Incite Magazine - November 2014 by Incite Magazine

INCITE MAGAZINE

STRANGE

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3 ▪ NOVEMBER 2014

04// 06// 07 // 08//

WHAT IS STRANGE? Incite Editors

STRANGER DANGER Caitlyn Buhay

RELEASE THE FREAKS Dalya Cohen

COLOURING OUTSIDE THE LINES Shruti Ramesh

09// 10 // 11 // 12 //

ARTIFICIAL ELOQUENCE Kayla Esser

ART: THE HERO OF TWILIGHT Jessica Escoto THE WEIRDER SIDE OF VIDEO GAMES W. Patrick de New

HOLE Em Kwissa

14 // 15 // 16 // 17 //

MY NORMAL ADDICTION Elina Filice

WELCOME TO MAC Trisha Philpotts

THINGS THAT GO BUMP INTHE NIGHT Cathy Huang

JUST A LITTLE SCARE Aaron Grierson

// correction The top-left and middle-right photos on “Greek Getaways” (pages 10-11) were mistakenly credited to Jaslyn English and Kayla Da Silva in the October 2014 Islands issue and are actually by Kaila Radan. The production team sincerely apologizes for this error.

// contributors WRITERS Monica Alonso, Asha Behdinan, Sam Bubnic, Caitlyn Buhay, Julia Busatto, Devra Charney, Stephen Clare, Dalya Cohen, W. Patrick de New, Salma El-Zamel, Amanda Emannuel, Kayla Esser, Yara Farran, Olivia Fasullo, Elina Filice, Anthony Giavedoni, Aaron Grierson, Cathy Huang, Matthew Jordan, Em Kwissa, Rui Liu, Mary Kate MacDonald, Sarah O’Connor, Trisha Philipotts, Kaila Radan, Shruti Ramesh, Mackenzie Richardson, Emile Shen, David Yun, Rachelle Zalter ARTWORK Celestina Aleobua, Sadie Michelle Beattie Kandice Buryta, James Clark, Matt Clarke, Sarah Mae Conrad, Ailish Corbett, Jonathan Cortese, Kayla Da Silva, Mayuri Deshmukh, Amanda Dreise, Jessica Escoto, Leah Flannigan, Véronique Giguere, Sam Godfrey, Lauren Gorfinkel, Yoseif Haddad, Cathy Huang, Sonnet Irwin, Hilary Kee, Laura Koops, Jason Lau, Angela Ma, Diana Marginean, Monica Papinski, Franco Simões, Raluca Topliceanu, Elaine Westenhoefer, Shreya Yugendranag LAYOUT Catherine Chambers, Sarah Mae Conrad, Susie Ellis, Lauren Gorfinkel, Dana Hill, Avery Lam, Jason Lau, Angela Ma, Sabnam Mahmuda, Nasreen Mody, Elaine Westenhoefer COVERS/TABLE OF CONTENTS Lauren Gorfinkel

// executive EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Sam Godfrey Avery Lam CREATIVE DIRECTOR Sarah Mae Conrad CONTENT EDITORS Devra Charney Stephen Clare Jaslyn English Kayla Esser Julie-Anne Mendoza Imaiya Ravichandran Louell Taye ART EDITORS Lauren Gorfinkel Jason Lau Angela Ma Sabnam Mahmuda Raluca Topliceanu

// social media issuu.com/incite-magazine facebook.com/incitemagazine @incitemagazine

18 // 19 // 20 // 21 //

LYING WORDS AND PAIRS OF DUCKS Matthew Jordan

OUT OF THIS WORLD... Asha Behdinan

THE WORLD OF SHEL SILVERSTEIN Emile Shen

BROKEN THINGS Anthony Giavedoni

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SAVE YOUR DOUGH Mackenzie Richardson

WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH PSLs? Rachelle Zalter I DON’T THINK ABOUT YOU ANY MORE Salma El-Zamel

MORNING BUS Monica Alonso

// editorial

’ve eaten caviar atop a lumbering, dusty elephant. I’ve explored deep blue grottos coated in silky algae and dotted with luminescent snails. I’ve been chased by bears and bucks and balloon-toting dinosaurs. I’ve run through the hallways of a long-deserted department store wielding a sword, gotten high on a sweet, endless supply of artificially pure oxygen, and defended my two younger sisters against hoards of the undead after the rest of my family, city, and planet were wiped out by a nuclear war. I’ve escaped, saved, stolen, flown, died and woken up in my own bed. Whether or not you remember them, or believe in universal symbology, or like listening to other people talk about their own, your dreams are yours to do with what you wish. They’re a world within you. Sometimes you get to play God and sometimes you’re a peon. Sometimes you just watch the same terrifyingly mundane scene over and over again every night until one day you wake up and realize you haven’t seen it in a month, and in a way you don’t understand, you miss it. And sometimes, you take a handful and turn them into words for a pretty university magazine with shiny covers and passionate creators. But you try not to drag on too long because it’s full of other words by other people keeping their dreams to themselves. But it’s possible a few slip out. – Sam Godfrey, Co-Editor-in-Chief n

26 // 27 // 28 // 29 // 30// 31 // 32 // 33// 34// 36// 37 // 38// 40// 41 // 42 // 43//

METERS AWAY Sam Bubnic

GOOD GIRLS SWALLOW Olivia Fasullo

ART Ailish Corbett

ART Lauren Gorfinkel & Shreya Yugendranag

IT’LL BE OKAY Mary Kate MacDonald

COLD HANDS + STRANGE INTENTIONS Amanda Emannuel

TEXTING LANES Julia Busatto

OH NO YOU DI’INT Devra Charney & Kaila Radan A GUIE TO PEOPLE WATCHING David Yun

ART: LEGGO MY EGGO James Clark

ART Matt Clarke & Kayla Da Silva

ART Sadie Michelle Beattie

THE WAYS TO KILL A CAT Sarah O’Connor

THE DISCO Yara Farran

BEING UNFASHIONABLE Rui Liu

IN THE NOTHING Stephen Clare

Most people check the weather when preparing for a flight, but I’m more concerned with the temperature inside the aircraft – something no one else ever seems to notice. When I go on flights, my objective is to wear as many layers as possible because I am invariably cold on airplanes. While other passengers sit comfortably in cardigans and sundresses, I have my jacket zipped up over my sweatshirt with the hood pulled securely over most of my face. The option to turn off the air jet directly above my head is not enough to offset the subarctic cabin temperatures. – Devra Charney As I embark on my daily 15 minute trek to class, battling bitter winds and avoiding beady-eyed squirrels, I wonder: why on Earth do people enjoy walking? When I’m feeling stressed and need a break from the chaos of life, venturing into the wilderness is not my reprieve of choice. Unnecessary physical exertion equates relaxation?! Fuck that; I can think of a much more pleasant way to enjoy the great outdoors - curled in the loving of embrace of my laptop as the Discovery Channel blares from the screen. – Imaiya Ravichandran Uggs. I don’t know why anyone would want completely permeable winter boots that get salt-stained within a week of being worn outside, and don’t even keep your feet dry. – Julie-Anne Mendoza “What’s up.” Basically, I take issue with the answer, more so than the question. What is up. I always seem to answer “good” but, judging from the confused looks I’ve received, I’ve come to the general assumption that this is not a socially accepted answer. But what, pray tell, is? Does “what’s up” inquire into what happens to be on the rise? Would an appropriate answer then be bread? Ebola? Peplum tops and high waisted jeans? In spirit of my confusion, I would like to propose a motion to get rid of the now infamous “what’s up” in exchange for other greetings (see: how are you? How’s it shaking?) – Jaslyn English I’ve always found the concept of owning pets a little odd, especially when people are super close with their furry (or scaly, or feathery) companions. You know, the kind of person who spends more money on their Chihuahua than their firstborn. Don’t get me wrong, I love animals, but when I see photos of cute little puppies in Christmas sweaters, my first thought is less “Oh, how adorable!” and more “Man, I bet that dog is really uncomfortable right now.” – Louell Taye I find the entire hair-cutting process uncomfortable and disturbing. Firstly, the basin you lie in to get your hair washed inevitably looks like a torture instrument stolen from some 12th century dungeon: a thick, hard bowl seemingly designed to pry apart your vertebrae as some angry young college dropout viciously rubs shampoo into your scalp like she’s trying to thin your hair by friction alone. After this humiliating exercise you’re led over to a chair and left to awkwardly stare at yourself in the mirror before the hair stylist himself appears, traps you under a plastic tarp, and proceeds to attack your head with a variety of terrifying sharp metal instruments. Worst of all, I have to suffer this horrific procedure every six weeks or I start looking like a reject Beatle. – Stephen Clare 4

what do you find

STRAS

NGEN that everyone considers

NORN MALM INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

Unadorned bread. – Avery Lam

what does everyone find

ASTRA

ENGE that you consider

NOR LMAL VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

At any given time, I have a cut-up apple in a Ziploc bag. Apparently, there are moments when that’s not considered an acceptable accessory, but that’s not going to stop me from whipping a slightly browned McIntosh out of my purse at a concert or club. Besides, Copenhagen’s 7-11 stores sell apples that are pre-packaged and presliced, which pretty much proves how convenient it is to always have an apple on your person. – Devra Charney Some find it strange that I can substitute any meal of the day with fruit of the “orange variety”. No eggs? That’s okay, I’ll have a tangerine. Too lazy to make lunch? 2 oranges it is. Burnt dinner? Not to fear! I have a bag of clementines sitting on top of the fridge. People laugh, joking that I’ll probably die of a Vitamin C overdose…but they always come crawling back when they find themselves faced with an orange that’s especially hard to peel. Citrus revenge is aptly sweet. – Imaiya Ravichandran Peanut butter as a staple food. I don’t see the problem. It’s nutritious, it’s delicious (I’m getting to better points, I swear) and it has that protein packed punch that will get you through a two hour stats tutorial. It tastes good on bananas, apples, saltines, oreos, spoons, and anything else you happen to have lying around therefore making it not only a delight by itself but a versatile companion to stash in your purse. – Jaslyn English Apparently, eating two pizza slices together like a sandwich is weird. But I have no regrets. – Jason Lau Microwaved-eggs are perfectly edible, and taste exactly the same as eggs scrambled in a pan. I’m serious, if you try it once, you’ll realize that not only is microwaving your eggs not as weird as you think it is, but requires fewer dishes and is way faster than scrambling them. – Julie-Anne Mendoza Wearing socks with sandals. I can understand why people think it’s a weird or nonsensical thing to do, and admittedly it’s pretty much a nonstarter with flip-flops, but you know what’s even weirder? The human foot. In fact, if the power were vested in me, I would forbid anyone from wearing sandals without socks. The sock is a great invention, people. Embrace it, don’t run from it. – Louell Taye Cooking is boring. I’m just barely hanging on here in the hopes that a miracle pill packed with a day’s-worth of calories and nutrients is being developed in one of Big Pharma’s underground labs right now. Until that project is completed, though, I have to put up with the tedious routine of throwing a random assortment of meat and vegetables into a pot and dumping in enough Tabasco that it becomes edible. Though the resulting goop has been labelled “insalubrious,” “potentially biohazardous,” and most often straight-up “disgusting,” I just call it dinner. – Stephen Clare 5

STRANGER DANGER Caitlyn Buhay

Think about the last time you chatted with someone you didn’t know. If it was a relatively positive experience, I bet you felt a whole lot happier than if you had just kept your head down and played Tetris. There is another reason why it might be a good idea to start chatting it up with that unknown special someone. We tend to surround ourselves with people like us -- same tastes, same background, same choice at McDonalds (strawberry milkshake with fries please!) that lingers in the back of our minds. Of Unfortunately, this causes a lack of diversicourse, this all makes sense from a safety fication in our day-to-day lives. Wouldn’t it perspective. Let’s face it, stranger danger is be nice to meet someone who didn’t share real, and any one of us could be the Mac much in common with you? Someone who Masturbator! Blech. So why then, on occamight have a different point of view of life? sion, do we still feel an urge to reach out to It may not only be refreshing, but eye opening in learning a different way of being. The advice of a stranger can be valuable. Some of the most honest answers we get are from two kinds of people: children who have no filters – “My hair looks like poop today? Thanks, Jimmy” – and strangers that don’t know enough about you to tell you what you want to hear. Now, I’m not saying you should turn to the person next to you and start others we don’t know? crying on their shoulder about the guy that Perhaps meeting new people can acwon’t text you back. But if you ask them if tually be beneficial to our mental health. your ripped jeans look cool, or if they look like you had just cut out ARTWORK BY FRANCO SIMÕES holes to use as elbow patches, you might just get a straightforward answer. Lastly, let’s think of the situation from the stranger’s perspective. Maybe they’re alone waiting for someone to talk to, or maybe they want to compliment your all jean suit as much as you want to compliment their choice in McDonald’s take out. The point is, you’ll never know until you try. Just remember to be respectful and take a hint if people just want to be left to their own devices. Don’t try to chitchat in Mills during exam time, as that will only lead to dirty glares! A stranger might make your day or you might make theirs, but you’ll never know unless you pluck up the courage and ask them what they think of the book they’re reading. n

The guy next to me is reading that new book I like! I should ask him about it! Wait… he’ll probably think I’m weird for asking… he probably doesn’t even like it as much as I do… I’d just come off as overeager. Oh, no, he’s getting off here…

ave you ever been in a situation like this? That kind of serendipitous moment when you wanted to approach someone but you didn’t go for it? It’s a pretty common occurrence for most of us. You see that girl wearing cool Nikes you’d like to compliment her on, or that guy that plays your favorite song at a party. Usually, we are stopped by this “what if?” kind of feeling. What if they don’t want to talk? What if they think I’m weird? What if others will judge me? In a world where we have been taught not to talk to strangers, it’s become pretty hard to connect with people in our everyday lives. It seems to be a social norm that when we occupy public spaces, we keep to ourselves. “Don’t draw attention, or you might draw the wrong kind of attention” is the quiet whisper of our parents’ voices

In a world where we have been taught not to talk to strangers, it’s become pretty hard to connect with people in our everyday lives.

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY HILARY KEE

RELEASE THE FREAKS Dalya Cohen

A Review of American Horror Story’s Season 4 Premiere

he fourth season premiere of American Horror Story was full of promising horrific and spine-chilling moments. This season, titled Freak Show, centers on a struggling 1950s freak show run by a former cabaret dancer, Elsa Mars (Jessica Lang). The first episode contained plenty of blood, murder and kidnapping – the more conventional elements of the horror genre that American Horror Story has always offered. While the traditional horror story recipe was certainly followed, this season has so far set itself apart from previous ones by the more twisted side of horror offered by the ‘freaks’. The ‘freaks’ in the show include a two-headed woman (Sarah Paulson), a man with syndactyly (Evan Peters), a bearded lady (Kathy Bates), and a serial killer clown (John Carroll Lynch). These characters embody the terrors that haunt your dreams. The show plays on the fact that the overt horror of blood and gore is not, in many cases, the thing that scares

people to their core. It is the things that we cannot explain, the things that are abnormal, the things that are strange, that can instill the most fear. The so-called freaks of American Horror Story are meant to represent real, albeit violent, people.

emphasized to the point that it could make anyone feel uneasy. But of course, the most disturbing and unsettling character reflects the common affliction of coulrophobia: Twisty, the serial killing clown. Reportedly, his face was enough to give cast and crew members nightmares after filming some of the episodes. This clown is one of the most terrifying elements of the premiere. With a face that appears to be his own rather than painted on, and a scalp that may have come from another human being, his sadistic silence is enough to shake even the most avid fan of the genre. The psychologically driven terror of this season may seem relatively benign, but don’t be fooled by the lack of mythological creatures. Sometimes the most terrifying things are those that we may encounter on any given day in our real lives. So, approach this season with caution, for in it you may be faced with some of your most horrific nightmares. n

Sometimes the most terrifying things are those that we may encounter on any given day in our real lives.

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

Previous seasons have had storylines involving ghosts and witches, which, while frightening, are so in a more traditional sense. However, in Freak Show, the creepiness comes from the exaggeration of our common fears. The fear of deformities (dysmorphophobia), for instance, is severely

OUTSIDE colouringOUTSIDEthe OUTSIDEthe the lines Shruti Ramesh (@shrutiramesh)

treet art often deviates from social norms because it is generally unsanctioned and executed outside the context of traditional art venues. Artists have long since challenged social norms surrounding art by pushing such contextual boundaries. The aim is not to change the definition of the artwork itself, but to question its surrounding environment. Street art is able to openly communicate with its observers about socially relevant issues and ideas through aesthetic subversion. Its critical reception is somewhat con-

troversial with some considering it crime, and some (as the name suggests) viewing it as a legitimate art form. However, many would argue that it is this layer of controversy that legitimizes it as an ‘alternative’ form of art. The mediums in which street art can be found are as diverse as the content of the art itself. From the more ‘traditional’ materials such as marker, chalk, and aerosol paints, came less conventional public displays of artistry, such as Yarn-Bombing and Lock-On sculpture art.

n ‘Yarn-Bombing’ (AKA: yarn storming, guerilla knitting, kniffiti, urban knitting) This form of street art involves elaborate and often colourful displays of knitted or crocheted yarn. Its origins have been disputed, with the consensus being that its birthplace was somewhere in the United States or Southeastern Europe. The movement was popularized with the transition from knit cozies to “stitched stories”, which depict narratives or themes using yarn design. These in particular were popularized by one of the first graffiti knitting collectives ‘Knit the City’ from London, UK. They popularized this form of street art to the extent that June 11th 2011 was christened the first International Yarn-Bombing Day. In cities where the trend catches on, yarn-bombing displays permeate the traditional urban cityscape in trees, lampposts, monuments, and billboards. The desired mentality is that anything could be a potential target for yarn, with the obvious exceptions of traffic signs and anything else that could impact public safety. A major criticism of yarn-bombing is the rotting of yarn if it is left out in the elements for too long. However, this can be easily avoided through routine removal and reinstallation. For those considering taking a foray into knit graffiti but who don’t quite want to go the vigilante street artist route, try contacting your local government or arts council to scope out potential locations to install a piece.

n ‘Lock-On’ Sculpture Art Lock-On is a style of art involving site-specific installations of sculptures. These sculptures are attached to public pieces of furniture using old lengths of chain and bike locks. Danish artist Tejn is credited as the “founder” of this style, spreading the movement through most large European cities before its arrival in North America. He explains his method as taking scrap metal from urban areas and welding it to create sculptures, which he then “returns to the street” as art. This is done in order to reduce the amount of scrap metal waste in public spaces while doubling as an urban beautification project. The strategy behind this is to provide an impression that the sculptures are interacting with the surrounding area. Common themes surrounding Lock-On art were initially feelings of oppression, isolation, and immobility. This likely stemmed from the popularization of LockOn art as a means of making a statement about poverty, income inequality, and the social issues that would result if these problems were not addressed.

What is noteworthy about both of these deviating forms of street art is that they both subvert artistic norms without being destructive to public spaces. They are able to beautify the streets, but if removed, they leave the landscape untouched, which is important considering the debate about the ethical nature of street art. n

artwork by Laura Koops 8

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

artificial eloquence

e don’t often associate imagination with computer programming. Instead, we tend to think of software primarily in terms of tasks it fulfills. But what about computer codes that serve no intrinsic purpose? One of the latest developments in hipster computer culture is computer-generated poetry. There are hundreds of algorithms out there, from those that write Shakespearean sonnets to love poems to very terrible and inaccurate metaphors. I’d like to challenge your preconceptions of creativity with four poems: two by humans and two generated by computer algorithms. Can you guess which is which?

Kayla Esser

When Julie dies, mind; I can. My first round of chemo felt doomed. It’s not bravery, it is time for a forest for a lifetime It’s the chemicals, the imaginary edge, Love. I loved people who live at close quarters love was the odds that I no longer feel she is, she was; I guess that’s the way each of us chooses to do so.

What was the use of not leaving it there where it would hang what was the use if there was no chance of ever seeing it come there and show that it was handsome and right in the way it showed it. The lesson is to learn that it does show it, that it shows it and that nothing, that there is nothing, that there is no more to do about it and just so much more is there plenty of reason for making an exchange.

“It was a bright cold day in April,” yet here, in the real world, it was none of that Here, the warm summer glossed us all in sweat Sun seeking skin that lotion missed, I chat with friends in my car, highway wind cooling Sun-slapped skin drinking in the evening.

some men just want to watch the world burn some men just want to watch the world learn some men just want breakfast

The first poem is by JanusNode, a computer program, the second is from an Incite editor, the third is by human Gertrude Stein and the fourth is from a Google text predictor. VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

Jessica Escoto

The Hero of Twilight:

never understood the fun in video games, but after much convincing from my best friend and other half, I decided to embark on a dark and epic journey as a young, blonde boy in green clothes in a place called Hyrule, which in this case was possessed by the world of Twilight. Yes, my dear gamers, my first ever Legend of Zelda game was Twilight Princess. Hyrule became my escape; a good dream that I never wanted to wake up from. It became especially useful whenever I wanted to flee from the torments of school, assignments and important stuff. Realistically, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not saying that I would rather have had the responsibility of saving a whole kingdom, but virtually, it was far more exhilarating. I feel kind of silly to admit that I learned a lesson from a video game, but I will go ahead and confess that in my pursuit to save Hyrule, I learned to keep an open mind, and to courageously plunge into a world of unimaginable things, so as to not disgrace the proud green of the heroâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tunic I wore. n

From Boy to Wolf

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY ELAINE WESTENHOEFER

THE WEIRDER SIDE OF VIDEO GAMES W. Patrick de New

ames in modern culture today run the gambit from mindless, plot-devoid shooters to storytelling character-revealing adventures, but whether it’s the most recent installment in the Call of Duty anthology or Telltale’s most recent episode of The Walking Dead, the gradient that games run these days goes from straightforward action to borderline modern art-pieces. In that gradient live some genuinely strange and bewildering works of gameplay and art. Join me in this weird adventure through some games that leave the viewer genuinely confused about what they’re actually doing. Some games follow a formula, like Battlefield or Call of Duty: you have your gun and a fifteen minute campaign with the main focus on putting the player into different situations and dispatching any and all enemies that come on screen. However, in recent years there has been one shooter… that isn’t technically a shooter, or rather has redefined what it means to be a shooter. Portal revolutionized both our awareness of space and how we make use of it. The game’s mechanics are centred on your portal gun that shoots little rings, a blue one and an orange one. What goes through the blue ring comes out the orange and vice versa. You have to be patient and clever in the use of your portals, from teleporting to making your enemy shoot themselves to trampolining yourself through the ceiling. Portal’s campaign makes it a strategy

shooter not worth ignoring. With Portal 2, local multiplayer doubles the portals… and the frustration. But enough about gameplay, what about thematically strange games? I present to you a developer that is no stranger to weird and off-the-wall themes in video games, a man so strange that he has a number in his name, Goichi Suda, more commonly known as Suda 51. This man is behind oddities like Lollipop Chainsaw, No More Heroes, Killer Is Dead and Shadows of the Damned, with Let It Die coming to the PlayStation 4 in 2015. Suda breaks the mold in many of his games; instead of your

times overwhelming to the eyes. If you like weird, strange, and often-unappreciated games, look no further than Suda’s anthology of oddities. But what if you’re looking for an entire library full of the eccentric and strange? I give you… indie games. A lot of the time, after trying some of the independently made games, you’re just left asking yourself, “why?” and you would be justified in the question. With games like Mount Your Friends, a two player stacking game, where you control banana-hammocked ragdolls and use all of their strength to see how high you can climb up your stack of friends, you find yourself wondering who slaved for hours programming such a genuinely odd game. From the odd-ball to genuinely baffling themes that would otherwise go unexplored, and sometimes for the better, the indie market will never cease to leave you scratching your head. Within any type of art or expression, there are genres. Video games are no different. There are works that are simply meant to sell, and others that attempt to push the boundaries of what it means to be art. For every strictly formulated boy band designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator and generate profits, there are the bands that challenge form and break down barriers. For every One Direction, there is a Gorillaz. For every Call of Duty, there lives a Portal. And it’s not for everyone, but unless you try it, who knows? n

Within any type of art or expression, there are genres. Video games are no different.

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

character being a moral paragon of virtue protecting the weak, they are often motivated by very unvirtuous goals: revenge, power, or simply money. Mondo Zappa (Killer Is Dead) is a hitman who has no reservations about those he kills. He is purely motivated by money and power. Additionally, look at Travis Touchdown (No More Heroes), a man in a league of assassins wishing to be the top ranking assassin. The only way up is to kill other, higher ranking assassins. No virtue, no higher cause. No. More. Heroes. Suda’s games typically are visually very striking, with intense colour palettes that are extremely unique and at

ARTWORK BY SAM GODFREY

Em Kwissa

nder her blouse, just at the place where her left set of ribs ends, a bruise is ailing her. She discovered it this morning as she palmed the blur off of the bathroom mirror, this queasy yellow circle only a little smaller than her closed fist and dotted with irregular purple. It throbs now, nearly pulsates. She cannot recall where she got it.

What if it isn’t even a bruise? she wonders. She inspects it periodically throughout the day, wincing as straightening pulls the skin taut over the bone. Quickly lowers her shirt when other girls laugh their way into the echoing bathroom. Many a time from the cracks between the stalls she has watched them smacking on their lip gloss and separating their eyelashes 12

with safety pins. They tell boys to each other like secrets. Once, a few years ago, a boy she knew pulled out his gored toe for show and tell and everyone counted his stitches. Even he would be too old for that now. The day is hot and the air heavy with moisture. She would like to walk home with her arms outstretched like airplane wings and let what little breeze there is dry the sweat that’s soaked through her shirt. Instead she keeps her arms crossed, her hands clamped over her waist like the tableau of a school dance. The bruise hurts horrible, seems almost to scream. She could swear she is sweating more profusely than anyone else making their way down the sidewalk. Is it getting worse or is the light just better at home? The purple has formed a ring at the center of the yellow. She begins to cry. Her mother’s body, soft with age and stretch marks, likely doesn’t remember what a thing like this could mean for a young girl at the height of summer heat. Is there even anything that can be done about a bruise? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t dare ask. INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

What if it isn’t even a bruise? she wonders. Has dreams of a great white worm curled in a circle, just under her skin. Flesh darkening, suffocating, falling away. Warmth and wetness, and when she wakes, the skin has cracked open, and the raw circle is oozing onto her flowered sheets.

A moment. A brief glance. She doesn’t even have to rinse the fluid from it to know, and once she knows she is throwing it away from her, gasping and retching in panic. A tooth. Her first thought, ridiculous, habitual, is that the lunch hour

In a way she can’t describe and from a place she cannot locate she knows that it hungers. She tries to keep a lid on her sobbing as she scrubs away at the crust and liquid and it goes on producing, tries to staunch it with layers of gauze and tape. Anything she puts on over it feels insufficient. It will bleed through. A breeze will lift her shirt and reveal her. She ties a sweater around her waist, high. She presses a cold spoon to her swollen eyes. One of her mother’s tricks. That and the repeated assertion: No one can tell. No one can tell. And yet she can feel their eyes on her, probing. They can smell disease somehow, sense the evil pumping of infected blood. Mid-day, to the nurse’s office to shove more gauze and bandages into her bag. The flickering and sickly gray fluorescents of the basement bathroom, the one no one uses because it smells like stagnation and filth. The wet floor blooms with red as she unwinds herself, the drip from the soaked strips of fabric. They start to come away ragged, start to catch and pull. I won’t. I won’t. She has to look. The wound has yawned somehow, has opened up to some dark place inside her. The edges are smooth and swollen and slick with blood. Only a little smaller than her closed fist, and deep. Is that bone, protruding? A rib, perhaps? She touches the smooth and visible whiteness and it shifts. No. Not a rib. Terrified, unsure of what is worse – to remove the foreign object or to leave it to decompose within her – she closes her fingers over the hard little point and pulls. It doesn’t take much, though the pain nearly blinds her. It comes loose and falls into her hand. VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

will be over soon and she will have to go to class. But no – she is covered in her own drying blood and the best she can hope for now is to clean up enough to get off the grounds without incident. She scrubs herself, turns what clothes she can inside out, and packs the wound with gauze. She runs. She can feel it moving. When she gets home the fabric is gone. It has eaten the fabric. In the mirror she can see the beginnings of other teeth crowning in a circle. The bleeding has slowed to a trickle from what she supposes would be considered the gums. She disrobes, sits in the tub, and pours cup after cup of warm water there, until the gore and mystery has somewhat dissipated and she can see into the clean pink beyond just behind her new teeth. By the morning she can count a full set of thirty-two, a perpetually open taunt, a lipless and unsmiling pit. These teeth do not budge when she touches them, bleed and hurt horribly when she attacks them with pliers. She doesn’t dare look at it too long. Every few minutes she can feel it moving – tunneling perhaps, swallowing, replenishing itself with wetness. She doesn’t want to see. She doesn’t want to know whether or not it will bite her. She puts her finger into her first mouth and feels the pliant inner muscle and imagines this is what it feels like down there. She knows that it wants. In a way she can’t describe and from a place she cannot locate she knows that it hungers. She covers it over tightly and wears long shirts and pretends to herself that she cannot feel it ache when it senses meat. She means to starve it out. n 13

MY NORMAL ADDICTION Elina Filice (@elinafilice)

This article depicts addictive behaviors that are dangerous and risky in nature. Readers should not attempt. The names of the addicts have been changed to protect their privacy.

eet Steph, a 21-year-old life science major. For the last three years, Steph has been addicted to coffee. Although she started drinking coffee at just 16 years of age, Steph admits that the addiction has become more serious since starting university. “I start my day with two double doubles,” Steph admits, her eyes lowered, “then I have at least two more during the day.” She goes on to tell us that the stress of university’s many midterms, assignments, and late nights only fuel her addiction to the drug. “My entire life resolves revolves around coffee,” says Steph. Until now, Steph has kept her addiction a secret. Today, she is telling her best friend, Alex. “The coffee thing does seriously concern me,” Alex admits when prompted, “But Steph is my best friend and I’m gonna support her through this.” Steph has tried to quit several times throughout university, but reveals that the headaches and coffee shakes always necessitate her return to Union Market flavour one. But now, Steph is determined. “Now that I’ve come clean with my addiction, I have support in leaving the bean behind forever.” Since this interview, Steph has drastically cut back her coffee consumption. Ben, a 19-year-old engineering student, has been addicted to Netflix for the past eight months. Ben watches nearly five hours of Netflix every day, totaling more than 140 hours of Netflix a month, and 1120 hours since his addiction became serious. “It has taken over my life,” says Ben, as he eyes the ‘Recommended For You’ tab on the bright red phone application. Ben’s roommate, Darren, describes Ben’s relationship with Netflix as “out of control”. 14

Darren attests that Ben has lost interest in other activities he used to enjoy, but Ben contends that nothing makes him happier than Netflix binges. Darren is concerned for Ben’s health. “It’s time for this to stop, Ben,” says Darren in their room in Brandon Hall, “is your relationship with Netflix really worth all the trouble it’s bringing you?” Note: Excessive watching of TV shows has been shown to negatively impact health

ARTWORK BY JONATHAN CORTESE

(Reliable Internet Source). Since the interview, Ben has come to terms with his dependency on Netflix, but doesn’t plan to cancel his membership anytime soon. “Hi my name is Jake, I’m 20 years old, a Poli Sci major, and I’m addicted to checking my notifications.” Jake is unsure of how long he has been a Compulsive Notification Checker, but knows that the behavior is becoming a serious concern. Jake is so hooked that he needs his phone by his side 24 hours a day. “Whenever I’m lonely or sad, checking my notifications always helps,” says Jake. Though trying to hide the addiction from family and friends, Jake carries his phone everywhere he goes, saying that he never knows when a craving will strike. However, he has decided that “enough is enough,” and is seeing a therapist about the problem. “Jacob’s notifications are his only source of comfort,” says the doctor. “He depends on tiny red

numbers to give him external gratification.” Jake says that the doctor’s visit was the “biggest wake up call of his life.” He now thinks he is ready to regain control of his life and journey towards a notification-free existence. Jacob continues to see his therapist about his compulsive behavior. Kayla, a 21-year-old multimedia student, is a serious Scroller. She spends all day scrolling websites, social media, and blogs. Kayla’s boyfriend, Danny, has caught onto the addiction, despite Kayla’s attempts to hide it. “The first time I walked in on Kayla scrolling, I was shocked,” says Danny, “I didn’t know how to react.” Like most children, Kayla was exposed to technology at an early age, and considers her iPad her closest friend. “I really do wanna quit,” says Kayla, “but whenever I scroll, all the stress in my life disappears!” Kayla has lost several friends due to the scrolling addiction, and her grades have suffered. Tragedy struck two weeks ago when Kayla’s iPad disappeared. Kayla searched everywhere; she was devastated and began experiencing withdrawal symptoms. “I didn’t know what to do with my hands,” Kayla says about the experience. Two days later, Kayla’s boyfriend Danny admitted to have stolen the device. “I didn’t know what else to do” he exclaimed, “She’s destroying herself and the people around her. I can’t even take her out in public anymore!” Danny has given Kayla an ultimatum: scrolling or him. Kayla is now seeking help so she can one day leave her scrolling days behind. Although still tempted from time to time, the road to recovery is before her. Experiencing any ordinary, commonplace addictions? Submit your story and you could be in the next edition of My Normal Addiction.  INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY ANGELA MA

WELCOME TO MAC Trisha Philpotts (@BeingTrishM)

o not inhale the air in Mills. You have been warned. Welcome to McMaster. In weather news: it rained today, but only in a small, secluded area along the University Avenue entrance. Students are said to be spending a lot of time looking up at the sky and searching for the source of this remote and untimely shower. To put our minds at ease, Dr. Jeremiah, a researcher from Utah who is temporarily stationed out of McMaster’s Nuclear Reactor building, assures us that it is all part of his research. What research, exactly? He was “not at liberty to say.” Rest assured that the burning sensation is only temporary, and the droplets are 100% safe. Surely by now you’ve seen the man with the bun. No one knows for sure who he is or even what exactly he looks like, but everyone is able to vividly recall the diameter of his bun, the grain of his beard, and the steady cruise of his longboard. Some would go as far as to say that he is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, while others are simply stunned into silence at the sight of him. Third year Communications student Amber DiPassio reported seeing him at the intersection of Main and Cootes today, effortlessly balancing a Grande Soy Chai Tea Latte in one hand and his longboard in the other. However, second year Linguistics major Carlyn Grundy reported seeing him at the same time in the Student Centre stroking his beard, re-adjusting his carefully rendered coiffure, and all the while exuding a VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

seen on the lawn outside Burke Science Building at night mumbling something about climate change and the second coming of Christ. For safety reasons, do not approach them either, but rest assured that they are our friends. There is hidden treasure on campus. Enough that whoever finds it will be rich enough to retire at the tender age of 21, forfeiting that Engineering degree and pursuing their lifelong dream of pop-stardom. But no, still not rich enough to afford textbooks for a full course load – let’s not kid ourselves. The treasure is said to be buried under Woodstock Hall, which was once the sacred resting grounds of the mystical Tahwahee tribe in the early 1600s. If you insist on digging below Woodstock Hall in search of this hidden treasure, be sure to dispose of all uprooted concrete and dirt in an inconspicuous manner. Suggested methods include filling your pockets and socks with the dirt and dumping it in the nearest field, remembering to avoid the cloaked figures. It may take a couple hundreds of thousands of trips to get the job done (less if you have large feet and deep pockets), but who’s counting, right? Scorpio Horoscope: The sun rises in the West and sets in the East for Scorpios this month. The next raccoon you meet will bring you great joy or a rabid illness, depending on if you’re a glass half empty or half full kind of guy or gal. Lucky Numbers: 0.0024, 7, 43.64, 11, 0.00013. 

Do not approach the man in the dark cloak; he is not to be trusted. cool nonchalance about his Adonis status. So, who is this man with this bun? And, why are he and his bun so elusive? What exactly is he hiding in this bun? We would like to know. Exams are just around the corner, and after that comes the most wonderful time of the year: Christmas. We are holding our annual Toy Drive at Mac starting November 21st and will be accepting donations right up until Christmas Eve. Due to policy changes we will not be accepting donations of toys at this year’s Toy Drive. Remember, you may not have been able to salvage your grades, but you can always salvage a child’s Christmas! So swing on by and do not drop off a toy. Just a friendly reminder to all students: Do not approach the man in the dark cloak; he is not to be trusted. Not that cloaked figures are ever to be trusted, but this one specifically is not be trusted. He is said to roam Cootes Paradise at ungodly hours of the morning carrying a black bag and mumbling something about contrails and the second coming of Christ. Now, he is not to be confused with the cloaked figures often

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT Cathy Huang

ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD, CATHY HUANG & HILARY KEE

Best read in the dark just before bed.

ou wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, short of breath. You can’t remember exactly what you dreamt about, but it’s still there at the edge of your memory, taunting you. Playing on your fears. You shiver as a chill runs down your spine, slowly turning your head to look around the room. It’s still too dark to see anything, but you squint anyway. Nothing. It’s 3 am. The glow from your alarm clock casts a faint green light, illuminating your room. You can barely make out your reflection in the mirror across from your bed and the shadowy outline of your closet door. Shit. Should you have closed that? Should you get up and close it now? Or is that too risky? Isn’t it stupid for a grown woman to be scared of the dark? Obviously nothing is going to crawl out of your closet, but you pull the covers around you a little tighter anyway. You’re not afraid; it’s just a little drafty in your room tonight. The weatherman did say the temperature was going to drop to a balmy -10 degrees. And your heater has been on the fritz. You’ve been meaning to call someone to get that fixed. Wait. What was that noise? It was probably nothing. But you strain to listen anyway. Nothing. All you hear is the pounding in your ears. You want to hide under the covers, but you’re old enough to know that won’t do anything. All the real things to be afraid of can get to you regardless. This isn’t the irrational fear of spiders or clowns. This is something more primal, instinctual. All you know is that you might be in danger and all your senses are screaming at you to escape. But where would you go? 16

You live on your own now. Your parents are a couple hours away and you can’t crawl into bed with them anymore. And it’s not like you can run outside, either. Every horror movie you’ve seen tells you to stay where you are and to not go looking for trouble. Honestly, your safest bet would be to call the cops. But what would you say? “Hello, police? I’m a 20-year-old woman who’s still afraid of the dark. I just had a scary dream and I need someone to hold my hand”. They would send you to an asylum faster than they’d send the cops. No, better to just lie back down and try to go back to sleep. But what if the nightmare comes back? You look up at the dream catcher hanging from your headboard. A lot of good that piece of shit did you. It’s done absolutely nothing since you bought it a few weeks ago, and the nightmares have only gotten worse. The worst part is not even being able to remember them. But you’ve got to be up early for work, so you shake it off and try to slow your

can hear is a deafening roaring in your ears, like being caught in the middle of a tornado. So loud it almost blocks out all your other senses. Next, the cold. It’s nothing like what you felt only an hour before. This time it’s different. This time it’s frigid. You thought you couldn’t move before, but now you’re paralyzed by the chill penetrating your body and mind. So cold you can’t feel your fingers or toes anymore. Then, the weight on your chest like someone’s sitting on it. Suffocating you. You know there’s no one there, but it feels like there are claws digging into your neck, cutting off your breath until you think you’re going to have a panic attack from a loss of oxygen. So heavy you think you’re going to pass out. Finally, it appears. The door slowly creaks open and the shadowy figure standing in your doorway starts to move towards you. You try to scream, but when you open your mouth no sound comes out. This is it.

But what if the nightmare comes back? heartbeat down by taking deep breaths, and eventually, slowly, you drift back into a dreamless sleep. Your eyes fly open. You glance at the clock. It’s 4 am. You’ve only been asleep for half an hour. It almost feels like you’re still asleep but awake at the same time, yet for some reason you find yourself unable to move your body. You try wiggling your fingers and toes to no avail. You know exactly what’s about to happen but it terrifies you just the same. First, the whispers. They come on so quietly, subtly, that you barely notice them at first. But they’re there. And they grow louder and louder until the only thing you

This is how you’re going to die. It gets closer and closer until it’s practically on top of you and then... You wake up. In the middle of the night, sweating, short of breath. You can’t remember exactly what you dreamt about but it’s there still at the edge of your memory, taunting you. Playing on your fears. You shiver as a chill runs down your spine, slowly turning your head to look around your room. It’s still too dark to see anything but you squint anyway. Nothing. And then you hear your door creak. n INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

JUST A LITTLE SCARE Aaron Grierson

y friend bought the tickets and is bringing the movies for the after party. We’re going to Canada’s Wonderland for the Halloween special there, and my friend mentioned something about big-name horror films. Some haunted houses and scary movies shouldn’t be too much for one night, as much as I’ve never cared to watch them, and I only know what I’ve heard from people or seen in the media. Freddy, Jason, Saw… I’ve gotta say, I’m more interested in the amusement park. ’Tis the season after all, with Halloween only a couple of weeks away. I guess you could call it a dare. So we’re getting right to it. There are a half dozen or so “houses” and each has a different theme. Asylum, cornfield, this couldn’t be cheesier. And they look cool enough, I guess. They’re trying to hide some people, and while it’s kinda dark, I can still see them with my brown eyes… wait, that’s not me breathing… Holy crap! Oh boy, someone just grabbed me by the shoulders. I may have jumped a little. I wish the masks were more elaborate than dollar store fare, but, timing is key. Probably doesn’t help that we’re in the circus either. Creepy clowns are just… creepy. The cornfield was more of a nice walk, but far from scary. You could hear people moving, if not see them. I hate to say it but the staff here are just plain friendly. I am not looking forward to the asylum. I mean, it’s one of the most clichéd, and it also pokes fun at people with serious mental health issues. I guess I’ll just grin and bear this obvious overuse of a trope. After all, I didn’t even buy the ticket. Well I made it. My friend was disappointed I was only scared the one time. They make you jump, but it can get old fast. Of course they only agree with me about how easy it is to tune them out once you know what to expect. Still, I bite my tongue over the whole asylum thing. I expect more of a fright from the movies anyways – there’s more room for fright. Now I remember why I never cared for horror films, or at least the ones from the last decade. Saw is without a doubt the most disgusting, exploitative film I have ever heard of that can only be called torture porn. VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

ARTWORK BY KANDICE BURYTA

Except for maybe Hostel. And I don’t even think we’re watching the first Saw movie. Seriously, how do people watch this? A box full of used syringes? Hacking limbs off? At least the deaths in Cube were interesting, but that is a whole other genre. So I couldn’t watch another one. Classic or not, I just don’t care. After talking about it my friend suggests we keep the lights off and play some video games together. Horror games. I don’t play these games much, but I can’t imagine that there’s a “Saw The Game”, so I accept, letting them pick what they think would scare me best. We tried Slenderman, briefly. I was bored. There were musical cues, which, sure, when loud enough, make you jump, but the threat isn’t a very big one. The titular character is less scary and more annoying, and the pages you collect don’t cobble together much of a story. He’s a like a tragic hero without any tragedy. Amnesia: The Dark Descent, on the other hand is at least interesting. There is a story. It’s not tragic so far, but the scares rely less on things and more on the ambiance. Eerie silence, and then a window shatters, or something falls from the table. Between the lack of light, the dingy setting, and the string quartet that pops into your ears now and again, things are never totally boring.

Of course, you’re not totally alone, either. Pleasant, disfigured monsters will try to claw you to bits, and you can do nothing but run and hide, trying to solve puzzles and free yourself. Is it scary? Sometimes it’s terrifying. I’d describe it more as immersive. Not like walking through buildings that are trying to look off-putting – the game is genuinely absorbing in the right circumstance. I guess you could say it’s like the genre is supposed to be, but at the same time is unlike a lot of other entrants in the genre. The lines between horror, overdoing it, and being downright silly are far from fine and often crossed. They may also be subjective but I wonder how often the lines are crossed intentionally, and if so, doesn’t that make it less a horror and more a comedy, defeating the purpose of trying to scare people in the first place? Maybe I’m over-thinking the matter, especially for someone who hardly cares for the genre. Horror works for some people, turning others right off. I’d say that the average is what we look for, but the truly terrifying is innovative, defying expectations and twisting the plot at just the right moment with the right kind of twist to produce the sublime – like reading Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus.  17

LYING WORDS AND PAIRS OF DUCKS Matthew Jordan (@mattyj612)

“You are currently reading these words.”

entences like the one above are always unsettling. You get a sinking feeling when you realize that you’ve fallen prey to the words, unable to escape from their prophetic claims. You simply can’t win! That particular sentence is so bamboozling because it’s self-referential, and we’re not used to seeing words talk about themselves. In fact, it’s a tough task to conceptualize most instances of self-reference in nature. This is especially true of cognitive functions; I get a little woozy when reminded that my brain can generate thoughts about its own neural structure. Before I continue, I should provide the following disclaimer: This is a very brain-intensive article. Do some cerebral stretches, work those cranial kegles, and massage that medulla because this is about to be a sanity-testing mental workout. Leggo. Probably the most famous self-referential sentence is the liar paradox, which has been around since ancient Greek times. Here’s the simplest version:

“This sentence is false.” Whoa. What is this saying? Well, let’s assume the sentence is true. Then we have

to believe the assertion it’s making, namely that it’s false. So if it’s true, it’s false. And what if it’s false? Then we have to believe its negation, namely that it’s true. So if it’s false, it’s true. Once again, you simply can’t win! The liar paradox is, for lack of a better phrase, trippy as balls. Every time you try to pin it down, it flips back on itself, making it impossible to ever actually understand what it means. A paradox of this type is called a Strange Loop. A perfect visual representation of this Strange Loop is M.C. Escher’s work Drawing Hands in the bottom-left corner, which, like the liar paradox, seems to defy logic.  Let’s take a look at another Strange Loop. This is a variation of Bertrand Russell’s paradox, which dates back to 1901. Suppose, as you likely do every day, that you are an overworked librarian. You’re tasked with creating a multi-volume encyclopaedic guide to the library’s archive. You decide on a whim to start by cataloguing ‘Biographical Works’, which is simply a list of all biographies on the shelves. Nothing too tough there! But notice that in doing so you’ve actually written a new book called Biographical Works. Hmmm. Next, maybe you go with ‘Books with Titles Beginning with “B”’. You would certainly put Beowulf, Brave New World, and the Book of Mormon on that list. You also just wrote the comprehensive Biographical Works, so that should go on the list, too. But wait, what about the book you’re currently writing? Doesn’t that start with ‘B’ as well? It most definitely does! So it should go on the list. Stated another way, Books with Titles Beginning with ‘B’ contains itself. This is different from Biographical Works, which certainly

did not contain itself. Feeling ambitious, you decide to try to catalogue ‘Books that do not Contain Themselves’. Well, Biographical Works clearly goes on this list. So do Books with Japanese Titles and Works Compiled by Amateur Ventriloquists (since you’re probably an expert ventriloquist). All is well and good there. But what of the book you’re now in the process of compiling, Books that do not Contain Themselves? Well, if you decide to leave it out, then Books that do not Contain Themselves does not contain itself, and therefore ought to be included on the list. But if you add it to the list, then it has suddenly become a book that contains itself, so you have to take it out. Uh-oh. Oh no. You’re stuck in a Strange Loop! Russell’s Paradox is a fickle beast and a foundational modern philosophical conundrum. It’s also the progenitor of one of the most cringe-worthy math jokes of all time:

What goes ‘quack-quack’ and contradicts itself? Russell’s pair o’ ducks. These days, Strange Loops are most prominent in artificial intelligence research. The idea is that, if a sufficiently rich neural structure is able to produce human consciousness, artificial neural networks programmed into a computer will give rise to sentient, thinking machines. Though it seems far-fetched at first, it’s not all that implausible when you consider the role of self-reference in humans. Our most basic building block is inherently self-referential; the magic of DNA is its ability to reproduce itself. More impressively, DNA can synthesize proteins whose sole task is to manipulate – and in some cases, destroy – the very DNA that created them. Strange Loops are all around us. Given our recursively defined DNA, we ourselves are strange loops. For the ultimate example of self-reference, consider the following sentence, which makes a claim about both itself and its author: I am a Strange Loop.  Most ideas in this article were inspired by Douglas Hofstadter’s exceptional works Gödel, Escher, Bach and I Am A Strange Loop. INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY YOSEIF HADDAD

OUT OF THIS WORLD… Asha Behdinan

ercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. I, like many of you, remember sitting at my child-sized desk trying to commit this list to memory minutes before my grade four science test. You don’t need me to tell you that since then, much has changed in the study of outer space. But it seems to me that the deeper we delve into that enigmatic void of darkness and surprise, the more mysteries we uncover. The discovery of 55 Canceri e (the “diamond planet”), new findings that the centre of our Milky Way tastes like raspberries and smells like rum, and the slew of planets being touted as the next possible place for human colonization never cease to amaze and befuddle us. Which leads to the all-consuming question: what else is really out there? And more importantly, will we ever really know? Some people question the importance of answering the above questions. After all, we face many pressing issues here on Earth. However, this explorative curiosity is an innate human characteristic; space has gripped our imaginations for thousands of years. Beginning with the Babylonians and carrying on through Greek, Egyptian, and Arab scientists, astronomical theories have developed through reasoning, observation, and mathematics. The image began to get clearer with the invention of the telescope in the early 1600s and the acceptance of the heliocentric model of our solar system. Yet it wasn’t until the 1957 launch of Sputnik 1, the first artificial satellite in space,

that our capabilities for space study and exploration finally began to be realized. After all, it was only 12 years later that American astronaut Neil Armstrong became the first person to set foot on the moon. Fast-forward to the year 1990: The Hubble Space Telescope has just been launched, promising to deliver the deepest and most detailed look at outer space in history. And throughout the years, it did just that. Through major projects, such as CANDELS and the Deep Fields Initiatives, Hubble has greatly increased our knowl-

or is it?

many other space missions have undoubtedly furthered astronomical research, albeit at a high financial cost. Many individuals may shake their head, struggling to grasp the purpose of space quests like the Cassini-Huygens mission to Saturn or the upcoming New Horizons encounter with Pluto. But others, myself included, cannot help being drawn in by the unspeakable awe that surrounds these deep mysteries. Outer space represents the pinnacle of the unknown, which may even hold the key to discovering our true purpose here on this Earth (if you believe in such things). Yet one thing remains certain: the vast Universe beyond has never ceased to hold our astonishment, fuel our imagination, and inspire romantic wonder among us. Yet if satisfying our ever-growing curiosity isn’t enough of a reason for you, studying the formation of other space objects helps us learn about the cycles of our sun and make predictions for our own solar system in the future. Who knows, maybe with new missions such as the James Webb Space Telescope, launching in 2018, we’ll finally discover crucial secrets behind the birth of galaxies and evolution of planets. But for now, the next time you lie in your backyard and gaze up at the endless darkness before you, marveling at the incredible secrets concealed by this deceptive veil, take comfort in the fact that these questions may soon be answered. And if they’re not, well, that’s just the beauty of the Universe isn’t it? 

Many individuals may shake their head, struggling to grasp the purpose of space quests like the Cassini-Huygens mission to Saturn or the upcoming New Horizons encounter with Pluto.

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

edge of galactic events such as star and galaxy formation and provided key insights into the history of the Universe’s evolution. Yet while Hubble has shed light on astronomical phenomena, ranging from the expansion of the universe to the prevalence of black holes in galactic centers, its discoveries have again led to more questions. What role does dark energy have in the growth of our universe? What are the characteristics of our solar system that led to the evolution of life on Earth? And probably the most common astronomy question of all: are we really alone? Despite not yet solving the pressing mysteries of outer space, Hubble and

The Simply Eccentric World of Shel Silverstein Emile Shen (@emileshen)

n the third grade, I was compelled by “a tree who loved a little boy.” It left me with a sense of melancholy even though I did not know that there was a word for that emotion back then. The departure of my reactions from merely ‘happy’ or ‘sad’ towards literary material shows the force with which Shel Silverstein’s work moved my younger self. Although I cannot speak for everybody, Shel Silverstein was my first introduction to poetry, and he was a profound one at that. I would spend afternoons of my quiet childhood sitting in the modest elementary school library poring over his books. The silliness of the characters and plots simultaneously resonated with something deeper that was beyond the similes and antics. The storyteller appeared as a friendly, bald, and bearded old man at the back of his anthologies, with an all-knowing demeanor. I wondered how someone many decades older than me could produce such fanciful work. I am still curious to this day as to how his work could

be both so whimsical and so relatable. Maybe it is something I will figure out in due time. What we do know about Silverstein is that he was born in Great Depression-era Chicago, and that he served in the U.S. military in both Japan and Korea. His childhood hobby of cartooning turned into a career path when Stars and Stripes, an American-military based newspaper, published his work. Besides popular childhood books for which our generation knows him, such as Where the Sidewalk Ends, A Light in the Attic, and Falling Up, Silverstein has released dozens of other literary pieces for adults and children alike along with critically acclaimed albums. It may be surprising to note that Silverstein was at first reluctant to create children’s books. His works demonstrate his versatility in the mastery of various mediums as well as his approachability to different audiences. What stands out about Silverstein is how effortlessly he made the eccentric into the relatable and vice versa.

In almost all of his poetic pieces, there is an underlying sense of moral consideration. ARTWORK BY DIANA MARGINEAN

We see in his poems a variety of realities, from outright nonsense in “Hug of War” to the thought-provoking “Somebody Has To”. I did not recognize this in my primary school days, but in almost all of his poetic pieces, there is an underlying sense of moral consideration. Perhaps it has to do with my tendency to overanalyze, but there are definite nuances in verses such as “take me / To anywhere new” (“Needles and Pins”) or that “Mama said I’d lose my head / If it wasn’t fastened on” (“The Loser”). The fantastical world in which he resides is contrasted with an often somber reflection of the prevalent values of society and the bleakness of adulthood. What is important about Silverstein’s approach to children’s literature is that he does not rely on the “happily ever after” prototype for a narrative. The insightful nature of much of his work can be attributed to his belief that “not ever dealing with the harsher realities of life, might shortchange a young person and not fully prepare them for adult life.” I wonder what induced this great sense of grounded awe that Silverstein possessed. Artists do not usually separate their life experiences from their work, so perhaps the vaguely somber quality can be attributed to his experiences at war. This surely would have created a substantial and unique perspective on mortality and morality. Shel Silverstein’s repertoire is simply too rich to encapsulate any small fraction of his magic, but hopefully this piece rendered a reminder that children’s literature is often the most awe-inducing genre of all. Moreover, it is blissful to find a little more of that forgone childhood wonder in your day-to-day life. Eleven years after my first introduction to the late poet, I think it is valuable to: Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black and the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow and watch where the chalk-white arrows go to the place where the sidewalk ends. – Shel Silverstein, “Where The Sidewalk Ends” (1974) 

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

Broken Things Anthony Giavedoni

n Fall Crawling black out of the lake, the night You take a sharp (crisp) drag of polarized Halloween air That autumnal ghost of some August breeze Little plastic plants die in storefronts all down the line Everything changes over night, we are flush with the golden glow of death, floating down to detritus Aloft the grey billows of clouds, too full to climb back to the ceiling, smashed, hammered to the mountain brow Paint everything concrete and doom The colours of abandonment Some of the flowers go to shit Some husks, off-white, just dirty, itchy sticks Standing, all students Just pedestrians, standing and staring at something or nothing Some season cycling around them The bees all die away And I contemplate something of brick, in a brown month And clock-wisely we roll, through the antic hay. n

n Thick Ink I The lake was still, the tidal ebb slowed to a hibernetic breathing. Black glass, an unyielding darkness. Like tar, hardened, with dinosaurs drowning just below the surface. The stammering red shimmer of radio towers miles in the distance down the coast, becoming a conversation. All quivering cities, beneath the halogen glow, skyfire, projections onto low-lying clouds. Orange peppered sky, over tip to tip of visible coast. Beyond, the shattering dark and a horizon trapped inside. Hard to believe New York exists somewhere out there, beyond the endless. Across the waving waters that spill out over the edges of infinity. From this dirty beach, the moonless, starless night is a convergence of sea and sky. An overcast blanket of vulture feathers and panther fur. Eyes leering out from behind ancient masks. Leaving you. Half expecting the bony, yellow finger of God to leap down and erase you. n

n Nothing Nights barking between the sheets A pack of sick animals slip through the evening Sleeping on five dollar bills, some sort of smoke behind the bleachers. The beginning of maybe something stupid. Nights driven down into some flowing red. Smelling like a car crash, carrying it around with you for days. Love in the graveyards. Someone’s headache on your breath. It’s an easy way to lose. I guess this is the outside, the race to nowhere. Strained through, dropped into murky places. With only seldom sighs to recall. Shaking and talking to yourself, collecting dust. Cold, wet feet in the snow. Portfolio of expired bus transfers at breast pockets reach. So many, lazily falling through the cracks. Everybody wants to be nobody, and ends up that way fast. Locking arms and losing cigarettes. Clock in and out. And so, the words drip out. Their meaning lost on felted winds. Brushed red over my face. After all the bites and bruises, scratches and scars. Better make it a double. This is no summation and will surely never inspire a living soul. But it’s a start, a long gasp for air. A paper cut that never heals. It’s not depressing, or crazy, or stupid, or anything. So much for so little, to nothing. For nothing, nothing in great mounds. Well. That’s it. n

artwork by Celestina Aleobua

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SAVE YOUR DOUGH Mackenzie Richardson

Don’t Buy Gluten Free “Do you have any gluten free beer?”

y face drops and I stare at my mother incredulously. My mother has never suffered from celiac disease. Never in her life has she had any problems eating wheat or rye. And yet here she is, asking our waitress at the trendy new beer pub we are visiting for a gluten free beer. I thought my university-educated mom was beyond the fads and the pulp science, immune to the shams of popular and trendy diets. But my shock wears off quickly and I ask my mother why, exactly, she is looking for gluten free beer. Her response is almost painful to hear: “I woke up a week ago, the day after my birthday, and I just felt… sluggish. I felt tired. And I knew that I needed a cleanse.” I shake my head and stare at the table as she begins to list all the foods which her herbalist’s guide told her she should or should not eat. Peppers are fine, apples are not; sweet potatoes get a pass, but their white relatives are a no-go. The guide labels an entire group of recommended alkaline foods, which is surprising because

through consuming food should be equal to calories burnt during the day. All a weightloss diet does is help a person consume fewer calories and expend more. Low-fat and low-carb diets are effective, but only because many high fat and high carb foods have a high energy density or a low satiation factor. For example, one cupcake can have the same caloric content as 6 apples, and eating 200 calories worth of bread will not satisfy you the same way 200 calories worth of celery would. There is no evidence that a particular diet works better than any other. Hell, you could probably lose 35 lbs. eating McDonalds everyday if you tracked your caloric intake and expended more calories than you were eating. The reason diets exist is that everyone is looking for a quick and easy magic trick, that one silver bullet which will allow them to achieve their weight loss dreams without changing themselves. In the long run, this does not work. It is why people who go on diets often gain the weight back so quickly: they have not permanently changed their eating habits. That is the key to long term weight maintenance. I think the biggest thing that irks me about fad diets is not that they exist, but why they exist. If you want to eat like a cave person, or drink lemonade for 6 days straight, go ahead. Be my guest. But understand why you’re doing it. Please, understand why drinking nothing but lemonade (i.e. sugar water) would cause you to lose weight. Understand that eating uncooked food is no better for you than cooked food; it’s just that a lot of cooked vegetables are often finished with oil or butter, or some other “hidden” calorie source. This is not necessarily bad, it’s just another source of easy calories. At the end of the day, my point is you should eat what you want. There is no food intrinsically better for weight loss than any other food. If you really care about your weight, count calories. Exercise. Change your eating habits. These are what will really help you lose (or gain) weight, and stay there. Not some crack pot telling you that you have to cleanse yourself with ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD & HILARY KEE maple syrup and cayenne pepper. 

none of them seem especially basic. How could she honestly believe in anything she was saying? I spoke with someone who actually suffered from gluten intolerance and asked them what they thought about the recent upward trend in gluten free diets. On one hand, they were happy because it increased awareness and popularity of gluten free foods. They no longer had to shop exclusively at specialty stores, and could find many of the snacks and treats they enjoyed at regular grocery stores. On the other hand, all the new trendy gluten free foods were much higher in price. The truth is, millions of people go on diets every day. They range from the average to the bizarre. Gluten free is just one of the latest fad diets going around. The paleo diet, where a person emulates what a hunter-gatherer would have eaten, is another bizarre diet that has gained popularity. Is there science behind them? Those who follow them will tell you yes, there certainly is. But the underlying principle of every single diet is simply the cardinal rule of weight gain and loss. Calories in, calories out. At the end of the day, the best measure of a healthy diet is that calories gained

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH PSLs? Rachelle Zalter

ARTWORK BY VÉRONIQUE GIGUERE & JASON LAU

’m a coffee person. I’ve been drinking coffee since the seventh grade, so it’s safe to say I’ve had my experience with the good, the bad, and the insufferably burnt. I’m not particularly picky though. I’ll drink black coffee, milk-and-sugared coffee, iced coffee, or anything that remotely resembles coffee. Last year, I even tried the infamous Pumpkin Spice Latte. I didn’t put much thought into that decision. I merely figured that since I like pumpkin pies, I might enjoy a PSL. Turns out it wasn’t my cup of tea… or cup of coffee (if you’re into corny jokes). I went on with my life as usual, not really dwelling on my PSL experience until this summer. My coworkers and I were playing a game where we had to guess each other’s favourites. A guy was guessing my favourite drink and he sounded confident with his answer. I didn’t think he knew it, but I shrugged it off. “It’s the Pumpkin Spice Latte!” He told me excitedly, “That’s every white girl’s favourite drink!” I knew he was joking around, but it jolted me. I thought about the number of my friends who raved about PSLs and considered the drink’s popularity as a whole. Was it popular because it was ob-

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who likes scotch and soda, more power to you. It shouldn’t matter if it’s sweet or strong, your decision should be based on personal preference. Secondly, I don’t care how many of your friends tell you PSLs are the bomb. If you don’t like them, stop drinking them. We all learned this in grade school. I mean, come on. Nobody likes a copycat. Finally, if you’re afraid to try a PSL because you don’t want to be categorized as a typical “white girl”, please try it. If you genuinely like it, you won’t be any less original for enjoying a popular flavour. It’s okay to be mainstream once in a while. Maybe, if you’re worried about being stereotyped, don’t post a photo of it on Instagram. The point I’m making here is that it shouldn’t matter what other people are drinking, what other people are wearing, or what other people are listening to. If you think a drink tastes good, you should drink it. Sometimes we get so caught up in what other people like that it completely changes our own preferences. But when you’re ordering a drink, the last thing you should be worrying about is the opinion of the person behind you. A cup of coffee should never be in style. 

I don’t care how many of your friends tell you PSLs are the bomb. If you don’t like them, stop drinking them. jectively the tastiest? Or, as I was beginning to suspect, was it merely popular because it was fashionable? I started talking to more people about PSLs and realized that my co-worker was not alone in his opinion. I had other guys tell me that they hadn’t bought one, solely because it was a “girl’s drink”. I knew girls who didn’t really like them, but kept buying them because they thought they should like them. I also knew girls who refused to try them because they didn’t want to be categorized as the type of girl who drinks PSLs. And I see some serious problems with all of this. Firstly, a drink should not be gender specific. We see this a lot with alcoholic drinks as well. If you’re a guy who happens to like strawberry daiquiris, what’s so wrong with that? They’re tasty! And if you’re a girl

I don’t think about you any more I don’t think about you any less Salma El-Zamel

t was when I saw the reflection of the sky on the water fountain by the orphanage’s greenhouse that I noticed a beauty in difference, and yet the presence of a cold void. I raised my head up and saw my 12 year old orphan sitting on the edge of the fountain with her back facing me. She wore a pure white dress and her curly red hair flowed down her shoulders. They called her Number Zero – only slaves are identified by numbers. I ran to the city of Lia away from the bloodshed, scattered bodies, petrifying screams, and overwhelming destruction of the warzone. In Lia, I applied to be an alaer in an orphanage. Alaer – originating from the Latin word alae – is what they call careARTWORK BY SONNET IRWIN givers here. They said I was well-qualified, having been a practicing nurse in war zones and refugee camps. We don’t adopt the orphans, but we mentor them, teach them what is necessary to overcome their past, and refine their manners in preparation for adoption. I was assigned Number Zero. All previous alaers had given up on her. Unlike other children of war, this girl’s eyes were not broken; they were full of innocent anger and guilt. She was from an affluent family of a neighboring country, and her parents were known slave traders. It was only three years ago that they were mysteriously murdered. Her father’s step-brother took over her inheritance and sold her into slavery, as if she was atoning for her parent’s sins. I sat beside her, pulled out my flute, and played the Melody of Orpheus. “You’re my new alaer aren’t you?” she

asked after I finished playing. “Let me save you the trouble. They never stay long and I don’t think you’re any different. You all think you can come and save us from our misery; save us from the unjust tragedies you adults have created in this world. You come here thinking ‘poor little children’ after you have snatched everything from us. So how about you keep your sympathy to yourself and fix your disasters instead!” she yelled. “What’s your name, little one?” I asked. “Haven’t you heard what I just said?” she erupted furiously, rising to her feet. “I heard you loud and clear. However, I never said that I’d be your alaer. Indeed I was assigned to mentor you. My name is

Janah Qusay and I don’t want to be referred to as an alaer because I believe it is only you who can grant yourself such freedom. So let’s drop the labels, shall we? I can’t promise you much because I have my own scars to deal with. I only ask to be your friend. Whether you want me to be your alaer or not is up to you.”

“What do you promise me then?” “I promise that I will not bail on you if you do not bail on me.” “Where are you from? You wear the same dresses of this country but you cover your hair and your name is exotic. You’re not from Lia.” “I do not think that I belong anywhere. The person I called home died a long time ago and that’s where I used to belong. I’ve moved endlessly from one place to another. Therefore, there is no need for me to identify myself within the borders of the colonizer.” “Do you have family then?” “I do and I do not!” I teasingly flicked her forehead as she looked at me in confusion. “I was born in Subartu, but my parents left after my birth. Since then, I have only visited my extended family on special occasions. That’s when you realize that sometimes those who are closest to you can feel the most distant.” I took a deep breathe, pondering my words before I continued. “I feel sympathy towards my extended family for their dreadful circumstances. But leaving them behind for years and only visiting them on occasions is seen as abandonment that festers into resentment. No matter how much you try to connect, you will be the odd one out. The only person who overlooked these differences was the person I called home. A home doesn’t have to be a place. It can be a person who will help you create a better one!” For my grandma Fatima. Thank you for teaching me how to smile in the toughest of circumstances. I pray to see your smile once again.  INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY AMANDA DREISE

MORNING BUS Monica Alonso (@Moni_AS)

I This alienation, this misunderstanding, this bridge between what we are used to and what is new to us, leads us to fear and reject the unknown and return to our thoughts, our beliefs, our traditions, and our comfort zones.

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have always hated public transportation, but not today. Early this morning, I jumped on the bus more awake than ever to discover all those faces and all those colors, shapes and forms. I was filled with curiosity, not only because of the physical aspect, but for the essence of the people. I was watching, trying to guess how they felt, who they were, where they came from, what they thought. Tons of questions that flooded my head till the next stop – Main at University Plaza. That was mine. It is my first year living in Canada. Never in life was I more interested about people than now. I stay very quiet, like an inanimate object, trying not to discomfort them by staring at their eyes. Even if it is creepy, it is the easiest way you can feel a person. This whole experience brings me a lot of ideas. Sometimes I think that the first encounter between two individuals is filled with judging and comparison. “I would definitely never wear that,” my friend says as she comments on another’s girl outfit – we first become aware of the differences rather than the similitudes among us. I have discovered, too, that is impossible to like something you cannot understand. It happened to me days ago. On a different bus on the same route, there were a few people talking in a different language, and I found that annoying until I realized that the thing I was upset about was my inability to understand what they were saying and what they were laughing at. I felt a bit alienated. This alienation, this misunderstanding, this bridge between what we are used

to and what is new to us, leads us to fear and reject the unknown and return to our thoughts, our beliefs, our traditions, and our comfort zones. Since I have never liked being a judgmental person, I have learnt a few basics to connect with cultural differences: 1. Do not assume anything. It is true that as part of a culture, we might have lots of common things, but we can never generalize. People might feel discomfort if you label them before they have the opportunity to introduce themselves. 2. Less judging, more appreciation. When we realize the positive things about something new, it becomes easier to respect and take the best of it. 3. Practice compassion. We do not really know what everyone else is struggling with. We might not know what caused an angry face on the morning bus, but we can help by standing in others’ shoes. 4. Be curious. One of these days, you should give yourself the opportunity to stare at some stranger and try to connect and build bridges. What on Earth links you together? It is absolutely enriching. 5. Embrace yourself. There is no one culture better than the others. If you express yourself and let the world know what you are made of, you will not be the only who benefits.  25

n Metres Away Sam Bubnic It was as if she could still feel the outline in a door frame metres away. As if the scent still hugged the small of her back and as if tips of fingers still skimmed her fragile eyelids at 4am. She felt exposed. A wavering feeling that the figure she longed for still crawled its way into her sheets and into her beside table and into her cavity. Who spewed recollections of unshaven skin and weighty goodbyes that were never really goodbyes at all. Parting truly meant fragments that clung to her senses and knocked at the halo which stood in a door frame metres away.

artwork by Franco Sim천es

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY KANDICE BURYTA

GOOD GIRLS SWALLOW Olivia Fasullo

ood girls swallow. As if she didn’t Google the calorie count of sperm, in case she needed to know. 20 calories a tablespoon. She won’t be able to measure so she will have to estimate. This girl is allowed to skip meals but never should she dare to leave her boyfriend unsatisfied. Good girls swallow; good girls aren’t frigid. They are not prudes. If she’s going to live the rest of her life on a strict diet, she thinks it’s only right to be prepared for the inevitable. Good girls don’t lose their figure when they get a boyfriend. A good girl’s weight stays steady or a good girl will find her fat ass on the curb. This girl wonders how many people put sperm points down in their Weight Watchers’ journals. Monster in the mirror. The piece of artwork shows a frail woman in front of a mirror, her reflection a blubbered body. It is creatively entitled Eating Disorders: A Monster in the Mirror. This girl wonders where the line is between the fat monster and the delusional girl. This girl doesn’t see illusions in the mirror. She sees too much reality. She’s been taught a critical eye since she was eleven years old. Her body is not for her. It’s a sum of parts: left calf, right shoulder, butt, boobs;

meant for one purpose. A good girl’s body is meant to be cut up, copied and pasted like the ones in the magazines. It’s the snide comments of soccer moms, later parroted by their daughters: look at her legs/wrinkles/nose/hair. She’s disgusting. Good girls don’t look like that. One flaw poisons every perfection, a fact

a healthier lifestyle feels like. You look so different! A compliment. Always followed by, you look so great! The quiet whisper this girl hears in between the words is that she didn’t look great before. Then a string of questions. What are you doing differently? What do you eat? Do you work out? This girl always has the same answers. Counting calories (but she never mentions how many). I can eat anything (but she never mentions how little). I do work out (but she never mentions how long). Good girls don’t make people uncomfortable with the truth. She doesn’t realize how different she looks until she walks past a window. Her eyes instinctually search for herself in the reflection. This girl can’t find her face as she fades into the crowd. Perhaps that should scare this girl. It doesn’t. This girl would rather be a beautiful stranger than herself. Good girls aren’t meant to stand out in the crowd. Good girls swallow. Good girls swallow their pride. Good girls swallow the shit. But good girls don’t swallow an extra serving. This girl is a good girl. 

This girl is allowed to skip meals but never should she dare to leave her boyfriend unsatisfied.

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this girl never forgets when she looks in the mirror. It’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle change. This girl sees spots when she stands up too quickly. Her joints ache. Her stomach uncomfortably clenches in class. Her vision occasionally blurs. Her period withers and withers until it dies. But this is all normal. She’s just too tired, too stressed, too hormonal. This happens to everyone. All she needs is some rest and a cup of black tea. Good girls don’t complain. This is what

Ailish Corbett

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

Shreya Yugengranag Shiva: Transfer and the Snake Henna Made in regards to the spiritual intervention in rituals of death. Shiva has a prominent role in rituals after cremation, particularly when transforming the soul of the deceased into that of an ancestor. Check out more of my work on Instagram: @shreyayn

Lauren Gorfinkel The Toy Giraffe and His Strange Twin Charcoal

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

ARTWORK BY LEAH FLANNIGAN

IT’LL BE OKAY I

t was late at night and also a Tuesday. Late night Tuesdays are worse than other late nights, because they serve no purpose worth losing sleep for so early in the week. It was late enough that lovers and nighttime studiers had gone to bed, and only those whose minds were too full of big thoughts were still up. I count myself among that last group. The haunting hush of night brought no solace. The Internet had become a whirl of gifs and cat pictures that were more dizzying than distracting. And I had hit skip on my iTunes playlist until I reached the end, bored and unsatisfied with every sound emanating from my headphones. So, I was alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that snowballed into worries and then finally manifested themselves in big, fat tears. The salty streams raced down my face, mixing with the mascara I had failed to take off, creating two murky paths along my cheeks. My shoulders heaved in time with my quick and shallow breaths. With my hair in a messy knot and my face in shambles, I looked like a detoxing crack addict, like the ones you see in anti-drug pamphlets from the 80s. Unfortunately, there is no pamphlet

telling you what to do when your thoughts are simply too big to be contained by your mind. Too big to understand, and definitely too big to explain to anyone. So I sat. And I cried. When I cry, I make embarrassing sounds. Frankly, I sound like a seal. I could

Mary Kate MacDonald stand. Somehow, crying was the only option. So that’s what I did. For hours. I did not put a timer on when the first tear trickled down my face, but it felt like an eternity. And then suddenly I stopped. It ended rather abruptly, for no apparent reason, as if the barrels of tears in my head had completely run dry. My seal-esque squawks and detoxing shakes subsided. Nothing had changed, but the scary fog of heavy thoughts and worries drifted past and I was suddenly content. My mind was still a jumble of emotions and ideas, but I was okay with it. The tears must have washed away the sadness. Everything was okay. Well, not quite everything. There were still some troubling scenarios lingering in my head, but I felt like I could handle them. I guess that’s what happens sometimes. You cram every worry and strong emotion into one intense whirlwind crying session, and then it just ends. You recognize that being sad and overwhelmed and confused is normal, but that these feeling are fleeting. That there is indeed a calm at the end of the storm, even when you least expect it. That somehow, someway and sometime, everything will be okay. 

I think that’s what made it worse: the feeling of being alone with my mind, like it was too crazy for anyone else to understand.

do audio for the next Ice Age movie – it is that uncanny. I tried to stifle these squeals, because I did not want to wake anyone. They had all gone off to dreamland hours ago, and even if they were awake, I did not know if I could talk to them about what was wrong. I think that’s what made it worse: the feeling of being alone with my mind, like it was too crazy for anyone else to under-

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

artwork by Raluca Topliceanu

n cold hands Amanda Emmanuel legs intertwined among tousled sheets and calm fingers among tousled hair, the feel of comfortable sweaters turned itchy and the bed seems harder than before. empty words mistaken for silly exchanges between friends who kissed like lovers, rain that fell like stars, moments that felt like eternities. but hourglasses always run out of sand and i watched the hands on the clock grow fragile with carpel tunnel from all the tousling and feeling and touching and holding. let your body grow numb from holding me too close to your still frame, a picture temporarily on a shelf full of dust.

Strange Intentions n Amanda Emmanuel No was his name. No was the word that he said when I wasn’t okay, capitalize the N’s and capitalize the Eyes that stared into my glass case of fears and how he said, he would store them but opened them instead.

dust off the insecurities of improprieties with the feathers of my hair you pulled out as you tousled. let your limbs grow limp and your heart grow cold and your eyes move away from mine as you turn me down as beautifully and quickly as you turned down the bed. n

Instead he was bold. Took me by surprise and took the strands out of my eyes and threw my clothes on the floor. You whore. No was the answer, but yes was his purpose in my life of drawn anxiety and perplexed ecstasy of failing to comply with my own honesty. Blurred out blind spots and spots of brown that freckle your freckled nose; your heart is freckled with memories turned into crumpled poetry, with the dots that I marked with my pen, then again, the ink has smudged like the mascara under my eyes.

n VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

No was the word that blurred out the yes when he pressed his love to me with his tongue like a stamp. Intentional yes’s in an envelope sealed with his broken promises. Signed, No. With no address to return to. 31

ARTWORK BY JASON LAU

TEXTING LANES Julia Busatto

n China, texting while walking has become so serious that the city of Chongqing has opened up a 100-foot texting lane for pedestrians. The lane raises questions about whether China is taking distracted walking seriously, or simply making a statement about how many injuries occur from texting while walking. Whether Chongqing is serious, or making a statement about pedestrian safety, it is interesting to explore the concept of a texting lane further. Imagine a world where pedestrian texting lanes were as common as traffic lanes…

Monday November 18th, 2045 Digital World Staff Reporter Cindy Buzzer In the year 2045, a human being cannot navigate the world without digital communication. The desire to be connected to others dominates the world, for humans have become more reliant on each other and less reliant on themselves. Pedestrians walking while texting are being hit by cars and bikes at an alarming rate, causing the death of 765,400 smartphones, killing 8,000 human beings, and injuring 67,000 others. As a result, cities have been forced to run texting lanes beside all sidewalks. New York citizen Susan Fastfingers describes her smartphone’s deadly encounter with a black Jetta last fall, and the horror that moment still causes her to this day. “I was crossing the street last Friday, when a black Jetta bolted around the corner of 5th and 47th. At the time I was sending my boyfriend an ‘I think we should break up’ text. The sun was glaring down on my iPhone 22S’s screen, making my message indecipherable. As I stretched out my hand to avoid the annoying glare, the car’s side mirror knocked it out of my hand. My phone tumbled to the ground in a death spiral, pro32

ceeding to shatter at my feet. Not only did I have to buy a new 22S, I also had to tell my boyfriend in person that I didn’t want to be with him. Oh the horror! That was the moment I knew something had to be done.” It is evident that Susan’s traumatizing experience is just one of many; cars and bikes are causing the utmost despair to walking texters around the world. Taking into account the mass complaints regarding the lack of safe space for walkers to text, many governments have stepped up to meet their citizens’ needs. Mark Cellophone, the current president of the Unites States, addressed the public during a press release last Thursday. “It has come to my attention that the United States of America has a new problem that needs to be addressed promptly. I will be pushing the funding for national healthcare aside for the moment, and moving all funds to creating national texting lanes. I believe this will lessen Americans’ anxiety, for their smartphones will be safer, and they will be safer too. If bikers have their own lanes, why shouldn’t texters?” The crowd broke out in cheers, and people raised their Androids and iPhones in a glowing tribute. “I believe in justice for all, and for years

we have neglected the safety of our digital world. Our phones are our lives; without our phones what would we be? Without digital communication I cannot tell my wife to take out the dog. Without digital communication I cannot preorder my groceries. Without digital communication I cannot call those late night hotlines I shouldn’t be calling!” He chuckles. The crowd roars in delight. “Today is the day walking texters are safe!” In the next few months, the construction of texting lanes began. Texting lanes were constructed with florescent green lines, in hopes that texters would at least notice the boundaries and stay within the confines. At road crossings, a raised bar (like a miniature speed bump) is placed on the asphalt so texters looking at their screens will know to slow down. Phone blinders are also now available for purchase. They shield your eyes from any distractions so you can focus on the messages you are sending with the utmost efficiency. A pharmaceutical drug to make fingers faster is also in the works, solving the most recent complaint of texters not being able to type at the efficiency they would like. Watch for a texting lane near you! This has been Cindy Buzzer reporting for Digital World.  INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

OH NO YOU DI’INT the art of picking someone up over text Devra Charney (@devviecakes) and Kaila Radan Read: 3:21 AM

ave you ever read a text and thought, “Seriously, did they actually just send me that?” Don’t be that guy. The next time you’re struggling over how to respond, don’t ask a friend! Just consult these five golden rules to make sure that when your name pops up, it’s one text the recipient is actually excited to read. Words that end a conversation

Ya. Haha. K.

Send and forget

Cool. Each of these is a polite way of saying, “this conversation is over.” Any attempt at responding will either be redundant, or make it look like you’re unfamiliar with basic rules of human communication. Your response can play out in one of two ways, both of which are equally futile. Adding an emoji will, at best, result in silence and, at worst, earn you the dreaded “…”. On the other hand, a long-winded expansion like, “yeah I know lol pretty funny, I’m glad you thought so too” reads like a desperate attempt to revive the dying exchange and will probably also be met with silence. End on a high note and avoid dragging out this painful experience for any longer than necessary. Protip: If they actually want to continue the interaction, they’ll double-text you, and if not, you can always try again tomorrow. The four-hour rule

Hey, what are you up to today? 11:00 PM

We know you checked your phone. In fact, you’re probably checking it right now. If you’re one of those people that actually don’t check their phones, then this doesn’t apply to you because you clearly don’t own one. For the other 99% out there, the recipient of your texts is aware that you check your phone often. They know you’ve seen the text, and nothing looks more pathetic than taking so long to answer that it’s obvious you’ve only waited this long to avoid looking pathetic. Four hours is a reasonable amount of time to think up a response, and after that, you’re entering dangerous waters. Protip: If you are somebody who’s known to break this rule, at least turn off your read receipts.

11:00 AM

Going to bed, you?

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So are you down to go? Checks phone… looks out window… checks phone… puts phone down… picks phone up… stares at blank screen… still waiting… If you haven’t heard a ping, you didn’t get a text. Even on silent, you would have at least felt it vibrate. It’s easier to take the plunge and send a text that risks rejection if you don’t spend the hour before and after it paralyzed with fear about the other person’s response. It takes a lot of courage to make that big move, but once it’s out there, checking your phone compulsively won’t make their reply come any faster. Why not put it away and go do something productive? Put it out of your mind and come back to it later. At least you’ll have something new to talk about if you spend your day doing anything other than staring at your screen. Protip: If you’re really having trouble with this one, give your phone to a friend, but make sure they’re willing to give it back within four hours, or else you might never see the conversation (or your iPhone) again.

It’s all about the ratios

Hey. Hey. What’s up? Dinner tonight? Hey. When it seems like you’re talking to yourself, it’s probably because you are. You wouldn’t carry on a conversation with an unresponsive person face-to-face, and doing it over text makes you no less irritating. In an ideal world, every text sent would have an equal and balanced response. While the reality is that even good conversations are 60/40 give or take, when you’re doing 80% of the texting, this is not a conversation in which the other person is invested. Protip: Responding to a one liner with a text so long that an ellipses shows up on the other person’s lock screen can be a game changing move, but unless it’s reciprocated, continuing this trend throws off the ratios. Txting is kewl

Wen r u gonna b there? rofl Sumtime soon lol Kk c u l8er 2nite ;) haha Kthxbi.  Send Jake Hurwitz your conversation at textjake.com to get advice from the true texting Casanova. 33

ARTWORK BY MONICA PAPINSKI

A GUIDE TO David Yun

he university experience has been described (by me) as a never-ending battle against productivity. Whenever I feel myself inadvertently becoming productive, I am forced to use my most dangerous and effective weapon to prevent this from happening: distraction. There are plenty of good ways to become distracted; some of my favourites include petting the neighbourhood cat, recording myself singing despite the protests of my friends and family, and holding my breath when I pass by cemeteries.

In order to share my distraction techniques with the world, I would like to introduce you to the age-old hobby of people watching, a completely free and completely fun pastime. There is something oddly relaxing about being able to just look at people without having the obligation to interact with them. Here are six easy-to-follow strategies to help you get the most out of your time spent looking at strangers.

1. Find the right location. Let’s face it – any location is the right location as long as there are people to look at. When Yuri Gagarin became the first person to go into space in 1961, he left behind an entire world of people-watching opportunities. I mean, what kind of view would he have had if there weren’t any other people around? Personally, I would much rather ride a city bus, visit the library, or go for a walk in downtown Hamilton than go into outer space.

2. Be inconspicuous.

3. Figure out people’s backstories. Strangers are like a mystery waiting to be solved. Who do you think taught that cyclist how to ride a bike? How did that fashionable gentleman come across that pair of jorts? Are those two people sitting together siblings, friends, or lovers? Whatever the question, there is always room to use your imagination. This is your chance to be a modern-day Sherlock.

The reason that people watching is better than going to a cocktail party is because you don’t have to talk to anyone. The best way to avoid such social expectations is to make sure no one notices you. Wear sunglasses to hide your eyes. Pretend to listen to music through your headphones to discreetly eavesdrop on conversations. Dress up as a tree or a small, ornamental shrub to avoid suspicion. 34

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

PEOPLE WATCHING 4. Matchmaking. As both a consoling friend and struggling cod fisherman would tell you, there are plenty of fish in the sea. But what if you never meet the right fish? Dating sites, clubs, and elderly women from Fiddler on the Roof allow you to experience personal matchmaking, but people watching is your opportunity to make matches for complete strangers. From your perfectly selected location, pick two unrelated individuals and let your inner narrative run free. Maybe you will spot the opposites-attract type of couple as described in Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi”, or perhaps you can foresee two random movie-goers growing old together. Sometimes I get legitimately disappointed when I realize that my imagined couples will probably never get together.

5. Learn about the latest fashion trends. If you’re anything like me, you may be lacking in the fashion department. The safest way to dress well is to simply conform to the masses. Have you noticed that the short on the sides, longer on the top haircut for men (apparently known as a quiff) is super popular these days? I guess my trademark “can you make it shorter please?” hairstyle is no longer the pinnacle of men’s fashion. I am also a fan of the resurgence of brightly patterned leggings, which are reminiscent of my mom’s Jazzercise pants from the 80s that I used to wear on occasion.

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6. Don’t stare. The reason for this rule is twofold. On the one hand, you don’t want to be noticed and/or arrested. On the other hand, you don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. There is a reason it’s called people watching. It is important to remember that strangers are people too, entertaining people, mind you, but people nonetheless.

Reading this article (and the rest of this magazine) may be a good start in your battle against productivity, but you really need to get out there and try out these techniques for yourself to truly embrace the art of distraction. Good luck!  35

James Clark Lego My Eggo.

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

Matt Clarke Kayla Da Silva

INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

Sadie Michelle Beattie

Fourth year student in the Fine Arts program

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THE WAYS TO KILL A CAT Sarah O’Connor (@notsarahconnor)

“C

ome here Kitty,” I called to the cat from the bathroom. Long ago, my family gave her the name Whiskers, which she detested. If she needed to be called it was simply Kitty or the cat, she insisted to the family. “It’s time for your bath.” Kitty hissed. “Don’t speak to me like a child.” She jumped up onto the counter and sniffed disdainfully at the soapy water and slowly slipped in. “I don’t like this soap. Why didn’t you use the lilac?” I shrugged. “I thought you might like a change.” I had to kill the cat. For most women, this is a natural, biological instinct. A girl might be waking up, going to bed, or enjoying the afternoon sun when it happens: she kills a cat. Whether it’s one she owns or one she finds on the street, the girl will always find and kill the cat and then she is a woman. Men don’t have this instinct. Things are always easier for men. But I had never felt the need to kill a cat. Kitty had lived with us for ten years (she was bought specifically for me) and I never felt the need to burn her, skin her, or kill her in any one of the many ways one can kill a cat. The water in the sink is pink. Kitty scratches my leg and hides behind the toilet. The door is shut. With secret shame my classmates would speak about their own cat killings, relating the humourous and more often than not, embarrassing ways that they killed their cats. At twelve (the regular age the instinct starts) a girl in my class explained how it had happened in her sleep. Before going to bed she had

curled up with her cat Mittens and had sleep-walked through the process. In the morning, Mittens was a strangled mess staining the girl’s white bed sheets. At fifteen I was walking home with my friend Stacy’s when we came across a pretty tomcat singing to himself on a fence. Stacy had only looked at the cat from the corner of her eye when she pounced on the thing and bashed its head in. We then continued walking home, talking about the spectacle as a seagull began plucking out its golden eyes. After the first killing, girls have the option of taking a pill to control the instinct. It is a personal choice, but most girls end up taking it after a few years. It is difficult to wash blood out of clothes. Kitty is weak and tripping over her feet. Kitty is crying and begging me to stop. My stomach hurts. My mother told me I was a late bloomer and the instinct would come eventually. She bought me a pill that was supposed to help push the instinct along, and I’ll admit that I did start pinching and plucking Kitty’s fur, but it never went beyond that. I saw my mother’s fear in the way she twisted her wedding ring until it rubbed an angry pink circle on her finger. My father wouldn’t talk to me about it. These were women things that he did not need nor want to understand.

Men don’t have this instinct. Things are always easier for men.

After the first killing, girls have the option of taking a pill to control the instinct. Kitty is dead, her body half in the toilet as her blood stains the porcelain and turns the water pink. Blood trickles down my leg from where she scratched me. A knock on the door and my parents entered. I wondered how long they had been waiting outside; since they heard the door slam, or perhaps when I first called Kitty for her bath?

She walked over to the toilet and smiled as she peered at the bloody mess inside.

ARTWORK BY ELAINE WESTENHOEFER 40

My mother cooed, “My little girl is all grown up! I’m so proud of you darling.” She walked over to the toilet and smiled as she peered at the bloody mess inside. My father nodded awkwardly. Once again, these were womanly matters and he was in unfamiliar territory. I was 22, finally a woman and all I had to show for it was a dead cat and a bloody toilet. n INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY MAYURI DESHMUKH

the disco Y

ou cannot avoid it, the change that takes over. Sometimes it only takes an hour to be completely undone: new skin, new eyes, new bones, new limbs. Like running water – cold to the touch, warm blood frozen from seasons of harsh stares and numb words – it becomes a shock to the system. Or, perhaps it comes as a slow pain, and after ten years of routine you wake up and sigh, “I want coffee instead.” But they said, “It will all be okay. Ground control to Major Tom.” As legend has it, Major Tom will make change painless; he will guide you to safety even when a crash landing seems inescapable. But who is Major Tom anyway, but a figment of an imagined figment; a chord in C major? Just an illusory figure created by a painted man, dressed for the disco, but floating exiled in space. It’s not real, unless you want it to be.

Sometimes it only takes an hour to be completely undone: new skin, new eyes, new bones, new limbs. Like change. It can take you from the comfort of your own home and drag you across rough floorboards and raw soil. But, if you don’t give it power, it cannot reach you. Even if it extends its arms into the corners of your room and steals the bedside lamps, the ceiling fan and the lonesome stars of Suburbia. It may take the light, but it cannot take you. VOLUME 17, ISSUE 3

Yara Farran

It can take you from the comfort of your own home and drag you across rough floorboards and raw soil. But, if you don’t give it power, it cannot reach you. So, wait, you can avoid the change that sinks your voice an octave lower, making you sing the music of the sad baritone man. Maybe I lied before when I told you that you couldn’t run from it with legs a few inches too short. Too short. Too short. Too short. And for that I must apologize! At times I find that I cannot keep my thoughts straight anymore as a result of too much music and a lack of oxygen to the brain and a metamorphosis that unfolds its legs in my thoughts and in my bed. You see, before, I was a different person: unchanged, but different. The same frame, but different all the same. And I stopped the inevitable from happening, because I told myself that nothing truly has to happen. If you take your hand out from the stream, the cold water will stop being cold. If you keep the door locked, no one will come in. And I realized this all without an ounce of forcefulness. It was just me in the company of the night, with the lights off. Do you understand me? Do you hear me, Major Tom? The circuit’s dead, and I’m ready to disco.  41

Being Unfashionable Rui Liu and who I really was. I’ve always been drawn to the idea of a fully realized, self constructed individual, a Gatsby reincarnate. And clothes allowed me to grapple with the ambiguity and fluidity surrounding notions of identity. When confronted with factors that challenged my self-esteem, personal style became a strange source of power. Yearning for comprehension, I used fashion as a way to translate the inner, intangible me – whomever that is, for the outside world. Fashion posed a way for me to reinforce my aesthetics, but beyond that, it allowed me to share my beliefs and sense of ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL self. These past selves now feel distant and pretentious. As I mis I reminisce about the different grated through different phases, the outfits stages of my life, I find myself conand mannerisms I used to wear now seem fronted with strangers. Running my foreign and contrary. Although my style was hand across the myriad of materials hung never flamboyant, there was a real sense of in my closet, I can remember the different theatricality in how I attempted to conform characters and personas I wore, as snug to fashionable as these cosstandards. Weartumes now feel ing the right union my no-longform allowed me er-juvenile body. to associate myEnshrouded in self with traditional an oversized teenage archearmy jacket and types. Following grounded by the right trends combat boots, and the right fashI channeled my ion rules of differanger outwards, ent sub-cultures carefully prohad real-life social jecting the idenimplications. This tity to which I felt array of selves feels particularly strange closest at the time. Another year, I dressed and ill-fitting because the roles I was playalmost exclusively in black, consciously exing were predominantly designed by others, pressing my perceived inner turmoil. These although my sartorial experiments were not ensembles allowed me to explore and come a completely alienating experience. Fashion to terms with the discrepancy that exists beenabled me to identify not only the styles tween who I feel I am, who I wanted to be,

I used fashion as a way to translate the inner, intangible me – whomever that is, for the outside world.

and ideas for which I wasn’t comfortable advocating, but also the ones that felt immediately familiar and intimate. It has, in a sense, helped me become acquainted with myself – although I am still confounded by the concept of identity, with my own remaining as elusive as ever. Some of my attempts at understanding and then translating myself were successful, while many others weren’t. Despite my awkward attempts at fitting in, the process of playing with different roles and identities facilitated the development of my self-awareness. I reject the notion that fashion is frivolous. I found myself drawn to anti-fashion, whose purpose is to subvert, rebel against, and experiment beyond conventional conceptions of beauty and fashion. Rei Kawakubo, Yohji Yamamoto, and Issey Miyake all emerged in the past few decades as part of a new wave of Japanese avant-garde designers that have challenged the philosophies surrounding fashion and the act of dressing. In the process, they also sculpted modern perceptions of identity and self. Yamamoto expressed his sentiments on authenticity, urging people to “start copying what you love… at the end of the copy, you will find yourself.” He also challenges the boundaries of gender, having started his career seeking to make “men’s clothes for women.” This echoed Gabrielle Chanel’s revolutionary work a century earlier in masculinizing female apparel. Each season, anti-fashion proponents explore the conventions and propriety dictated by traditional fashion. I’ve stopped attempting to define the self because it is impossible. I’ve also stopped trying to achieve authenticity, which I think is both impossible and inconsequential. Instead, I try to curate a collection of behaviours and clothes that I feel are able to most accurately convey myself at this moment in life. As my style oscillated with changing trends over the years, I’ve come to realize that the less I felt pushed by its ceaseless progression, the more comfortable and acquainted I was with myself. Although remaining contemporary and relevant is still a pressing concern, I’d like to think that I’m no longer swayed by every new trend, nor constrained by fashion standards.  INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL

IN THE NOTHING Stephen Clare

he girl across from me was really cute. She had smiled at me as I’d entered the train carriage, glancing up with wide blue eyes, and I’d smiled back while my heart tripped over itself. Now she was reading what looked like some romance novel, pausing every few minutes to look out the window and push a few strands of blonde hair back from her eyes. The train was gathering speed through the suburbs of Budapest. Already the mysteries of the city were just memories as the rusty spires and tangled alleys dissolved behind us. Another one to tick off the list. I was still half-heartedly trying to make eye contact with the beautiful girl when she put down her book, sighed, and leaned over to kiss the cheek of the guy beside her. He pulled out his earphones and smiled down at her. “Tudo bem, gata?” “Yes,” she said. Her accent sounded vaguely Central European, though I couldn’t hope to pinpoint a country. “How long is this ride to be?” The guy frowned out the window as if he could tell from the position of the sun. “About two hours?” “Okay.” She leaned into his side and closed her eyes. The guy glanced at me as he turned back to his music. “How you doing, man?” he asked. “Good. How are you?” I said. My voice sounded frail and awkward in the quiet carriage, and he laughed. I could feel my cheeks flush. “Fine, man,” he said. “Where you from?” “Canada. You?” “Brasil,” he said, invoking a strong accent. “And she’s from Austria.” He nodded towards the girl on his arm, who cracked open an eyelid and smiled. “Cool,” I said. “Yeah.” He scratched the dark stubble on his cheek and nonchalantly stretched out across the carriage, folding bulky arms across his chest. I noticed that he had with him only a small pack, no more than 35 liters. Having been sucked into that strange game backpackers play where they try to travel with as little gear as possible, I was impressed. I’d met a guy in Hamburg who’d worn the same outfit for a week in the hot German summer. In civilized society this would have made him a bum, but out here it made him a legend. I was wondering how many shirts the guy on the train had when he nodded towards me. “Hey, bro, you collect anything while you’re travelling?” “Collect anything?” “Yeah, like souvenirs?” “Um, not really.” “Oh.” “Do you?” Obviously he wanted me to ask. He grinned. “Yeah, I do. I collect plates.”

His girlfriend groaned. “Again with the plates,” she said, shaking her head. “Plates?” I asked. “Plates.” He opened his bag, and I saw that he wasn’t joking. His backpack wasn’t stuffed with socks and shirts, like mine, but instead held half a dozen full-size dinner plates. He carefully pulled one out and passed it to me. A painting of a cabin by a lake decorated its surface. “From Budapest,” he said. He showed me another, this one painted with geometric patterns of blue and orange. “Moscow.” Then, flipping through them quickly, “Berlin. Copenhagen. Amsterdam.” The girl playfully slapped his bicep. “You’re so crazy, Rafael,” she said. “Why plates?” I asked, handing back his strange souvenir. “Why not?” He was still smirking as he repacked, carefully cushioning the plates with tissue paper. The girl rolled her eyes at me. “He throws out his underwear so he can carry more of those stupid things.” I shook my head at her in sympathy. “My name is Léonie, by the way,” she said, reaching across to shake my hand. “Michael.” I was certain she’d feel the thud of my pulse through my palm. “Nice to meet you.” “What are you doing in Zagreb?” “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’ll ask at the hostel. What about you?” “We’re going on a canoe trip,” Léonie said, looking up at her boyfriend. “His idea.” Rafael playfully slapped her bare thigh in excitement. “It’s going to be cool, man. We’re paddling up to Slovenia with these crazy Czech guys.” “Wow, that sounds amazing.” Léonie shook her head. “It is so worrying, we have no life jackets even! But Rafa says all will be okay.” She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I said, though the idea of such a trip without proper gear unsettled me. Léonie nodded and turned back to her book. Rafael put in his earphones. We were deep into the Hungarian countryside now, a wide expanse of dusty green fields stitched with tattered fences. I reached over to my own pack, looking ridiculously large perched on the empty seat next to me, to grab my journal. Now Léonie was unconsciously tracing the veins on Rafael’s forearm with her index finger while his head bobbed to beats I couldn’t hear. I was invisible to them. The messy pages of my diary were scarred by half-formed thoughts and sketches. At the station in Budapest, I’d traced this map of the railroad tracks that crawled across Europe. In the dim light of the carriage I could see the way they spidered out only to smash together again, forming huge, spindly targets with the cities at their centers and nothing in between. n

Already the mysteries of the city were just memories as the rusty spires and tangled alleys dissolved behind us. Another one to tick off the list.

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