that because you are the one for me, and I am yours, and we belong together.

The corners of your mouth quirk up in a small smile. Okay, you reply, and there is a little more strength in the words. I pull 20

INCITE

you into a hug and we hang on tight, listening to the beat of the clock still ticking.

— The second hand on the clock hanging opposite our bed is stuck halfway between seven and nine. It jumps erratically in place, loud and steady and pulsing. Its ticks echo in the raw stillness of the room.

Your chest is still heaving, your mouth twisted with bitterness that is quickly turning into pain. A surge of grief threatens to overwhelm me. My nails bite furiously into my palm as I work to contain myself.

Neither of us is surprised that we are at this point. Neither of us can deny how hard things have become. But to end things now?

I don’t want this to be over, I think helplessly. I can’t lose you.

Your eyes are blurring with tears. So are mine. I reach up to wipe them away and see how you cringe, your eyes suddenly concerned for me when you are in pain, too. The tether that binds us still chokes you.

There is a terrible kindness in endings.

I let go.

Okay, I say. Okay. I walk to the door, but hesitate, meeting your eyes. There is a long, charged moment where I wonder whether I can take it all back and we can start again. For that one instant, I see universes turning in your eyes—a wedding, children. A universe where we are together forever. But the moment passes, and I turn, drained and numb.

As the door closes behind me, I hear the clock still ticking.

— Maybe in another universe, we are happy.

But not this one. x

Your chest is still heaving, your mouth twisted with bitterness that is quickly turning into pain.

AGAIN

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WR IT E E AC H DA Y WORDS by ANDREA ABEYSEK ARA ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

(Her) If you wear glasses, take them off My life is what you see.

No shapes, no Edges, just Each day blurring into the next I don’t need calendars or clocks to Demarcate the days that all Dribble into one large puddle.

What I need is a pair of glasses To bring color and Clarity Back to every moment To be like him, Whose days are rivers, not puddles Who doesn’t wear a watch because he Aches to see what the next moment brings Not because he anticipates them with Military precision Legs aching from marching the same steps Over and over again.

— (Him) I never knew that I’d find Monotony in vividity My days are lens flares, neon signs, solar eclipses Beautiful by definition but Painful to look at for longer than A second.

Moments pelt me like raindrops, and I run, looking for a second’s pause to just Sit down.

Breathe.

What I need is a pair of sunglasses To shield my eyes from what I thought Would inspire them But instead, I brave the storm Too frozen to move, while

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People dance in the rain around me.

— (Her) I need to pick up a pen and Write each day myself — (Him) I need to pick up a pen and Write each day myself x

WORDS by BEN ANTHONY ART by CARISSA SIU

Discord and the Congenial Pastime Let us suppose for a moment that a man, vociferous but somnambular, chimeric but detached, was responsible for the increasingly candescent climate we face today.

What would it mean for the constituents of a democracy to at once take up metaphorical arms against this cause? For of course this would be a shunting of responsibility from the incumbent onto the undeserving—tying the man’s hands at once both to his own callousness, as well as the chastity of the state. Where is one left to go from here? The popular answer seems to draw on one particularly gruesome perversion of Marx, claiming that it is the task of the downtrodden to see justice through for their counterparts while also busily licking their own wounds, and all the while refraining from accepting an inkling of blame for letting the current predicament devolve this far. What Marx really meant—what he termed the reification of the alienated—was that without a recognition of our collective degradation the proletariat would have little hope of burgeoning out of the grasp of those with power. Thus a perversion, and an unproductive one indeed.

Rather, I tend to be of the opinion that the unequivocal response to such a task lies within the interplay of any similarly conducted amalgamation. While this is not to suggest the former play a divisive role in such implications, it would not be inequitable to suggest that the costs of relegation are twofold.

First, that the presumption with which was slated in must be tastefully swept from accordance, whether done so in the present or, for lack of paucity, acted upon within the constraints of due process. Second, if no assumption is to be made concerning the state of one’s own propensity, and the antecedent does indeed predicate the consequence, repudiation is an unlikely alternative.

The process of rectification is often the patronage of many such tasks, and eloquence cannot be counted upon to perform unilaterally if it is to be devoid of repercussion.

Thus, while I am not so pompous as to claim to be privy to some or even one of the answers to this now tired, old question, one can see that the path forward lies not stuffed away in some catacomb of distant memories. Rather, we must look ahead, beyond the gaze of our brothers and sisters before us, if we wish to push into uncharted territory. Querulousness never rewards the weak, and accordingly we must resist the tendency to leverage ephemerality to our own advantage. If cooler heads are ever to prevail, as the old adage goes, then atoning now for the malice of our ancestors is only the first step towards coming to terms with our all but certain impotence. x

AGAIN

23

ART by ALI DECATA WORDS by EMILY MEILLEUR-RIVERS

COMING OUT*

*to myself, to my best friend, to a stranger, to my grandmother

TO THE FIRST TIME COMING TO TERMS (WITH WHOM I COULD LOVE) I think I might have actually whispered it out loud to myself in the mirror. As novel as that sounds, it gave my feelings the legitimacy I was scared to admit they needed.

I was fourteen, a late bloomer by some standards, when I realized I wasn’t as straight as I had thought for the preceding thirteen years. To tell the truth, I’m not sure if I was more confused, surprised, or terrified, but at least I was partially willing to talk it out with myself. This took time, though—you try imagining that something might be true about yourself that had never even crossed your mind before. The intensity of this internal debate meant that it would probably be another two and a half years before I felt comfortable with a specific label. To this day, nothing has ever weighed so heavily on my mind. Sometimes it seemed like every third or fourth thought was about my queerness (or lack thereof, as I sometimes convinced myself). They weren’t always bad thoughts then, but I feel lucky now that only the good ones remain.

TO THE FIRST TIME IT FELT LIKE COMING OUT (FOR REAL) There are a few moments that I feel like I could play in my head like a movie, this being one of them. I remember standing outside of school with you one day in grade eleven, waiting for the bus. I remember you asking if I was okay, and the way I fidgeted and looked down at the large snowflakes falling on the pavement, blending in with the others as soon as they landed. I remember blurting out that there was something I needed to tell you, but that I didn’t know how to say it. You looked confused for the briefest moment, but said, “Oh, okay.” The bus arrived, and we found two seats in the back. I remember feeling equally relieved and terrified that you weren’t surprised. Words fell out of my mouth the whole way home, even though other people were within earshot. I remember swallowing the lump in my throat that crept up any time I thought about how lucky I was to know you.

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TO THE FIRST TIME IT FELT LIKE COMING BACK (TO A FEELING OF FEAR) I still get nervous when I realize I’m going to have to come out to a stranger even though I’m getting better at casually working my queerness into conversation. It’s when someone catches me off guard that I go back to feeling like I’m still finding the right way to articulate myself. If a new coworker asks if I have a boyfriend, should I correct her?

Politely say, “No, and no girlfriend either”? That doesn’t seem right, mostly because I wouldn’t feel the need to emphasize my partner’s gender, and I’m not trying to enforce a binary either. But if I just say “no,” I feel like I’m ignoring a part of myself. Afterwards, I remind myself that it doesn’t matter if a stranger validates my identity; it only matters that I want to validate it. Simply answering, “no” to my coworker doesn’t mean that I’m any less myself. It does, however, make me think about the time I spent being comfortable (instead of frustrated) with people’s assumptions that I am the default.

TO THE FIRST TIME I THOUGHT ABOUT YOU COMING AROUND (TO WHO I AM NOW) I didn’t realize until pretty recently that my Granny and I, had she lived to see me grow into who I am now, might not have had the easiest of relationships. Before she passed away, she thought the sun rose and set just to kiss the ground I walked on. Now, I don’t doubt that she’d still be proud of me, but I do wonder how she’d react if she read these words today. I imagine her mouth tightening and her hand fidgeting with her collar.

I try to imagine her trading tension for softness. To her, I’ll always be the little girl with three braids and a cookie in each hand. I’ll always be wearing sunflower-covered overalls and sitting in a blue wagon. She doesn’t know the girl who fought with herself until she was willing to put these words into print. Perhaps naively, I like to think she might keep a copy on her nightstand anyways, even if she buried it under a stack of Avon catalogues. I’m lucky I can dream about this possibility; some people don’t have space to even imagine a happy alternative. Something tells me that, upon hearing this, my Granny would make room in her heart for them too. When I spent those quiet moments trying on my identity for size, two things didn’t occur to me at all. The first was that I’d never get to tell someone with whom I spent so much of my childhood, and I wouldn’t know how to feel about that. The second was that coming out to myself was only the first in a long line of explanatory moments. x

AGAIN

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A C L E AN S L A T E ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by TIFFANY TSE

A flash− bricks crumbling,

tumbling,

plunging before your eyes.

A wrong turn, rather unexpected: unwelcome.

Ideas as weights on your chest− simply guilting,

blaming, haunting you.

Failures that never seem to leave: a deep, throbbing pain within.

Disappointment− it persists, multiplies, overpowers your thoughts.

You cannot help but wonder: will this cycle ever end?

But you have faith− you hope, beg,

pray for second chances.

You recognize this: one day, you can start over.

Never too late− despite the mistakes you’ve made,

the lessons you’ve learned, the disappointment within, giving up is not an option.

You will begin again: emerging upon a clean slate. x

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ART by ELISABETTA PAIANO

AGAIN

27

LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER In his loving memory

ART by ALI DECATA WORDS by MICHELLE YAO

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Why read palms, stars, or tea leaves when you can learn everything about your future through just four letters?

A. C. T. G. My body is better at reading this code than my eyes. When they first encountered the pattern, I was four years old and it was the fourth time that week I had awoken at 4am to the garage door growling like a monster, protesting as its jaws were pried open by my late father’s late return.

I did not hear so much as feel Dad’s feet shuffling against the welcome mat, arms cradling the refinery plans he’d spent every waking hour refining. His work was his baby. Whenever he talked about his job, his eyes lit up like crystal balls, bright against the dark bags beneath them and foretelling the ambition that would one day consume me too.

There was no yelling that accompanied his 4am entrance anymore. By then, my mother had already forfeited her part in their nightly routine. No matter how many times she admonished him for his skipped meals, his self-imposed overtime, his refusal to admit that overwork can be addictive and he’s long been hooked...he would continue. He would continue until he couldn’t anymore, because by then the tumour would have already reached his mind and cut our family open.

It was his brain that was cancerous: the organ itself but also the unhealthy habits it enabled. Luckily for me, I’ve inherited it all. His illness and the self-destructive patterns that led him there are both spelled out in every fibre of my being: A. C. T. G. I am not his sequel, I am a remake−poised for the same sudden ending. He’d given me my life and then included a ticking time bomb in that very package. In becoming the perfect father and perfect worker, he’d laced his blood with gold, luminous and poisonous to him and everyone down our bloodline.

They tell me that I have my father’s eyes. They tell me that he was a brilliant man and I should follow in his footsteps.

I struggle to remind myself that this tempting path leads to burning out as well as burning bright.

At school, they tell me to work hard, get a job, take great pains to be Great. I struggle to remember that yes, overwork will do a Great job at painfully taking my life one day.

They tell me that I am just like him. I am ecstatic even as I hope that my kids won’t have to hear a similar phrase at my oversoon funeral.

I love him but I don’t need to miss him because I battle him every night. Every night when it’s 4am and everyone is still working, but their bodies weren’t engineered to destroy themselves. They don’t have their fathers’ missed lessons looming overhead like a pendulum clock.

I know him better in death than in life because I can feel myself growing into him, growing up to be tall enough to reach the same heights he’d attained. I wonder how long it’ll be until I rise too high and fall. With Dad’s virtues and vices ingrained within me in equal measures, this isn’t an if so much as a when.

Icarus had been flying after his father when he fell, too, after all.

My mother knows all this. She’ll glance at our wall of useless his and hers degrees as she tells me, “Do as I say and not as I do.” This cliché is repeated so often it should be emblazoned on my front door’s welcome mat. That way I can walk all over it when I return from the library at 4am.

Mom loves him but she doesn’t have to miss him as much because I have his eyes. Blind to the present and fixed on the future, they can now read between the lines of A, C, T, and G. They can see the symmetry between my father and I, but they can’t see a way out of my genetic predisposition. His passing was a lesson he couldn’t learn from, a lesson that I’m constantly revising. But when every day is a test against your very own DNA, you can’t always pass again and again.

It’s hard to honour his good as I live in the devastating consequences of that self-taxing goodness. It’s harder still to avoid making new mistakes as I try not to repeat his. I don’t yet know whether our fates are written in the stars or DNA. But I know now that free will can only go so far down the paths the constellations and nitrogenous bases have long laid out. After all, these paths are built on nature and nurture, contrasting factors that still coincide to form the most powerful F-word of all: family. x

AGAIN

29

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E R|WINDING ART by THERESA ORSINI WORDS by ANABEL YEUNG

It’s Tuesday again. I walk out of class and your unexpected presence is a gift. Your voice soothes and enraptures while the world around us blurs. My heart races at the way you lean in, as if my words contained the meaning of life, as if I were all you cared for.

I replay the moment like a song on repeat, except it gets softer each time. Eventually the clarity of the memory departs against my will and the dizzying euphoria prepares to follow. “Don’t go,” I plead, “it’s been ages since you’ve visited. Stay a little longer.” It obliges, but when morning comes it has disappeared like a shadow leaving behind a bittersweet emptiness.

I often find myself time travelling like this, reliving moments that I can’t get enough of, savouring bits of sweet memories. I’m always hungry for more, but sometimes a bitter one will find its way onto my tongue. I wince as repressed regrets and mistakes invade my mind. And though it’s difficult to swallow, I’d gladly relive the moment to do something differently, or anything at all.

I am nine again. The sunlight streams through the windows while I play with my friend. Dad says he’s taking you to the hospital. He waits for me to say something to you, to come to you, but you’ll be okay, right? Moms don’t die. I just wave.

She says she doesn’t blame me—I was only nine. Indeed, I was nine and naïve, but the guilt and shame still consume me. How could I have been so insensitive? Was she hurt as she watched the ceiling go by, helpless on a gurney as she neared the moment of truth, knowing her daughter didn’t do a thing?

It’s hard to accept certain memories. Part of me is stuck in the past, but I also know that despite my past choices, life goes on and I must follow. Revisiting memories reminds me of halcyon days and my loved ones so I may value them more, but also of my regrets so I may not have any more. It’s difficult to live without regrets, but I’m learning to impart genuine appreciation, because people deserve to know how much they mean to me. Nevertheless, reminiscing will always be an integral part of my life. I will revisit my past time and time again, but I will always return to the present. x

AGAIN

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R I N SE A N D R E P E A T WORDS by JOSH RAVENHILL ART by CATHY XUJIANAN

Watch the riptides See how they rush in Like a new relationship Crashing through the reefs Rinse and repeat.

Catch a glance of clock hands Ticking in the same circle Tracing the time we have left Together till we part Rinse and repeat.

Our voices stutter Like broken records Skipping over precious words “I’ll miss you too” Rinse and repeat.

The rain drips down From a leaky faucet Keeping us awake To dream of the distance Rinse and repeat.

We gaze at the moon Switching gears like lunar cycles Wishing to go backwards To how it was before Rinse and repeat.

Shaken from a set Now so suddenly single Snapped from soft slumber To repeat sweet specters Rinse and repeat.

Rinse and repeat. x

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AGAIN

33

ART by VIVIAN LIU

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RE L APS E WORDS by NIKHITA SINGHAL ART by ALI DECATA

This was never what you intended— a path so off course it may not be a path at all.

(Steadfast descent into the warm abyss) A path so off course, you wonder how you wound up in this steadfast descent. The warm abyss beckons: tendrils caress your soul You wonder how you wound up sprawled prostrate in the dark; morning beckons. The pattern ends. Your sole vow, ringing with conviction, is that this was the last.

Sprawled prostrate in dark mourning for that hateful, inevitable return.

Vow ringing with conviction: this was the last.

Just one more— Fore. That hateful, inevitable return to familiar depths.

Just one more wagon overturned and set aflame Too familiar, these depths… you doubt you have the strength to turn over an old leaf.

You must first reach the bottom You doubt. You have the strength to do this much… to wonder why you must first reach the bottom before you begin to rise To do this much, to wonder. Why, it may not be a path at all— before you begin to rise, you realize: this was never what you intended. x

AGAIN

35

The Mastery of Love WORDS by VIRGINIA FORD-ROY ART by THERESA ORSINI

How does She do this to us over and again? How dare She? What right permits this swelling of the heart, this conquering of the soul? Through all that we encounter, how can something unseen capture us from within ourselves?

Take the rushing swarm of butterflies that stumbled into my belly. Flutterings trapped by joy but escaping through laughter made my once granite-coated heart turn to honey. My heart made syrupy and gooey by minuscule fingers barely able to wrap around my pinky. How could she, my unborn, create this?

Feel the gushing heat of lava flow from me, yet stay within me, and never yielding to grunting demands and tearful pleas. Until, that is, the surgically steel cold blades slipped open tender places to bring forth what was never imagined, never understood.

Revelations of the agonizing affections of my now honeyed-heart existing outside myself.

She ventured to remind me of ballooned emotions long lost, long stolen from me.

Sentiments still enveloping memories, caking them with sweetness.

Glistening green waters claiming me far below her surface after sliding inside.

Carelessly poisoned by man.

Green leaves of a friend swaying invitingly for my ascent up her trunk.

Savagely chopped by greed.

Gentle green eyes of a confidant weeping at our final goodbye.

Inconsolably betrayed by amputation.

She did this to me again. Love. She is always finding Her place on rickety ground, like the Old Man tumbling down his mountain, the cliffside, to his eroded death.

She found me. She finds me—again and again. And again.

Waking in his blanketing arms. Falling into them as slumber steals my day.

Our sacrificial wants lost in time then retained as offerings for an existence. How, for a decade multiplied by two and a smidgeon, do we continue to surprise and marvel ourselves? How, for half my life, can intense wildfires of Love keep itself from extinguishing, and remain rolling ocean waves? How is it possible to still find Love swimming in our eyes every day, always gaining momentum, unearthing new strengths?

Love, again, is a wise and old woman, visible beyond sight, felt beyond touch. Love, again, continues to discover and reveal through genuine devotion. Her openness privy to all willing to embrace and accept.

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Love, again, is witnessing the awe of a precious baby no longer small, but greeting life and embarking on her twenty-first year with smiles full of enchanting intent. Love, again, continues to submerge Her roots deep within each of us. Love’s tendrils curl into and through our veins, blossoming our hearts into bouquets.

Love. Again She rests upon the bookshelf of my heart. Determined and persistent from her perch to proffer the goodness and optimism she bears. Love washes me from within for the unborn children hundreds of miles away connecting the rootlets to me through blood.

How Love finds us is a mystery. And each time, Love challenges us to push these limits over and over. How we find Love expands and matures choices. And again, we receive, we give, we gift. And I embrace, I accept Love again and again. x

AGAIN

37

JUST TO FEEL ART by SHANNON WU WORDS by SHAISTA OBAIDULLAH

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To find love in a world where everything is seen and so little is felt or understood, she does not see the value in searching for the right man.

Rather she fills in voids with their vision, one distraction… time and time again.

Looking him straight in the eyes, she says, “Hi, it’s so nice to see you!” with her small talk smile plastered onto her face.

Almost as if it has been copied and pasted from her interactions with the last twelve men she has met. Her heart rate increases, not from nerves but rather annoyance due to another first interaction. His eyes glazing over her body, she leans in for yet another hug and thinks

step one: lean in step two: bend the elbows step three: tilt your head onto his chest step four: giggle They sit down at her table, in a far corner next to the window, a small walk from the washroom—her place to breathe.

With five star restaurants and intimate distractions, this clockwork conversation feeds her body and momentarily her soul. It’s fake smiles and small talk in exchange for gifts and pleasure.

And soon enough, she goes on introducing herself again, because she can’t get too close to one man, and she thinks Oh, how terrible it would be if they really knew me.

All the stories, all the lies; they’d run with fear in their eyes. And even then they will not understand past the scars they see. And so, when he asks to go out once again, she says, “I can’t see you anymore,” and moves on to another “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you!” with yet another plastered smile, four-step hug and denial.

“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you!”

But this time, he doesn’t take her to dinner. He takes her to the top of the mountain, a place where he finds peace. He doesn’t spoil her with gifts, but music that reminds her how to breathe. In the songs they sing about her paper heart and their misguided thoughts. Perhaps she changed her words, or perhaps he was just different.

But suddenly, it’s not another again.

No plastered smile, four step hug, and denial.

With him, she’s on the edge of the escarpment of a city she just moved to, with a man she feels like she’s known her whole life.

He is not an again, he is forever.

This is me, sitting with him, No longer focused on vision, but rather feeling. x

AGAIN

39

R E T U R N T O T H E SE A WORDS by VALERIE LUETKE ART by THERESA ORSINI

She’s crying again.

A pillow of tissues and tears down her jaw.

Kleenex fibres stick to her fingers wet and raw.

Let the tears come she’ll murder each one with the back of her hand or her wrist if they run.

A world-weary weeper backpacked to bawling she let her hair grow out to catch tears as they’re falling.

A rhyme without reason everything upsets from failures to fall-outs and every reject.

But no matter how far she swims out from shore she always returns to crying once more.

An island of sobs that sheds all the sea deserting her eyes so they’ll never see. x 40

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T HE L AS T T I M E WORDS by ABEERA SHAHID ART by IMASHA PERERA

All good things must come to an end.

From my last walk to work To having tea with my colleagues, I may return but it will never be the same.

The cost of leaving is not knowing if I’ll ever be...

Surrounded by green, Heard by the birds, Hugged by the bugs, Loved by the sun, In the same light, Ever again.

I remember the feeling of first time, The awe and discomfort of the new, Noticing subtle differences, Foreign flowers blossoming me.

New became routine, Now never again is in sight, Soon it will all be in the past, But will I cherish the last?

People will drift, Airports Apart.

Take shelter in each other’s hearts.

Never again not negative, Accept what comes next.

Put all the tests to rest, Broken phone, Lost wallet, Plane panic, Part of the adventure.

I replay the recording in my head, Reconciling all that was said.

All’s well that ends well they say, Proverbs have a way with words, And I wrote mine to describe, The last time. x

The last moment, Hard to define, But etched in memory.

Goodbye with no promise of again, But even if I see them in another place, There is no going back.

We glorify our past, Enchant the perceptions, Turn them into fairy tales.

Regardless of the mask, Change will come, It is the only immortal being.

AGAIN

41

(I) Love(d) You WORDS by MICHELE ZAMAN

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I’m sorry, I wasn’t always like this I promise I just can’t do this a g a i n It’s not that I don’t want to I do want to I want to really love Really love I want to break into my chest and pry each rib out of my body one

by one

by one and show you who I really am I want to love so deeply So deeply that my touch digs into your veins and sweetly sucks each secret out one

by one by one I want all your light and dark Your laughter stirs the oceans in me I had forgotten existed I want to fill your life with flowers Trace the lines on your arms and back I want to memorize every bump and nook on your body I’m conflicted But even these words make me tired a g a i n (maybe you’re only given a finite amount of love, tears, and laughter that you can offer another human being, if so I’m afraid I’ve used all mine up) Please be patient I’m trying to love again x

AGAIN

43

The

Dollhouse ART by THERESA ORSINI

WORDS by MACKENZIE GREEN

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Each room of the house is neatly assembled, with the dolls engaged in a variety of pursuits: one sits at a piano, another is propped against a stove, surrounded by an array of plastic delicacies, and a third lies in a four-poster bed.

“This is for donations,” Victoria says, letting a black plastic bag float down to the attic floor, “garbage goes in this one.” Another bag falls from her hands, settling on a scruffy teddy bear and a dog-chewed Barbie doll. I kneel down on the carpet among our childhood artifacts: stuffed animals with fiberfill exploding from torn limbs, board games with missing pieces, piles of musty magazines—all scattered carelessly, somehow suspended 20 years in the past.

We begin our work in silence. While I pull out the contents of a beat-up wooden box, Victoria sifts through the chaos in one corner of the room, picking at the refuse like a crow. She must have only brought one outfit into town because she’s wearing the same long black dress she wore yesterday to the funeral.

Nearly an hour passes before either of us speaks. The sacks filled with our castoffs have begun to bulge like satiated bellies. I grab a new garbage bag and peel it open.

“Carmen, come look at this,” Victoria says. She’s sitting crosslegged in front of the dollhouse we’d played with as children.

Although she is ten years my senior, she looks strangely juvenile sitting that way, like a child at story time. I make my way over, carefully navigating the piles of junk I’ve arranged.

The dollhouse is grand—a Victorian mansion with a pale blue exterior, inherited from our grandmother and inhabited by a set of delicate china figures. The front of the house, dotted with windows, is severed down the middle into two hinged panels. Each room of the house is neatly assembled, with the dolls engaged in a variety of pursuits: one sits at a piano, another is propped against a stove, surrounded by an array of plastic delicacies, and a third lies in a four-poster bed.

I move closer, still keeping a few feet of separation from my sister. There has been no contact between us since she arrived home, no hugs of greeting or comfort. We didn’t even touch as we exchanged places at the podium to read our eulogies for Mum the previous afternoon.

“It looks like we just finished setting it up,” Victoria muses.

She takes a small box and begins to remove the furniture from the picturesque living room.

“It was me,” I say sharply.

“What?”

“I set up the house.”

“Oh, okay. You set it up then,” Victoria says, rolling her eyes.

I can’t help but dig further: “You went off to university and stopped coming to visit, and I played in the dollhouse.” I take a few steps closer and collect the dolls from the top floor, tossing them into an empty plastic bag. “And I was the one playing in the damn house when Mum was into the vodka downstairs.”

I pluck a dark-haired doll from a miniature rocking chair and throw her head-first into the bag.

“Carmen, please don’t start with this again. It’s not important anymore; it’s been so long.”

“Not important? Maybe if you hadn’t left everything to me we wouldn’t be packing up this junk. Maybe Mum would still be around.” I sweep my hand across one orderly room and send the model furniture flying. A few items find their way into the bag and the others scatter. “Do you know how many times I had to get her off the floor and into bed by myself? I don’t care about your school or your fancy job, Victoria. She was your responsibility too, and I was a kid!”

I collect the remaining dolls from their various pastimes and let them fall into the bag. The rest of the furniture comes next—a bed with the cover pulled off, a ceramic toilet, a stained couch—and then in one movement I slam both doors of the dollhouse closed on the rows of empty rooms. The windows in the façade are dark, like sunken eyes. Taking the bag of jumbled figurines, I leave the room and descend two flights of stairs to the front hallway. There’s a broken lamp at the base of the staircase, and beside it, on a long table, is a lone photograph of Victoria at her university graduation.

I drop the garbage bag on the table, next to the picture frame. Victoria can have the dolls if she feels like that bit of our childhood is worth keeping; there’s nothing I need to take with me. I wrench open the front door and step out into the chilled air of early autumn, with its honey-maple scent of decay. I’ll send someone to strip the rest of the rooms. I’m not coming to the house again. x

AGAIN

45

D E NO V O ART by ALEX A CHONG WORDS by ASEFEOLUWA ABODUNRIN

I am cleaning...

Rusty floorboards Shattered door hinges Breathing in clean air, Bedazzled with a stream of visible dust particles Ironic scenes of dirt I am cleaning...

The home of my growth The place of my birth The root of my being.

Lest I forget I am cleaning...

The memories, the attitudes, That obstruct The coming of the new me.

I am cleaning...

Vacuum plugged in, Working away at the problem before me The room neatly coming out I have cleaned...

Every high and low Mirrors and drawers All that’s left is this: The spot on that wall

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As I clean...

The spot clicks Oops, it was a button!

The wall rises slowly Revealing, 1,2,3,4,…

5 rooms untouched!

I will clean...

These 5: Addiction, Debt, Bad fashion, Insecurity, And Anger, Once and for all.

I have cleaned...

Every hideout Arranged, Every bed.

It’s time to switch the light off Woah!

Why am I slowly seeing beneath this floor board?

Is that a hallway in front me?

Why does this hallway smell musty?

Did a cat die here!

Are those worms?

Crawling!

I have cleaned‌ The hallway of worms Rotten Secrets Till, I discovered a door What lies beyond this door?

A new world, maybe?

My gut boils in excitement.

A whiff of ocean breeze hits me Who would have thought a wall-spot would bring me this far!

How splendid!

How marvellous!

As I clean.

The door knob turns Before the beach...

Lies a landfill!

I have cleaned.

An entire house!

Five additional rooms!

One Hallway of worms!

I have cleaned.

Continuously Improving as I went Desperate for finality As period marks of three became one No strength or energy left Yet..

I must make a choice Do I clean this landfill ?

Or...

Do I just walk away... x

AGAIN

47

WORDS by GRACE K ANG ART by CLARA LARATTA-GERRARD

Before and After The surface of her desk is scattered with paper—notes, probably. It’s getting dark now, but she hasn’t bothered to turn on the lamp, and the cold glow of the screen makes her look ghostly pale.

You flip on the light switch and sit down beside her. She’s watching Friends with a strangely frightening focus, as if it has a hold on her very soul.

“Hey,” you say.

She hums absently by way of greeting, asks if you watch the show too—it’s amusing, it really is, but she can’t say she likes Ross at all. She’s watched ten episodes today, and her eyes feel a little strange— “You should probably stop,” you say. “Don’t you have a midterm tomorrow?”

Yes, she does, but it’ll be fine. The midterm’s in the evening, so she can afford to take a break. Did you know that seahorses are monogamous? No? Well, they are. Great, isn’t it?

“I mean, yeah,” you say, slightly taken aback. “But… why?”

She shrugs. Who knows? She opens another browser window, promptly searches it up, and you spend the next ten minutes reading about seahorses. It’s nothing if not compelling. Biology is great.

“Wait. Your midterm’s for physics, isn’t it?”

Yes, and?

“Never mind.”

It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion—by now, you know what’s going to happen.

When you come back a few hours later, she’s switched from Friends to a YouTube makeup tutorial. She doesn’t wear makeup. She’s never worn makeup in her life. To the best of your knowledge, she’s never even touched a tube of mascara.

She shrugs when you ask about it. All the same, she says. It never hurts to know.

There’s a detailed doodle on the margin of her notes, presumably 48

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the product of the last half hour—it’s Sasuke from Naruto, glaring at you sullenly like it’s your fault that his family is dead.

You take your leave quietly.

She comes to you an hour later, clutching a can of sugar-free energy drink like a lifeline. She’s so screwed, she half-wails, she’d just taken a look at the material and realized that she didn’t understand anything—she’s such an idiot, she’s going to end up on the streets and be the weird aunt that nobody ever talks about— You wait for her to finish before consoling her.

“Whatever, man. Don’t worry about it.” And then, for added impact, “Screw physics.”

You don’t see her for the next sixteen hours. Her door is closed, and there’s a forbidding air emanating from the room.

You can hear music, though. The same song, sickly sweet and catchy, looping for hours on end.

You catch her as she’s about to leave. The light’s gone from her eyes.

“Good luck,” you tell her.

She thanks you and leaves, looking for all the world like a soldier heading off to war.

Two hours later, she comes quietly into your room and sits down beside you.

“How was it?”

Could have been better. Could have been way better. She thinks she might’ve left her soul in that testing room. A long, defeated sigh. She’s deathly tired. She’s never going to leave it to the last minute again. God, what a fool she’d been! If only she started earlier—and she will now, obviously— You listen to her swear off Friends, YouTube, the Internet itself. She’s so earnest, you almost wonder if she’ll actually be different the next time around. Then again, probably not. You’ve heard this speech too many times to count.

Smiling, you let her keep talking. There’s nothing wrong with wishful thinking. x

She’s so earnest, you almost wonder if she’ll actually be different the next time around. Then again, probably not. You’ve heard this speech too many times to count.

AGAIN

49

IN THE CLOUDS ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by JEREMIAH SO

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These thoughts ran rampant in their minds as they gazed at each other from opposite sides of the car, creating the feeling of a void that could never be filled again.

The light shining on the mirror behind the door flickered slightly as a robin flew past. Outside, the echoes of the night sounded like a distant waterfall. The only sound in the room was the occasional rustling of the blankets and soft breathing. The rise and fall of his chest synchronized with the humming coming from the fan. Lying in the darkness, his heart was beating faster and faster as his body temperature gradually increased.

The sun was shining but the air was cool with a hint of pumpkin and spices.

A single golden leaf pirouetted down with the breeze and landed lightly on the ground. A bright, red convertible with a dent in the bumper turned a corner and sputtered to a stop by the side of the road.

The driver door opened and a boy, almost a man, stepped out. He was dressed in wrinkled clothes and smelled of cheap perfume. He had the perfect features, distinct cheekbones and an angular jaw.

On the other side of the car, a middle-aged woman stepped out, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and pastel white skin which made her dark eyes stand out.

Contrastingly, her pain was evident in the crease of her brow and the down curve of her lips. Anyone could feel the remorse and guilt exuding from her perfect figure.

As the boy turned to face her, he reflected despair, desire, and concern.

Their relationship had started a week back, but that time had been the best of their lives. They were in perfect understanding and not a second was wasted. The feeling was like a hunger that was insatiable; they couldn’t live a second without breathing the same air as each other. Waiting for the fifteen minutes between classes seemed like eternity and the two couldn’t stop taking their hands off each other. In both their minds, this relationship was inappropriate but the feeling of getting caught and the high risk made the sex even better. The affair was a taboo. It had all started with the slightly prolonged eye contact, the mirroring and hours after class. If their relationship became exposed, it would threaten not only her career but also his entire future. These thoughts ran rampant in their minds as they gazed at each other from opposite sides of the car, creating the feeling of a void that could never be filled again. She had made it clear enough that today was the day to end it all. She had said that everything was a complete fantasy and the love they had was false.

The boy could tell, underneath her assertion, she was still trying to convince herself of this fact. He reached for her hand and said, “I wanna be your lover… again.” She struggled to reply, “tell me that you love me again.” ………. Day 6753 x AGAIN

51

M OT HE R EAR T H WORDS by ARANYA IYER ART by ALI DECATA

Mother couldn’t believe it when I came into being, Yet there was never a shred of doubt that she would care for me With a love more pure than she could have imagined.

And even though she would never admit it, she was glad She would have someone to care for her.

She never thought she would have to cede to the seed of her creation.

Mother held my hand and made her other children bend at will.

Branches became the support I needed as I learned to walk, Even the wind slowed down its run as I took my first steps.

But she made sure that my feet were strong enough to go over jagged rocks.

A life sentence, celled in with a killer hungry for lust, was beyond her imagination.

Mother made sure I knew how to speak, But warned me that once sentences spilled out of my mouth and hit the ground, I would never catch them again.

Mother convinced herself that in the currency of actions, she would never have to spend it On surrendering to a slow and harrowing senesce At the hands that had once looked so much like hers.

Mother taught me to be brave but never let me forget that every part of me should bestow tenderness.

She showed me how to give love as unconditionally as her other children— The mountains who give their backs to lift others higher than before, only to be left behind Majestic nevertheless.

Succumbing to an endless selfishness did not cross mother’s mind, Until I declared that I was entitled to be alone, to leave.

And Mother let me go, trusting in herself that she had done her best.

When my actions rebutted her, she was surprised but she yielded When I lashed out at her with my tongue, she surrendered to the whip, knees on the ground When I spat on that very ground, she slid away When I took from her her children, she was silenced When I returned them in tragic and broken states, she ceded When I poured poisons into her skin, she coughed up blood, but uttered not a word When I dug into that skin and ripped open her flesh, she did not fight When I said I resented her, she relented When I killed Mother, She simply went And I wept, And that was when I repented. x

52

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AGAIN

53

breathe WORDS by SIMRIT SAINI ART by CARISSA SIU

The walls started to narrow and compress. I looked for a door or a window. Anything to get me out of here. The whispers flooded through the walls, so intensely that they seemed to stream into my ears and ignite an uncontrollable storm. My nightmares were running towards me faster than I could escape them. The oxygen was slowly being snatched from my lungs. I could feel my heart almost beating out of my chest with every laboured breath I took. My organs were failing—just like me. I pounded on the walls trying to get away, trying to push away the crowd of people on the other side; they kept shoving closer—trapping me. They would not stop taunting me. Their whispers consumed all of my air. My body futilely tried to grasp onto every last bit of oxygen that I had left, but I could not stop their poisonous words. There was no way out. I couldn’t break free. So, I sat on the floor and curled up. I rocked myself back and forth, tears streaming down my face like the beginnings of a downpour. I whispered to myself: I am beautiful. I am smart. I am worth something. It felt easier to breathe.

That’s when I woke up in the fetal position, sweating and gasping for air. It was a nightmare. Or maybe, it was a sign. x

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M IS S ING M Y E N E M Y WORDS by MAISIE BABISKI ART by TAYLOR ROBINSON

I remember the first time Anyone ever heard My voice The navy nighttime forest Almost lightened up.

My heart dangled On a teenage boy’s Guitar strings Treading through harmony, Drowning in sound, Begging for it to be over.

My heart Was pushed Under piles of embers Embedded In deep waters That I treaded through As though I was trying To get away from something.

My brain stayed home In the leather seats Of a silver car In the polluted city.

I slipped away Into wildlife like I was Trying to get away from something But there was nothing Screaming louder Chasing me down the gravel road faster Than my own voice singing back at me.

Soft, soprano, floating on minor keys.

Humming about white curtains, stockings, And the things that happened to me.

My voice sang about cutting off something That was humming in my stomach quietly.

Unsuspectingly, missing my enemy Instead I broke the guitar strings.

There was silence for a while And his white eyes, Reminded me That I should start running. x AGAIN

55

WORDS by TIAN LEI

MEASURES OF PERFECTION YES , T HAT W A S G O O D. N O W A G A IN .

In over a decade of classical music training, I have grown accustomed to having teachers make such a request. It is a common pedagogical technique. We are asked to repeat because repetition is hard work, hard work forms good habit, and good habit builds musical technique. As students, we play things over and over because it makes us better. Practice makes perfect.

It is curious how well a creative endeavour, like music, lends itself to the meritocratic equation: merit = ability + effort. What is being implicitly taught to students, often at a very young age, is that putting in the time and practice will make you a better musician. A necessary part of learning to play an instrument or learning a piece of music was, for me, sitting at the piano bench and repeating whatever I was to learn before my next lesson until my hands ached and my brain was melting out of my ears.

While it is true that posture, embouchure, control, and tone— among many other skills—are all honed over time and often require consistent exercise, the meritocratic equation suggests there is more than this simple correlation.

When we ask students to repeatedly practise over and over as a part of learning, we are signalling to them that this is equivalent to learning music. Your musicianship and musicality are a simple summation of your natural-born talent and time spent practising. This model is compelling because it implies that you do not need to be gifted to succeed. What one lacks in ability can be made up for in effort, and since the effort we put 56

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into our work is within our control, we can decide how good of a musician we would like to be. Recognition and reward will go to those who deserve it most. This is the great meritocracy.

The meritocracy puts its seal of approval on those who

RECO GN ITIO N AN D REWARD WIL L GO TO THO SE WHO DESERVE IT MO ST.

perform and a seal of disapproval on those who are struggling to do so. While it might be nice to believe this is true, a society that pretends to be based on merit masks more problematic inequalities. Instead of recognizing vital social, cultural, and economic conditions that influence musicality, merit is entirely chalked up to effort. This is especially clear in music. Proper technique cannot come without a great deal of practice time, but this causation does not work in reverse. Practice time does not amount to an equivalent pay off in skill. We also ignore the price of music education; instruments, lessons, books, but

also hours and hours of commuting to lessons, rehearsals and recitals, and dedicated practise.

Moreover, the pay-off is usually not immediate. It was years before I was skilled enough that playing music became something that was mostly enjoyable as opposed to frustrating and mentally exhausting. Taking up music is no easy thing, making it desirable to and achievable for a very specific class of people. The final musical product is almost impossible to produce for some people, yet we feel perfectly justified in rewarding and recognizing performance on the basis of merit alone. Students, or more often their parents, must make and be able to make a substantial commitment before they even have the opportunity to practise.

The final product cannot simply be a function of time, but we still ask students to simply put in the time and practice. If the final product is less than perfect we follow through on the meritocratic equation and ask our students to work harder. Any deficit in merit then, for the student, is a result of one’s own idleness—or worse, a deficiency in natural-borne ability. What this pedagogical exercise of repetition teaches students is that great music is accessible to everyone when it is not, and any incapacity to produce great music is a fault of their own, when in fact there is a vast range of inequalities that exist outside of one’s control.

We need to recognize that practice alone can never make

perfect; practice only makes us better. Practice is still essential to learning—this point is made incredibly clear in music education—but it cannot account for all shortcomings. We cannot pretend student’s work ethic or initiative directly determines their ability. We need to reconsider how we measure or why we measure a student’s performance as a fraction of technical perfection—especially in music, when creativity and interpretation are indispensable. If we are looking for perfection we need to ask more regularly what education can do for our students rather than what students can do for themselves. x

WE N EED TO RECO GN IZE THA T PRACTICE AL O N E CAN N EVE R MAKE PERFECT; PRACTICE O N L Y MAKES US BETTER.

AGAIN

57

IF YOU REPEAT

“Repeat a lot of times”

IF YOU REPEAT A CERTAIN PHRASE A LOT OF TIMES, IT LOSES

MEANING.

IF

YOU

REPEAT A CERTAIN PHRASE A LOT OF TIMES IT LOSES.

LOT. CLIII

MEANING, PHRASE

II.III.MMIII

$ A LOT

If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.

If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. [...]

IT LOSES MEANING. IF YOU REPEAT. A certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.

If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning, if you.

Repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.

58

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If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.

If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat.

A lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning. If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning.If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning, if you repeat a certain.

“If you repeat a certain phrase a lot of times, it loses meaning”

REPEAT A LOT A CERTAIN PHRASE

OF TIMES

ART by ANTONIO VIANNA WORDS by RUSSELL MAIR

Doomed to Repeat

TO WHAT EXTENT ARE WE DOOMED TO REPEAT HISTORY? Today we see the re-emergence of fascist parties in a manner that hasn’t been seen in generations. Parties that espouse populist messages founded on the belief that some ethnic group is the “true voice of the state” have become somewhat mainstream. Political movements that target minority groups as a scapegoat for economic strife and inequality are today more mainstream than at any point in my lifetime.

How did we get here?

I never thought that this kind of discourse would be something I would see in my lifetime. I thought this because unlike when these forces first emerged, today we have the annals of history to look to. Just look at what ethnic tensions did in Germany and Italy! Societal purity is fundamentally dangerous. Look at the strife that Argentina and Spain fascists imposed on their people. These brutally repressive regimes almost speak for themselves.

So why are fascist overtures emerging into the forefront?

How can these ideas still have any allure?

As it turns out, the true danger of fascism is that fascism’s allure is timeless.

Fascists appeal to the working class who are disenfranchised

by society, and give them easy answers to complex economic and social questions. This appeal grows during periods of economic inequality or strife. Today, Western societies are vastly more unequal than a generation ago, giving fascists the licence they need. Our grandparents challenged racial and ethnic tensions with not only strong morals, but proof that scapegoating was unnecessary. They showed that it was possible for society to be multicultural and showed social policies that gave the future promise. Education for all. Healthcare for all. A solid job and retirement. Today disenfranchised voters feel that a similar economic future is no longer guaranteed. Society’s inability to address the realities of economic stagnation has left open the door once again to reductionist ideology.

Moreover, the sordid truth was that for as much as Western democracies in principle remained against fascism, they were willing to aid and abet fascist leaders when it served their national interests. Fascism and its underlying ethnonationalist premise was found all over the world since the end of World War II and was tolerated. See Franco, Pinochet as particularly poignant examples. x AGAIN

59

WORDS by COBY ZUCKER

FADE IN: RJ:

LUCY: RJ: DIRECTOR:

RJ:

HOLLYWOOD INCITE

Mary, when I’m with you I…I just feel like a different person. When I’ve had a bad day all I can think about is holding you in my arms. When I feel down, I think of your face—the brightness in your eyes and the fullness of your lips—and I feel as though I can continue. I know I ship out tomorrow. I know we both hoped this day would never arrive. But, the day is here. Now I don’t want to put this on you, but it’s got to be said… there’s a chance I won’t ever come back.

Oh Patrick!

I know. It’s horrible, but it’s true. Before I go, there’s just one thing I need from you, Mary. Please make me the happiest man alive. Will you marry— No, no, no, no, fuuuuuuck no. Cut, for fuck’s sake, cut. What is this shit, RJ? What is this? You look dead out there. This is a declaration of your love, not your damned drivethrough order at Wendy’s.

The fuck do you want from me? I did it exactly like you said to do it. You heard him tell me to do it like that, right Lucy?

LUCY:

I thought it was fine, RJ, I really did. I thought it was fine. But, you know, I’m not the director. So, I’m not getting involved.

DIRECTOR:

It was lifeless, RJ. Flat. Where’s the spark? I’m trying to put together good television.

RJ:

60

[Patrick proposes to Mary]

DIRECTOR:

RJ:

DIRECTOR:

Good television? It’s a soap!

You’re damned right it’s a soap. And people watch this soap, you ungrateful piece of excrement. Thousands of viewers tune in to witness Patrick and Mary’s undying love and devotion. Are you giving off love and devotion? Not a chance. You’re talking your lines at Lucy like she’s your goddamn mother-in-law. Run it again. From the top.

No, I’m not going to run it again. You hear me? I’m sick of this shit. Sick of it. I don’t need this. I’ve been playing Patrick O’Connell for four seasons. Four seasons. Four.

I know how to play this damn character. I am this character. But you treat me like I’m fucking insignificant. You abuse me, talk down to me, you even touched me you fucking perv…

Go on. Finish the damn sentence. You think just cause we’re four seasons in, doesn’t mean I won’t dump your ass? Think again. The execs are on my side, you miserable excuse for an actor. I’m the king of this castle, you little bitch. I was making television while you were still sucking on your mommy’s tits. And guess what? I dealt with accusations like yours before. I dealt with it a hundred different times in a hundred different stuck-up divas. You wanna lock horns with me? Keep talking back and see what happens. I’ll have your runt ass on the street so fast you’ll still be flapping your tongue all the way down to the unemployment office. Now. Run. The. Scene. Again.

[Extended silence]

RJ:

Mary, when I’m with you I… I just feel like a different person. You soften the edges of my world… x

T AT A ART by CLAUDIA SPADAFORA WORDS by VANESSA POLOJAC

Tata You were the first male figure in my life.

The one who provided, sheltered, and cared for me.

I wanted you to teach me wrong from right.

Idiot The first word you named me, When I was two years old While I sat on the staircase, Waiting for you To tie my shoelaces.

Fat You have formed my self-identity.

You triple the number it says On the scale, Standing is a twelve year old girl Afraid to eat because Of what you might say.

Stupid Girl The excitement of having a little sister had to be hidden.

I will never forget The anger and frustration in your face After you found out it was another girl.

I am just like her.

We are sorry we will not carry on the last name.

Worthless These words playing on repeat.

The soundtrack he thrust into my brain.

Your names have turned my body Into numb space.

Nessa Outside I laugh, I smile and charm, To distance myself from you.

Your anger and frustration Has forever stained me With the ink of your dark soul.

Tata I’ve spent my whole life trying to please you.

I can never satisfy you, Because I am your burden.

One day I will free myself from your words, Even though I still love you. x

AGAIN

61

THE DISASTROUS, DEBILITATING DISHES DEBACLE ART by CARISSA SIU WORDS by NICHOLAS SCHMID

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I step into the kitchen and the smell hits me the way a train does. A freight train carrying rotting vegetables that have had wet socks wrung out all over them.

I had dared to make the trip downstairs in order to make dinner, but looking at the pile of dirty dishes crammed in the sink as if there was no such thing as a dishwasher a couple steps to the right, my motivation to cook begins to fade. After all, I could always go to Williams. But then I remember how much, or should I say how little, is left in my bank account, and my appetite begins to crawl back. If anything, the cornucopia of dirty dishes now looks enticing to clean compared to further thinning of my wallet.

As I set to work on the first pot, my memory drifts to when my housemates and I were first house-hunting and being rejected by landlords. One such housemate—who, judging by the cleanliness of the pot I am scrubbing right now, was its latest user—had said he wanted us all to keep our kitchen clean. I’m not quite sure what his definition of ‘clean’ is, but evidently it does not involve soap.

Two pots later, another of my housemates walks in, Aquafina in hand.

I’m not sure if this guy is allergic to Brita filters, or whether he is just trying to burn his own private hole in the ozone, but I doubt he knows what tap water tastes like. He offers to help clean—by which he means watch me clean—but I’m in a mood to feel like a martyr and so I decline.

Not long after, another two poke their heads in. One is the Gordon Ramsey of pesto wraps and legit nothing else, while the

other is on a strict frozen pizza diet. We all whine together about how we should keep the kitchen cleaner, none of us bearing the slightest delusion that saying so will change anything. Finally, I finish the last pot that had anywhere between five and fifteen previous meals stuck to it in various places.

Dishes clean, I make the rookie mistake of not pinching my nose when I peer into our fridge. I cook whatever I have left in there, pilfer a few spices from one of my housemate’s cabinets, and take my meal to the dinner table. All in about half the time it took to clean the kitchen.

I have some big test tomorrow, so I’m studying as I eat. I probably should go to the library, but I convince myself my house isn’t too distracting.

Yeah, as if.

The next poor soul to brave the uncharted horrors that are the backs of the drawers of our fridge—seriously, they haven’t been opened since that lettuce went bad in September—is blasting Christmas music as if the spirit of the season will get him through the Armageddon of our kitchen. Soon, despite my best efforts and the fact that we are barely minutes into November, Frosty is in my head and I can’t remember whatever it is I’m supposed to be reading.

Being honest, this has been a more productive night than usual. The following morning I wake to a yell wafting up from the kitchen.

“Yo, man are these your pots from last night you left soaking again?”

Did I really forget to clean my own dishes last night?

Ah, shit. x

AGAIN

63

RERWANDERER RERWANDERER RERWANDERER RERWANDERER RERWANDERER RERWANDERER RERWANDERER 64

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WORDS by CARLY VAN EGDOM

It’s dark out and her head is elsewhere.

Her mind wanders, looking at the wall with a blank stare.

She thinks about the past, that paralyzed feeling from a year ago, or even a day ago, a moment in time.

She imagines things a year from now, or even a day from now, a moment in time.

She’s a tornado her mind is a hurricane, with a mess of thoughts trailing behind.

She can’t clean this storm with a vacuum, just like she can’t seem to take off the guilt she wears like a sweater.

She thinks and thinks and thinks, compulsively overanalyzing the minutia of that day.

Sometimes, it’s enough to make her shake.

Remembering and reminiscing?

Aren’t they the same thing?

No, she thinks.

Sometimes you don’t remember what happened After this What you remember becomes what happened After this It’s dawn, her mind is still wandering. x

AGAIN

65

C ON TEMPL ATIO N WORDS by YU FEI XIA

Rejoice! My laughter soars above the clouds, My happiness a high beyond compare.

Are cheers and firecrackers not so loud When my soul sings with such a mirthful flare?

In music, feasts, and stories I delight, With friends and family whom I hold dear.

A thousand birthday candles aren’t as bright As one lit with the warmth of loved ones near.

The future, past, and present all are gifts; Regrets are bittersweet but sweet remains.

Taste-fulfilling flavours of a life well-lived, A wonder how much love our hearts contain.

For what am I deserving of such fate?

The ups and downs of life I contemplate.

I often find myself down on the ground, Tears unshed yet drowning in my sorrows.

Among the hopeless I am surely crowned, Joys are seafoam, fool’s gold, merely borrowed.

In yesterday I buried my respite, But my memories go bad and sour.

Tomorrow’s tide is said to bring delight; Doubtful, I pray for a frozen hour.

I search for wisdom in my fam’ly crest At the cost of scorning all my passions.

Though when all is said and done I fail the test, If not true red my heart must burn ashen.

For what am I deserving of such fate?

The ups and downs of life I contemplate. x

66

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ART by DAVID SHIN

AGAIN

67

68

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ART by LUCKSIRI FERNANDO (LEFT) & RACHEL KWOK (RIGHT)

AGAIN

69

INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 20, ISSUE 2 “AGAIN” Published January 2018 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 our university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, design, 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 (CREATIVE & PRODUCTION) Matthew Lam EDITOR-IN-CHIEF (CONTENT) Harry Krahn ART DIRECTOR Ali DeCata COMMUNICATIONS DIRECTOR Annie Yu ART MANAGERS Theresa Orsini, Imasha Perera, Allyya Shahid, Carissa Siu COMMUNICATIONS Matilda Kim (Photographer), Annecy Pang (PR Manager) CONTENT EDITORS Takhliq Amir, Catherine Hu, Emily Meilleur-Rivers, Neda Pirouzmand, Yu Fei Xia, Coby Zucker COPY EDITOR Srikripa Krishna Prasad LAYOUT EDITOR Sabrina Lin COVER CREDITS Conceptualized by Matthew Lam & Ali DeCata Art by Matthew Lam

CONTRIBUTORS (Writers) Andrea Abeysekara, Asefeoluwa Abodunrin, Evra Ali, Ben Anthony, Maisie Babiski, Kayla Esser, Virginia Ford-Roy, Mackenzie Green, Aranya Iyer, Grace Kang, Harry Krahn, Tian Lei, Valerie Luetke, Russell Mair, Emily Meilleur-Rivers, Shaista Obaidullah, Neda Pirouzmand, Vanessa Polojac, Srikripa Krishna Prasad, Josh Ravenhill, Simrit Saini, Leah Sather, Nicholas Schmid, Abeera Shahid, Nikhita Singhal, Emily Siskos, Jeremiah So, Tiffany Tse, Carly Van Egdom, Yu Fei Xia, Michelle Yao, Anabel Yeung, Michele Zaman, Coby Zucker.

(Artists) Alexa Chong, Ali DeCata, Rachel Kwok, Clara Laratta-Gerrard, Candy Niu, Theresa Orsini, Linda Joyce Ott, Elisabetta Paiano, Imasha Perera, Taylor Robinson, Marium Shahana, Allyya Shahid, David Shin, Carissa Siu, Jasmyne Smith, Claudia Spadafora, Antonio Vianna, Cathy Xujianan, Shannon Wu.

SPECIAL THANKS TO The Underground McMaster Museum of Art