Incite Magazine - September 2012

INCITE MAGAZINE

VOLUME 15 ▪ ISSUE 1 ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

THE TRAVEL ISSUE INSIDE ▪ 8 WAYS TO ADD 8 DAYS TO YOUR LIFE PLUS ▪ THE LOST ART ISSUE

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

EDITORIAL ▪ ON THE ROAD (AGAIN) Jeremy Allen Henderson & Kate Sinclair, Editors-in-Chief

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itting down to write this editorial, we were faced with a significant challenge: it was not immediately obvious to either of us what Incite Magazine is actually about. Although we’d both been involved with the magazine for a couple of years, when faced with the task of telling someone what it all means, we didn’t know where to begin. On several occasions, we’ve heard Incite referred to as McMaster’s “alternative arts” publication. This is a provocative description, but is it actually true to what Incite is?

Seeking insight into Incite (if you will), we looked to our forerunners for clarification. Together we sifted through old volumes of the magazine (circa 1999, when texting was a novelty and Y2K was just

around the corner). These issues brought us back to the era of Bush v. Gore and the meteoric rise of the Barenaked Ladies. Between antiquated advertisements for second generation mobile phones ( “Don’t just talk dirty this Valentine’s Day. Type it.”), we found some impressive pieces. One especially thought-provoking article featured opposing interviews of a Children’s Aid Society worker and a woman who had lost custody of her child to Children’s Aid. Others critiqued student politics and university policies. Occasionally, panel discussions were conducted into hot-button issues.

Amid these articles, one thing became increasingly clear – this is not really an alternative arts publication.

Originally, Incite’s stated goals were to

A NOTE ABOUT THE DESIGN

There is no such thing as a “soft redesign”. Don’t let any graphic designer try to convince you otherwise, especially not yours truly. We simply wanted to give Incite some Botox, maybe even a facelift this year, but instead ended up with the works. For starters, we’ve changed our font family to Helvetica Neue, alternating between the Light and UltraLight weights. We’ve also implemented more colour by pulling an accent from the graphic on each page and incorporating it into the updated standard page elements. Lastly, we’ve revamped the front cover to feature the artwork more prominently. We hope you like it! Comments would be much appreciated and should be sent to incite@mcmaster.ca. Special thanks to Avery, Jeremy, Kate, and Mark for letting me flood their inboxes with many preliminary mockups and for providing invalueable feedback on them.

- Irena Papst, Managing Editor (Layout) 2 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

“challenge, stimulate, and inform” the McMaster student body. Now this is a clearly delineated purpose we can get on board with. The “alternative art” scene can certainly contribute to this mission, but we want to bring to this the substantive, investigative pieces that defined Incite in its early days.

The theme of this issue, Travel, combines the best of Incite’s recent and notso-recent past. Inside, you will be taken around the globe, across Canada, back in time, and through real and imagined universes. You will encounter explorers of all sorts, hear their stories, and, if we’ve done our jobs, you will come away from this issue “challenged, stimulated, and informed”.

- JAH & KS We would like to extend our thanks to our contributors and our editorial team for making this issue a reality. Special thanks to Irena Papst and Avery Lam for their hard work on the visual overhaul of the magazine, and to our predecessors, Anna Kulikov and Sam Colbert for their hard work and for giving us this opportunity.

CONTENTS The Editors 4 HAPPENINGS SIDETRACKED Kate Sinclair 5 GETTING 8 WAYS TO ADD 8 DAYS YOUR LIFE 6 TO Sandra Duffey LAMENT Cristina Silvestri 8 FISHERMAN’S BABY, DRILL 9 DRILL, Matthew Blackshaw 10 PHOTOGRAPHY Zainab Furqan OR BUST 12 BUS Melissa Ricci

BOUND Jeremy Allen Henderson 13 HOORN-WARD Livia Tsang 14 PHOTOGRAPHY ROOT Sarah Kanko 16 EN THE FIFTIES Kate Sinclair 17 FAULTING TO THE FICTION Sam Godfrey 19 BACK THE GAP Matthew Ing 20 MIND Bahar Orang 21 WANDERLUST

THE GRID Daniel Carens-Nedelsky 22 OFF ARMCHAIR EXPLORER Meg Peters 23 THE & FILM REVIEWS Kate Sinclair 24 BOOK OF SPACE Steve Clare 26 OUT A PLANE WITHOUT 27 BRAKES Kacper Niburski

TEAM EXECUTIVE EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Jeremy Allen Henderson Kate Sinclair MANAGING EDITORS Mark Belan (Graphics) Irena Papst (Layout) Ianitza Vassileva (Graphics) ASSISTANT EDITOR Avery Lam (Layout)

CONTRIBUTORS WRITERS Matthew Blackshaw, Daniel Carens-Nedelsky, Steve Clare, Sandra Duffey, Sam Godfrey, Jeremy Allen Henderson, Sarah Kanko, Matthew Ing, Kacper Niburski, Bahar Orang, Meg Peters, Melissa Ricci, Cristina Silvestri, Kate Sinclair

GRAPHICS Mark Belan, Sandra Duffey, Zainab Furqan, Yang Lei, Livia Tsang, Ianitza Vassileva COVERS Mark Belan

CONTENT EDITORS Steve Clare, Sam Godfrey, Matthew Ing, Sarah Kanko, Kacper Niburski Incite Magazine

@incitemagazine

ARTWORK BY LIVIA TSANG VOLUME 15, ISSUE 1 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ 3

HAPPENINGS “

“ I’m lichen it

PHOTO COURTESY OF YANG LEI

Much A-buzz About Nothing A new eco-friendly plan in Vienna is causing a buzz. While tourists pay exorbitant rates to stay in the heart of a European capital, the bee populations are thriving in their hive “hotels” designed as a response to the global spread of colony collapse disorder.

Urban beekeepers’ associations are trying to establish colonies on the roofs of some of the most famous buildings in Vienna including the Opera house and the Chancellery building. The initiative is promising for the health of bee populations but may not be sustainable; Austrian politicians are willing to let the bees inhabit their rooftops but are not as willing to foot the bill. As for the associations, if they don’t find some way to cell their honey, the bees may eat the Viennese beekeepers out of house and comb.

A Sinking Feeling Insanity is said to be doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Mining magnate Clive Palmer may not be insane, but he is certainly eccentric.

A century after the Titanic sank, the Australian billionaire has floated plans to build a replica. Down to the iconic four smokestacks, it will be identical to the original, with the notable addition of a safety deck containing lifeboats and safety chutes. Titanic II will retrace the ill-fated maiden voyage of her namesake. Palmer’s announcement 4 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

met with an icy reception; here’s hoping his ship doesn’t.

Chasing the Flame Talk about hitting the road. Chen Guanming left his rural Chinese village in May 2010 and has only now reached his destination: the 2012 London Olympic Games.

If this seems like a long plane ride, that’s because it wasn’t – Guanming made the entire 60,000 kilometre trip on a rickshaw with no gears. As it turns out, Guanming is what you might call a ‘fan’ of the Olympic Games. During the 2008 Beijing Olympics he cycled more than 9,000 kilometres to the capital for a glimpse of the Games. This year, even after being rerouted following a confrontation with Burmese soldiers in Myanmar, he’s back. It looks like the Olympians aren’t the only athletes in attendance at this year’s Games. “g2g – scrunchie time.”

On a recent European tour, U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton became the most travelled American diplomat of all time, edging out Madeleine Albright’s meager 99 nations. She broke the record on the tarmac of Finland’s Helsinki-Vantaa airport. She barely got into her second bite of karjalanpiirakka before getting back on the plane. After all, there is diplomacy to be done. After a jaunt to Latvia, a stop in

St. Petersburg, and a quick peace summit in Geneva, she returned to the U.S. to rest up. After all, in three days she was off on another ten-nation tour. According to the State Department, Secretary Clinton has been on the road 351 days since becoming assuming her position in 2009. It remains unclear who has watching Bill during this time.

Castaway If you go by the name of Richard Parker, you may want to keep your travels on dry land. In 1838, Edgar Allen Poe wrote a novel about a shipwreck. A crewmember named Richard Parker is one of four survivors who drew lots to decide who would be cannibalized to sustain the others. Parker lost and was subsequently killed and eaten by his shipmates. In 1846, a real ship, the Francis Spaight, sank, drowning 21 sailors, including a man named Richard Parker.

Fourty years later, the yacht Mignonette went down. Four people escaped the disaster on a lifeboat, including a cabin boy called (you guessed it) Richard Parker, who met his maker when his fellow castaways ate him.

Compiled by Steve Clare, Jeremy Allen Henderson, Matthew Ing, Sarah Kanko, Kate Sinclair

GETTING SIDETRACKED Kate Sinclair

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his was supposed to be a music review on the Newfoundland-based group Hey Rosetta! Unfortunately, it gets a little side-tracked. The reason for this is actually kind of funny (you’ll see, just keep reading). As it turns out, I’m pretty inept when it comes to planning things (trips, events…the like). This is something I learned about myself last reading week, when I showed up for a flight to New York with nothing but my passport, toothbrush, and about fifteen Canadian dollars. The trip went downhill from there. It ended in a Harlem YMCA, but that’s another story for another time.

Anyways, I decided vaguely last May that I was going to Quebec City for the annual Festival D’Été after Hey Rosetta! tweeted that they would be performing there on July 14th. Mainly, I just wanted to go on vacation and this seemed like a good enough excuse, so off I went.

Now, on the festival website, it said that the Hey Rosetta! concert was free (gratuit!).

Not bothering to read the fine print, I jetted off happily anticipating the concert at hand.

As it turns out, the show was only free with a festival pass and festival passes are limited. Well darn.

The concert, from what I could tell, was very good. Of course, since all the passes were sold out by the time I got there, I didn’t actually see the band.

In fact, sitting outside the gates was a lot like listening to their music on my iPod back home. But hey, what nicer place to enjoy music you love, right?

About the Festival D’Été The Festival D’Été is one of Quebec City’s best kept secrets. Although wildly popular in French Canada, few English Canadians seem to know it happens (although I suppose Quebecois appreciate the dearth of Anglophones). As for myself, I heard about the Festival through the grapevine (if you know anyone who’s done Explore in Quebec they probably visited the Festival during their five-week foray

into Quebec culture.)

Festival D’Été has been an annual fixture since 1968. It is estimated to attract over one million visitors making it the largest outdoor performance in Canada. The festival takes place over the course of eleven days during the first week of July. This year, the featured artists ranged from Bon Jovi and Aerosmith to LMFAO, The Offspring, City and Colour, and Sarah McLachlan. In addition to these scheduled performances, street performers thrall pedestrians all along the streets of Old Quebec every year (and these are actually free). The festival also boasts spontaneous jazz-offs and Cirque de Soleil rumbles that are definitely not to be missed.

Favourite Quebec Hangs 1. MUSEUM: Les Délices de L’Érable 1044 Rue St. Jean Technically, this is Quebec’s maple syrup ‘museum.’ It’s not really a museum though. On the ground floor you’ll find a shop dedicated to maple goodies (ice cream, sugar candies, maple butter, cookies, cheesecake – you name it). The top floor is a sorry excuse for a museum exhibit – there are a few spinets and buckets on display and some information placards. But I’m glad the upstairs exists because then I can say I went to the maple ‘museum’ even

though I didn’t actually read any of the information there (I was too busy eating my maple ice cream cone.)

2. BAR: La Barberie, Microbrewery 310, Rue Saint-Roch This place was recommended to us by someone working at Shad Laval who knows the city well. If you don’t know this place exists, you will never find it. It is in the randomest part of lower city, next to an overpass and across from a suburban street. The brewery is a co-op where you can order straight pints or get a sampling carousel of featured flavours. We chose the latter option and were presented with a host of bizarre flavours ranging from sangria-beer (fruity and delicious), to orangebeer (which tasted like coffee but not in a good way), and bière-épicé (beer spiced with chili peppers – very piquant).

3. BOUTIQUE: Excalibur 1055 Rue St-Jean If you’re looking for a novelty shop that only sells medieval-inspired clothing, this is the boutique for you. The idle stopper-by can pick from an assortment of swords, gargoyles, jewelry, miters…pretty much anything you would expect to find from a store called ‘excalibur’.

Needless to say, it’s a niche market.

ARTWORK BY IANITZA VASSILEVA VOLUME 15, ISSUE 1 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ 5

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

8 WAYS TO ADD 8 DAYS TO YOUR LIFE Sandra Duffey

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hen I was growing up, my dad always told me that, “for every new thing you try, you add eight days to your life.” He said it was an old Japanese myth, but Google can’t seem to find it anywhere. Ambiguous origins aside, I took the advice to heart, and whenever I’m ambivalent about trying something new I think “is it worth adding eight days to my life?”. I have been in Kenya for 9 weeks, and I think I have added much more than 9 weeks to my life. If you’re ever in Kenya and have an interest in preserving your longevity, here are eight things you might want to try: Beat a Kenyan runner in a 2km race.

I spent a couple of weeks volunteering in a school, and I beat the fastest boy in the school in a race through the Mathare slum. The boy was 11 years old, in fourth grade, and was wearing shoes that probably cost less than five dollars. I raced him from the school to the sports field, dodging chickens, potholes, women carrying stuff 6 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

on their heads, and children peeing along the way. It was a 2km race, and I beat him to the top of the hill by, literally, two steps.

I was dead; doubled over, cramping, gasping for air. The boy took a few deep breaths, then smiled at me and said,“That was fun! Wanna go play football?” Screw you, kid. Screw you.

Dance like Al-Shabaab at a Nairobian nightclub.

Overall I’m more impressed with Nairobi’s nightlife than any Canadian city I’ve partied in. The venues are trendy and eyecatching, drinks are way cheaper than in Canada (250 ksh or 3 bucks for most drinks), and the music is usually a good mix of AT40 with Afropop – music that’s immediately catchy with an addictive rhythm. I was getting my groove on, and a Kenyan friend of mine told me that I dance like Al-Shabaab. When I asked him what he meant the next morning, he said, “Well, you bounce up and down and shake your

head like a Somali when you dance, and Al Shabaab is a Somali terrorist group, so...

You dance like Al-Shabaab would dance.”

I let out a torrent of laughter that woke up the rest of the house.

Be the first white person an African baby looks at.

There aren’t many white people in Kenya, so sighting a white person is kind of a big deal. Most adults politely say “Hello, mzungu.” and walk on, but little kids stare at me like I’m an exotic creature. For some, I am. Consider African babies. Their world is black, black, and more black – seeing a white person is almost as rare as snow. For African babies, people only come in black, so seeing a white person freaks their freak.

The first African baby who saw me initially cried. You can imagine what a boost this was to my self-confidence. The baby was soon soothed by his mother, yet curiosity got the best of him and in a moment of calm, where I offered a friendly smile and

a larger-than-life finger, the baby stopped and sucked on my arm. I guess he was trying to eat it the only way a toothless child can. After straining in vain, he eventually gave up, probably satisfied that I tasted the same as a black person. So, yeah. We were cool.

Be invited to have sex with a Maasai warrior.

When you see travel guides or posters of Kenya, you see animals, rolling landscapes and Africans wrapped in red cloth carrying spears. These people are of the Maasai tribe, one of the 43 tribes in Kenya. The final part of the Maasai boy’s traditional journey to manhood is to kill a lion with a team of boys. Once you do, you’re a man – a Maasai warrior. A Maasai man was sitting with me at a hotel in Maasai Mara, sharing stories with me by the bonfire. He explained that all Maasai stories have a message or lesson. After trading a few stories, he said, “Let me tell you a story about a white girl who travelled to Maasai Mara; she wanted to have sex with me, but she was shy so she didn’t say anything and I didn’t know what she wanted...” He then told me a story of a girl who professed to be “scared to sleep alone”, and all the veiled and ambiguous advances she made until he finally figured out her intent. So he dutifully fetched a condom, and in the mighty jungle the lion slept very well that night. When I went to my room that night, I made sure to mention that I was “very, very comfortable sleeping by myself.” Hilarious.

our clothes with. The toilet is a deep cement hole in the ground. We pay 60 cents to take a motorbike taxi “downtown”, 10 minutes down a dirt road; you cannot buy a pizza, a sandwich, or brewed coffee for at least 90 minutes in any direction. The village is a few buildings dotted among thick bush, not the other way around. When I first got here, the question I got the most was “Why are you rushing so much?” It’s definitely something to experience.

Get close and personal with the Animal Kingdom.

Go to Nairobi’s Giraffe Center, pet a giraffe, feed a giraffe, and even kiss a giraffe.

Pro-tip: the baby giraffes kiss the best. After the Giraffe Center, go to the Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage and touch a baby elephant. I touched an elephant’s head, and it gently smacked my hand out of the way as it flapped its giant ears forward. It was totally cute (and I got the message). Next, go on a safari. We went to Mmaasai Mara in a safari car with a top that opens up, so tourists can safely take pictures from the car’s roof. I, on the other hand, was the idiot hanging out the side window so I could take pictures REALLY close to a lion.

I could have been eaten. It was awesome.

And potentially dinner for the lion.

Make a difference.

You don’t need to donate a dollar a day to help people here, though many Nairobians will try to make you think you do (and that you should give it to them). There

is use here for your skills and knowledge: Teach a computer workshop for a few days, or help a local NGO get an online presence.

Teach at a school for a few days – many schools in the slums have untrained teachers who volunteer for a small stipend, because that’s all the school can afford. They really appreciate international volunteers.

Give a workshop about something you know about. I gave 11 workshops to 750 secondary school girls about gender-based violence, and 13 more about leadership. There’s a market for workshops on business or economics for small/informal business-owners too, but they typically won’t show up unless there’s a stipend to cover the missed income (like, $2 each) – not because they’re greedy, but because their situation is that precarious.

To end here is a bit of an injustice. There are so many meaningful ways you can contribute and even more things you can do, which don’t involve you paying $4000 to travel to Africa to build a $2000-dollar well. Quite frankly, that kind of work should go to the local people so they can learn the process and earn wages for independent growth. There are Kenyan organizations who can set you up with cheap accommodations in exchange for some fulfilling, and sometimes hard, work. That’s how I got here, and it’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Incorporate African cliché songs into your daily life.

Sing the beginning of the Lion King’s “Circle of Life” at sunrise.

Sing Toto’s (Or Karl Wolf’s) “Africa” (I bless the rains down in Aaafricaaa...) while it’s raining.

Sing Shakira’s “Waka Waka” with a group of kids (every kid here knows that song).

Sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” with a sleeping lion, or sing “Where Can You Find Lions? Only in Kenya!” with a lion (if you don’t get this one, YouTube it).

Go to the village.

Roughly three quarters of Kenya’s population live in rural areas. I’m writing this article from a little 500-person village called Siaya, nestled in Kenya’s Western Province seven hours away from Nairobi. Year-round, the temperature ranges from 20 to 30 Celsius. We collect water in big plastic jugs every morning so we have water to drink and wash ourselves/

PHOTO COURTESY OF SANDRA DUFFEY VOLUME 15, ISSUE 1 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ 7

FISHERMAN’S LAMENT Cristina Silvestri

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n June 25th, twenty-one McMaster students set out for Port Mouton, Nova Scotia as part of a Peace Studies field course. Led by Dr. Nancy Doubleday and members of the Port Mouton community, this course explored the topics of peace and health in community development. In the face of environmental, economic, and social changes, small villages all along the province’s South Shore are struggling to preserve their livelihoods and the ecological integrity of the marine environment.

After an entire day spent sitting in airports and traveling by plane and bus, we pulled up to Coastal Queens Place and were surprised to see a group of people outside the hostel, eagerly awaiting our arrival.

This warm welcome helped us feel at home straightaway.

Port Mouton (pronounced ‘Port Mah-Toon’) is a small coastal community whose local economy is primarily based on tourism and the commercial lobster fishery.

Some of the families can trace their Port Mouton fishing roots back to the 18th century.

However, as large corporations squeeze out independent fishermen and young people head to bigger cities in search of jobs, many residents worry that their traditional fishing lifestyle will soon disappear. To see evidence of the changes already taking place, look no farther than the harbour: of the forty lobster boats stationed in Port Mouton Bay, only six belong to fishermen under the age of 50.

Another threat facing Port Mouton is an open-cage fish farm operating in the Bay. Over the years, fishermen and other residents have noticed changes in lobster 8 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

spawning, loss of critical marine life, excessive production of green algae, and the development of an oil slick trailing from the fish farm. All of these problems have been attributed to the presence of aquaculture.

They threaten the health and beauty of the natural marine environment and, in turn, the fishing and tourism industries that depend on it. A volunteer organization, Friends of Port Mouton Bay (FPMB), was formed out of these concerns and to fight a proposal for a second fish farm site.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ZAINAB FURQAN

FPMB is extremely active in holding community meetings, participating in public consultations, and initiating dialogue with the aquaculture industry and relevant government departments. Informed by both fishermen’s ecological knowledge and oceanographic science, a science team within FPMB conducts in-depth studies on the Bay and shares this research with industry and government as evidence of the fish farm’s detrimental effects.

Their efforts have not been in vain: in 2009, as a result of their efforts, the pre-

mier of Nova Scotia announced a moratorium on new fish farms in Port Mouton Bay, and the aquaculture company agreed to let the site sit empty for three years.

During this fallowing period, fishermen and other residents reported a slight recovery of ecosystem indicators (including mackerel, eelgrass and crabs) in areas near the farm site.

Regrettably, the fish farm was restocked with 350 000 trout this past June without consultation or warning, and the current government overruled the 2009 moratorium.

Despite these recent setbacks, the Friends of Port Mouton Bay remains completely committed to their cause. Some swear that, for the past five years, the fish farm is the last thing they think about every night before falling asleep.

Even then, I didn’t fully grasp how deeply this community cared about the Bay until I heard a fisherman describe, near tears, the feeling of being on the boat when the sun rose at dawn. It is this appreciation and love that drive their campaign to preserve the Bay for future generations Reflecting on these seven days in Nova Scotia, what strikes me most is the strength that can be found in community.

FPMB’s efforts to speak out against unsustainable aquaculture government has been a difficult and frustrating process, especially after repeatedly being cast aside and ignored. However, uniting in this cause has actually strengthened the community, and as long as this support remains, Port Mouton will continue their endeavour to protect their Bay and livelihoods.

ARTWORK BY CINDY KILPATRICK (FLICKR)

DRILL, BABY, DRILL Matt Blackshaw

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he odour was faint as we started north on Highway 63. Halfway between the graffittied overpass proclaiming “Refine It Here” and the aptly named Bridge to Nowhere, however, it became unpleasantly sharp. There could be no doubt – it was sulphur. At this point, I began to wonder why anyone would come to this place. One of my new co-workers unwittingly answered as he inhaled: “The smell of money,” he smiled.

They don’t come for the smell, they come for its source. In Fort McMurray, the tar sands almost entirely support the town’s 60 000 residents and employ the 30 000 others that live in workers’ camps like the one I stayed in this summer. Although I didn’t work in the sands themselves - I loaded cargo at an airfield servicing oil workers - I was immersed in the industry and its culture. Of course, since life in a sterile work camp doesn’t offer many recreational pursuits beyond the gym and the bar, the culture is restricted to the workplace. For the most part, no one has any investment in building a community because no one lives in camp full-time. I worked for two weeks and then had two weeks off, which I spent in Ontario. Most other workers follow similar schedules, ranging from six days to three weeks in each rotation, and spend

as much of this time off as possible in their homes outside of Alberta.

Despite my early introduction to the primary motivator in northern Alberta, I wasn’t satisfied with the thought that money, or at least greed, was the only reason people come here. While the promise of good pay played a part in my decision to go, I also saw it as an experiment: take a job I’d never normally consider in order to find out what factors matter most to me when seeking my eventual career. As far as I discovered, this line of reasoning was unique in my camp, but most of my colleagues did have their own pragmatic motivations beyond a sizeable paycheque.

For instance, Haile worked as a security guard at the airport and in camp. A recent immigrant from Eritrea, he was part of the large East African population in camp.

(Only the Newfoundlanders outnumbered them.) With its high demand for workers, northern Alberta is a common destination for newly landed immigrants, either to ease paperwork hassles or because the government simply requires it. A few years working near Fort McMurray can be enough to apply for permanent residency.

The tar sands also serve as the land of opportunity for those already living in Canada. A co-worker of mine travelled

north because finding a company to let him gain experience as an electrician’s apprentice while taking time off for schooling was much simpler near Fort McMurray than in his home province of B.C. Another worker, a trained aircraft mechanic who hauled suitcases and duffel bags alongside me, also chose to work at Fort McMurray because he couldn’t find a job in his trade back home. Both aspired to move home once they had built up their savings and could find suitable jobs.

Like the landscape, the workforce of the tar sands changes daily. As certificates are stamped and mortgages paid off, another plane arrives from Moncton or Mogadishu.

Despite the constant flux, the atmosphere in camp is not dynamic, but stagnant.

While I’m aware that many other jobs are also nothing more than a transaction, I’ve never been in a community in which apathy was so prevalent. Without a passion for their jobs, most are only driven by the knowledge that a day’s work brings them a day closer to returning home. I certainly was. In the tar sands, workers are resigned to staying in a place they do not care about to do a job that serves no greater purpose.

Indifferent, they do their time and get out.

Meanwhile, man-made mountains of sand grow higher.

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10 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

Zainab Furqan

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BUS OR BUST Melissa Ricci

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’ve transferred buses three times today.

On one route, I made it to the end of the line before I had to get off. On another, the bus driver got mad at me for riding through three rotations of the loop – he kicked me off the second he realized what I was doing.

I have no idea where the bus I’m on now is taking me, and I have no idea how long I have been riding for. My bus pass is good until the edge of the city, but then I can sneak a transfer and head on into Burlington if I want. I haven’t decided what I’ll do.

I look at my watch and realize it’s been four hours since I’ve eaten. I’m out of tea

and only have water. My book looks boring.

I stare out the window a little more. An old lady walks on with her cart, and the front of the bus lowers for her to get on more easily.

She sits down at the front; we are the only two people here. I think we’re going uphill. Her cart starts to roll away a little. She grabs it before it can get too far away from her, taking a few seconds to adjust herself back into her seat. I realize, a little too late, that I’m now on the bus heading towards my house. Somehow, in my five hours of wander-riding, I’ve managed to do nothing but get home. Great, I think.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY TOM FLEMMING (FLICKR) 12 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

We’re getting to the top of the escarpment now. The bus always has to struggle through this part, and it always reminds me of that scene in the story book- IthinkIcanIthinkIcanIthinkIcanIthinkIcan- until the bus driver makes it to the crest of the hill and everyone on the bus can exhale. We take a sharp curve at the traffic circle and pass by my house. I don’t look and keep riding.

Eventually I make it to Ancaster, the end of the loop, buy a new tea and wait for the first bus to come around. My phone is ringing, it’s my Mom. I pull out my bus pass and ride away.

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

HOORN-WARD BOUND Jeremy Allen Henderson

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rowing up, I had the unique experience of spending my summer off of the mainland. The last day of school would begin like any other, my parents waking my brother and me at 6 am sharp. But then, instead of filling our knapsacks with bagged lunches and indoor shoes, we’d stuff sleeping bags and tents into packs that, for many years, were bigger than the both of us combined.

Two hours later, I’d take my last step on the mainland for nearly three months as I boarded the ferry, heading for the shores of Manitoulin.

I always enjoyed these summer vacations, and as I got older, I began to reflect more about what these annual trips meant.

Only 300 kilometres of limestone and Lake Huron separate my childhood home from that of my mother, but the second you step off the Chi-Cheemaun (“big canoe” in Ojibwe), it feels much farther removed than that. When you reach Meldrum Bay, a bustling metropolis of 32, you are instantly transported to an era of dirt roads and oneroom schoolhouses (plumbing optional).

As the main settlement of “Unorganized West Part - Manitoulin”, Meldrum Bay also boasts a general store selling homemade jams and syrup, and a family-run restaurant/inn.

Not much changes on our part of the island. The lighthouse that my grandparents used to keep was built in 1873, and with the exception of the state-of-the-art electronic light and gravel access road

installed nearly a century later, it remains as it was: a red-and-white beacon towering above sheer dolostone cliffs, guiding captains and crews through the choppy, disorienting Mississagi Straight. Granted, with the advent of radar navigation, wayward ships in Lake Huron are hard to come by, but the lighthouse still stands as a testament to the tenacious families who weathered out a century of storms to play their small roles in the Canadian shipping (and rum smuggling) industry. A small on-site museum chronicles their daily lives and struggles, their progenitorial tendencies, and their black-market transactions.

As I became more interested in my family genealogy, the records kept there helped me to trace my ancestry back to sixteenthcentury Europe.

The lighthouse records indicate that my family first settled on Manitoulin in the late nineteenth century, when my greatgreat-great grandfather, born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota, was offered the position of “Assistant Lighthouse Keeper” through a friend-of-a-friend in the newly-independent country of Canada. I imagine he was looking to escape the hectic urban life, a feeling I can empathize with after spending three years in the GTA. Unfortunately for me, the last of Canada’s manned lighthouses are scattered along the coasts of British Columbia and Newfoundland; these days, Ontario’s lighthouse “keepers” are little more than glorified tour guides. Fortunately for me, this was not the case a cen-

tury-and-a-half ago; otherwise, my mom’s family wouldn’t have come to Canada, my parents wouldn’t have met, and … you get the picture.

Using American and British colonial census records, a few of my cousins and I have traced this line back to the then-village of Hoorn, in Northern Holland, where Cornelius van Hoorne (we dropped an “e” and an “o” somewhere along the way) died in 1594. During our research, we discovered that most of our ancestors also married Dutch, making the blood in our veins more oranje than we once thought. This triggered an emboldened sense of nationalism amongst those of us who are more genealogically-inclined; my grandparents now fly the Dutch flag alongside their Canadian one, and our diaspora commiserated during the 2010 World Cup over Skype.

While I’d already had a Dutch connection through my father’s family, this is the first time most of my cousins had a stake in a soccer match.

By tracing our roots, we have collectively strengthened them. Through our genealogical project, we’ve reacquainted ourselves with our family’s journey, both recent and historical, a process that will surely affect where we go from here. A few of us have vague plans to go back to Holland someday to continue our research in Noord-Holland’s museums, archives, and cemeteries. Here’s hoping we don’t accidentally discover that we’re actually German.

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14 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

Livia Tsang

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ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

EN ROOT Sarah Kanko

I

am not one to travel. My roots were well established at an early age and although most of my possessions are kept in my trunk, I much prefer to stick around. It is difficult, after all, to travel when one is a tree. Movement itself is not impossible; branches sway quite nicely in the breeze, and with a little assistance, any tree can be moved around the world. But I would not willingly take an exotic trip when I can just see a local autumn.

The world is not always friendly to trees. Kingdom-ism against vegetation is rampant among the global customs offices. It is a bureaucratic nightmare to acquire a visa, and one always runs the risk of handling a corporeal fragment of a recently deceased relative.1 If one manages to go abroad, there are few places that one is really welcome as a Canadian tree in foreign soil.2 And returning home is a nightmare. A trip to Asia leads to indefinite quarantine in North Toronto for fear of the longhorn beetle. If one happens to be an Elm, a quick jaunt to the Netherlands can be deadly.

Once the planning is done, the actual travelling begins. Airplane food never has

enough nitrogen and hotels rarely provide adequate drainage. And don’t get me started on the attractions. That advertisement for MOMA in New York was misleading; the eclectic mix of strange materials was underwhelming at best.3 I’ve seen better in the middle of Nowhere.4 Despite my misgivings about travel, I know a number of other trees that pine for it. An oak friend of mine had heard about Broadway and confided in me that she wanted to become a star. She managed to get on stage somewhere in New York, but her presence was too wooden to make an impact on the audience.5 Another tree I used to know, a sturdy young cedar, decided he wanted to sail the world. He boarded a ship but did not last very long.

Life at sea is just one hardship after another, and the waves of pressure he felt were really just the tip of the iceberg.

Few trees I know have good travel experiences, but it seems to be a very popular human activity. Just the other day, I overheard two people talking about a recent trip they had taken. One man was interested in hedges and seemed quite keen to discuss the increasing number

of ticks the other man’s stalks acquired in the Amazon.6 It baffles me to think that anybody would be happy about a growing presence of pesky insects.7 And to travel all the way to the Amazon from Canada just to inquire into something as bucolic as a hedge seems like a waste of time and resources. There is a field nearby in which the hedges grow so prolifically that a farmer routinely trims with giant shears. How this businessman would be able to manage a hedge with something as small and juicy as a blackberry is beyond me.

As much distaste as I have for travelling, it is almost unavoidable. Few trees these days live and die in one location. We are chopped up, sawn in half, chipped, or pulped and then distributed around the country! There are so many perils involved in travelling that I will take my chances staying still despite warnings from my doctor about the dangers of a sedentary lifestyle. But I’m entitled to my own opinion, if not to the land on which I am rooted, and am going to go out on a limb to say just how much I loathe travel. If you disagree, then you can just make like a tree and leave.

1. Until, of course, the world becomes fully computerized.

2. Foreign plants, unless carefully maintained in botanical gardens, tend to be considered ecologically invasive.

3. “MOMA” is actually a clever grade 9 geography acronym for the components of soil: moisture, organic matter, minerals, and air.

4. Nowhere, Oklahoma is an unincorporated township

known for its lush vegetation. Presumably its MOMA is of the highest calibre.

5. Not an emotional impact, perhaps, but a stiff plank would cause quite a lot of physical damage.

6. A “tick” is the stock-market jargon term for a rise or fall of a stock’s price. The performance of Amazon.com Inc (AMZN) has increased dramatically since 2009, and

although they experienced a substantial down-tick of the selling price in the first quarter of 2012, there has been a fairly steady succession of up-ticks, especially in the past few weeks.

7. Technically, a tick is part of the ixodida order in the arachnid class, making it more closely related to spiders, scorpions, and mites than to insects.

16 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

FAULTING THE FIFTIES Kate Sinclair

H

aving spent the better part of my summer working on a research project about the 1950s, I have acquired an unusual amount of information about them. Sadly, most of what I’ve learned will not be included in my final paper, partly because it is irrelevant information, and partly because most of the facts that stay with me are decidedly un-academic. Not wanting to discard research I worked for months to collect, I have decided to present the odds and ends here, in a hodgepodge article about the decade to which I devoted my vacation.

The 1950s are remembered for Slinky and Barbie, Silly Putty and Hula Hoops, Pez and Mr. Potato Head. This was the decade when 3D movies made their unfortunate debut and McDonalds sold its first batch of grease-saturated freedom fries.

I guess you could call it ‘kitsch’: tawdry, vulgarized products that pander to popular appeal. Ant Farms, G.I Joe and the like became the toys that defined a decade and set the trend for others to come.

Between ducktail haircuts and propeller hats it seems that every unbecoming and incomprehensible fad draws its roots back to this, the decade that started it all.

John Kenneth Galbraith called it the affluent society – the age of everyman, when suburbia and the New Deal combined meant that average Joan and Joe could afford a three-bedroom house complete with picket fence and Frigidaire. ‘Leisure Time’, as we now know it, was institutionalized for the masses. The result was a nation so bored that companies made millions selling moth larvae to the unoccupied masses under the label of ‘Mexican Jumping Beans’. But with democratization of wealth came democratization of taste, and behind a vast array of consumer items, something bigger was at stake.

Magazine and advertising copy from the 1950s reveal conflicting images of a nation. In a country nominally at war, citizens were bombarded, not with nuclear weapons, but with advertisements that instructed them to continue striving for the good life. Everyday images of American families enjoying the latest in gadgets and entertainment had tremendous propaganda value in the struggle between capitalism and communism. Not only did these

products help to cushion space age anxieties, their abundance reinforced capitalist triumphalism. The advent of mass-communications technology meant that images of American plenty could be spread to nations on either side of the iron curtain.

While fifties fads may seem insignificant, they played a vital role in selling America at home and abroad. They were also the life-breath of a generation for whom unprecedented wealth often meant unprecedented apathy.

These are the 1950s as I know them – at once wholesome and inexplicably sad.

It seems no amount of tinker toys could distract from the appalling emptiness of a society in which admen created desire.

And let’s not forget this was also the decade when the emotional fallout of the atomic bomb was first felt. A decade set to the refrain of Tom Lehrer’s rousing lyrics: “We will all go together when we go --

Every hottentot and every Eskimo -- When the air becomes uranious -- we will all go simultaneous -- yes we all will go together when we go.”

Today, we tend to adulate the past. In our decade, vintage is de rigueur – as if the passage of sixty-odd years somehow turned cheap into chic. There is nothing necessarily wrong with this, but I think it’s important to understand ‘trendy’ artifacts in their contexts. Fifties fads entertained the idle multitudes and provided tangible evidence of American prosperity in an age when little else was certain. They have since become the mainstay of a society in which, as presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson once mourned, “the pursuit of happiness became nothing more than a hollow chasing after triviality, a mindless boredom relieved only by the stimulus of sensationalism or quenched with a tranquilizer pill.”

PHOTOGRAPHY BY NESSTER (FLICKR)

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BACK TO THE FICTION Sam Godfrey

D

ay 287 - Teleportation My work is going nowhere. I have begun reading again in an effort to lift my sinking spirits. It makes me wonder if I, like so many visionaries, will be appreciated only posthumously. If only Stieg Larson could see the worldwide success that his Millennium Trilogy has attained.

What I would not give for a device that, like in so many fantastic tales, allows me to see what the future holds for me. But such a device could not possibly exist outside the world of fables…

Could it?

End of day.

Day 1 – Time Travel The following is an examination of time travel in pieces of fiction. Alleged fiction.

I aim to uncover any scientific plausibility hidden behind the make-believe. I believe that there must be some nugget of truth in the tales I have heard my whole life.

Even in my childhood, when I was a budding scientific-genius, I knew of the possibility of visiting times gone by and seeing those yet to come. The Magic School Bus tinkered with the idea. Miss Frizzle and 18 18 ▪▪ INCITE INCITE MAGAZINE MAGAZINE ▪▪ SEPTEMBER SEPTEMBER 2012 2012

her class weekly embarked on learning adventures to the Cretaceous Period and other historical destinations. How exactly this bus was able to travel through time (among its multitudinous feats) is never technically explained. Magic (origin unknown), is the only explanation offered. Miss Frizzle alone knows the answer to this and many other bus-related mysteries. (I suspect that’s why her hair is so big: it’s full of secrets.) Unfortunately, until Scholastic releases more information, I am incapable of replicating the Bus’s journey.

Fortunately, this is only one tale among many. Other time travellers present more details as to the intricacies of their journeys. One such work is Back to the Future.

Marty McFly hitches a ride to his past with Doc, who made some personal modifications to a DoLorean, transforming it into a time machine. Marty drives from 1985 to 1955 to avoid a gang of gnu-wielding Libyans (angry because Doc stole plutonium from them to power the time machine).

The film, of course, is outstanding, but more importantly, it provides descriptions, schematics, and demonstrations that explain the science behind the action. The flux capacitor is shown many times, along

with Doc’s sketch of the mechanism. With all this, I think there is definite possibility for real-world application.

Some people dismiss this as fiction, but to quote Doc Brown: “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.”

There are still other instances of timetravel lore to investigate as well. For instance, that of the young, orphan inventor, Lewis Robinson, in Meet the Robinsons.

Taken 30 years into the future by a boy he discovers is his future son, Lewis attempts to catch a man known only as “Bowler Hat Guy” (point of interest: Marty McFly traveled 30 years into the past. Is 30 years a natural building-block of time? Can this information help us plot organic cracks in time?). Anyways, Lewis’s journey brings him to his future family (this is something of an anomaly in time travel stories – ordinarily time-travelers are very cautious to avoid contact with their past or future selves).

Then again, in this story there is also a re-animated, intelligent tyrannosaurus rex capable of speech, which is indicative of technology far superior to that we have in 2012. Perhaps the future holds the answers I seek in the present.

In the meanwhile, there are some non-

PHOTOGRAPHY BY LAURENCE BARNES (FLICKR)

traditional modes of time-travel that warrant my attention. There are rumours that some items naturally possess abilities to warp the space-time continuum. The case of the Pevensie children, said to occur in 1940, illustrates my point. The children were playing in their guardian’s house, when the youngest discovered an entrance to another realm through an antiquated wardrobe. The Pevensies spend many years in this land, are coroneted, grow into adults, and yet, upon returning to their original world discover no time has passed. This raises many questions. For instance, what if someone enters

the wardrobe, but dies while in the other world? Is time permanently stopped in the real world? The paradoxes are endless.

The Penvensie wardrobe does not appear to serve any purpose but to merely pause one life while living another. It would not serve the practical purposes of the type of time machine I covet. Though perhaps I could ask the White Witch for a time-machine in lieu of Turkish Delight…

There is a final form of time-travel that shows promise. Calvin and Hobbes were not, in all likelihood, the pioneers of this method, but their travels are well docu-

mented. Using only a cardboard box and some goggles, they flew through time to the Jurassic Period, and back again, all in an afternoon. Unfortunately, this type of journey isn’t for everyone. Since it is powered only by imagination, it is a demographic-specific mode of time-travel that only seems to work for children. For a jaded, cynical adult, it is certainly impossible.

That said, seeing as the Calvin and Hobbes method is the only one currently available to me, I will be acquiring a cardboard box posthaste.

End of day.

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MIND THE GAP Matthew Ing

B

y the eighteenth century, it had become fashionable for young British bluebloods to cap off their classical education with a Grand Tour of the cultural capitals of Europe. In any given year, upwards of 20 000 adolescent ne’er-do-wells would depart for the Continent, with the goal of returning as men and women of the world. Three hundred years later, the ‘Tour’ is once again in vogue. We call it the ‘gap year’, a hiatus from curricular education to pursue anything from backpacking the world to taking classes “on a magnificent fully-rigged tall ship” (contact Classes Afloat if you want on board).

Gapping is an accepted and even expected rite of passage among European students, and it’s increasingly finding favour in North America. When 1 in 7 Canadian youth drops out of higher education before graduation, perhaps it’s time to reexamine the straight-to-university convention. Students who take a year to travel and reflect on what they want from life are less likely to rush into a degree which they discover they dislike only after much strife and wasted tuition. Furthermore, gappers are eight percent more likely to be employed. But a word of caution: these strong endorsements come from the very travel companies advertising first-class gap year packages. So large is the market for such programs that it supports a travelling fair in the US at which you can browse through gap companies in person.

On the other side, gappers are roundly excoriated as privileged tourists whose quest for sun, sex, and sangria is interrupted only by occasional acts of do-goodery and noblesse oblige toward grateful locals.

In the belief that global poverty persists but for the lack of young unskilled labour, so-called ‘voluntours’ travel to the global south to build chairs and erect schools.

The young people on these tours learn nothing of the history and politics that produced these social conditions, or of the structural problems that the international development community has spent decades combatting. Poverty becomes the defining difference between home and the third world, rather than a state which, in varying degrees, characterizes all societies. Similarly, the inhabitants of these countries become a homogenous and simplified “Other”. Of Zambians, Travellers Worldwide says “like most Africans, these people are very friendly and quick to flash their broad grins at you. The children, in particular, enjoy seeing foreigners and absolutely love getting your attention!” Perhaps the author visited during a nationwide Prozac craze.

The real danger is that voluntours, without much opportunity for critical inquiry but armed with plenty of experience, inculcate this simplistic conception of the world. Under the impression they have made a difference in the third world, they return blithely to their lives in the first.

Other gappers take to backpacking.

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As an alternative form of travel, backpacking combines the thrill of the road less taken with the goal of self-development.

Or so purists would have it; as backpacking became more mainstream, it accumulated a number of negative stereotypes.

For instance, it is now much more difficult to make out the difference between the road well-travelled and the backpacker’s “Banana Pancake Trail through South East Asia. So named for the comfort food and western amenities served by restaurants and guesthouses along the way, you might wonder why backpackers bother leaving home in the first place. The trail culminates in Thailand’s Full Moon Party, the largest beach rave in the world. Understandably reluctant to play host to a twelve-month Friday night, governments are taking active steps against backpackers. Bhutan, for example, bans them outright, because they negatively contribute to the country’s Gross National Happiness (GNH) index.

It would be an oversimplification to write off the gap year as an excuse for a year-long debauch coupled with the opportunity to alleviate postcolonial guilt. After all, the Grand Tour was also narrowly denigrated for producing otherwise useless dandies and fops. Yet the movement also inspired some of the greatest artists and philosophers of the eighteenth century, as well as revolutionized British architecture.

So if you choose to gap, do your research and look before you leap.

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

WANDERLUST Bahar Orang

I

sometimes find myself overcome by an insatiable kind of nostalgia. As though I’m homesick for a place I’ve never been. Or I feel melancholy for memories I’ve never had. The feeling is suffocating, but oddly liberating – a serene desperation. My limbs become soft and my body begins to fade until I feel like nothing but grains of sand slowly being swept up by the sea. And yet, at the same time, I feel as though I’m trapped in an hourglass, and the sand is quietly pooling at my ankles, my knees, my waist.

Perhaps this is the curse and the allure of youth. The relentless desire to explore the world and fulfill that gnawing ache, but the constant fear of being forever lost. And all the while thinking that there’s something very beautiful about the whole dilemma.

I’ve been told that this is what wanderlust feels like – an inexplicable impulse to travel and understand one’s very existence.

I find it hard to believe that there will ever

come a day that I’ll feel completely assured about any aspect of my life. Maybe this hopelessness is only another symptom of wanderlust and I’ll eventually find everything I’m searching for. But a small, strange part of me hopes that I’ll always have some leftover restlessness somewhere inside me wherever I go. In those curious moments that I’m overcome by intense longing, I feel a certain happiness and sadness and loneliness that never seems to lose its charm.

It happens when I’m trying to a fill a hole in my chest with music. Or when I realize that you can’t safely love your favourite song because even that can be taken away.

Or when I think of all the people who have briefly touched my life that I’ll probably never meet again. Or when I consider how some say every atom in our body was once part of a star. Or when I wonder if I’ll ever find something that I feel so passionately about that it frees my mind of all worries. Or when I wonder if I’ll ever find a purpose so con-

suming that it frees my heart of any hatred.

I have an inexhaustible case of wanderlust and it’s made me book a ticket to Paris.

It constantly draws me to old photo albums that no one has looked at since they were put together years ago. It inspires me to find sheet music for songs I’ve wanted to play since I was a little girl. And to throw away all the odds and ends that have been cluttering my room “in case I need them for something someday.” And to fall asleep in the arms of someone who somehow exacerbates my wanderlust to terrifying extremes.

Someone once drew me a Venn diagram. One circle was labeled “what you love” and the other circle was labeled “what loves you.” The overlapping area was called, “if you’re lucky.” That’s what wanderlust must be – the fear and excitement and dangerously unbridled desire to discover that in-between space. And to search for it with the direction and determination of dust in the wind.

VOLUME 15, ISSUE 1 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ 21

OFF THE GRID Daniel Carens-Nedelsky

C

ottage living – these two words evoke a lot of feelings in me. What spending time at my cottage means to me is difficult to capture, not least because I want to approach it from so many different angles. I want to analyze and rhapsodize, to calmly contemplate and exuberantly explicate (and probably any other alliteration you can think of). I want to do justice to the magic of the place, while still capturing its importance.

Cottage life contains many contradictions. It is a place of quiet serenity and rambunctious intoxication; of endless days and time gone far too fast. It’s the place I associate most with my childhood, and also where I had my first honestly adult conversation with my friends. The cottage is a place of boundary crossing, the place I spent preparing to enter middle school, high school, and university.

It’s where normally forbidden subjects of conversation are broached and discussed with candor. At the same time it represents stability to me, an unchanging part of my life that has and hopefully always will be there. I shall try to impose at least some sort of order on how I understand cottage living. If at times I lapse from prose into something vaguely resembling poetry I beg your understanding, if not your forgiveness.

First and foremost, cottage living represents childhood and family. From grade one to grade 12, I spent every summer at my cottage. The rules were clear: no TV, no video games, and no computers. It was break from the real world for all of us. My parents (able to do their work from the cottage) would get to take a break from news of the real word and worries of the academy. My brother and I would have two months away from schoolwork, our Toronto friends, and most importantly, from all the distractions of the modern world. It was a detox period where the glow of the television screen was replaced by the warm light of the sun.

Fantastic realms of video games were surrendered in favour of lush forests, endless beaches, and vast tracts of water. Our more 22 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

or less sedentary existences were replaced with physical activity as the primary form of entertainment; swimming, dune tag, manhunt, and endless hours on the trampoline.

We had a few cottage friends, but for the vast majority of the time it was just our family. The cottage was place where we really got to know one another, where we learned how to coexist peacefully and happily, not just inhabit the same living space.

We would play games each night, from

ARTWORK BY IANITZA VASSILEVA

Harry Potter Clue and Crokenal to Poker and Canasta. The cottage was were my father read us the Harry Potter books as we went to sleep (and later, when we discovered Jim Dale has the voice of an angel, where we would listen to the audiobooks).

Cottage living will always be about family for me, and even now we make time each year to spend at least a bit of time up there, just us four.

The other side of the cottage is the

social aspect of it. Somewhat ironically for a place that feels cut off from the rest of the world, I’ve found that many of my most meaningful and memorable social interactions have taken place at the cottage.

There is a sense of freedom, timelessness, and unreality that forges a type of intimacy I haven’t experienced anywhere else. At the cottage with friends, it’s the strangest mixture of reliving our childhood and entering adulthood. We become enamored with silly toys from childhood, yet drink to excess. We cook and live together for 72 hours in what resembles a sort of socialist paradise; this is reinforced by late nights games of Class Struggle, the board game where the Capitalists and the Workers work towards their respective goals of “barbarism” or “socialism”.

Something about the place opens people up, and lets them get closer to each other. It’s not just the intoxication of staying up late or the intoxication of plentiful alcohol; it’s something more. There is something about lying under the stars on a trampoline, sitting around a campfire, or huddled together on couch that lets people discuss things they wouldn’t otherwise talk about. To open up to each, share stories, family histories, and questions they’ve always wanted to ask.

There is a magic about that I can’t capture in words, but repeats itself with each visit, in new but familiar ways.

Cottage life is a lot of things to me. It’s about friends and family, sunny days, and the joy of the occasional blackout as young child.

It’s about digging holes in the sand for no reason at all, and pre-dinner beers, followed by red wine, dessert wine, and a few rounds of gin and tonics to round of the night. It’s about hearing my dad swear for one the few times in memory, saying to my friend: “The hearts are fucking you”. The cottage is the place I go unwind, relax, and to get away from it all. It is a place of intimacy and of joy. I don’t know if I’ll manage to make it up every year now, or even if my feelings about it will remain the same. All I know is that I certainly hope they do.

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

THE ARMCHAIR EXPLORER Meg Peters

N

ow it’s true that there are some fabulous places on earth to visit. I’m sure Mars is also lovely this time of year. But travel is a nuisance these days, I mean – seventeen steps of security prior to getting on any aircraft and no snacks on the plane – it’s ridiculous. Not to mention the expense. That’s why I prefer to travel to imaginary places. It’s quite simple, really, New York on paper is always smaller and more exciting than the real city. Let’s face it, there has yet to be a flight more convenient that the journey to the end of the universe. I recommend the following places for relocation on a rainy day. These locales are for you when papers, labs, or presentations are getting you down, and you would prefer to travel.

C.S. Lewis’ Narnia is a fantastic holiday hotspot, with beautiful beaches, rustic forests, and locals that are so friendly they are willing to shield you from evil witches.

While it’s true that there is a history of political turmoil in this fine country, many would argue that this simply adds to its charm!

An easy read for the fictional travel enthusiast, the Chronicles of Narnia takes you away without the hardship of packing – just step into the wardrobe and you’re on your way.

Gregory Maguire’s Wicked brings us

back to the Land of Oz but with a much more honest spin. In direct contrast to Narnia, this land is all about revealing the disadvantaged citizens and the dangers of sex, drugs, and alcohol. If you want a party without the unexpected pregnancy, this may not be the happy-go-lucky location you desire, but if you’re into social or political aid, you may be needed in this uncivilized land. Disclaimer: I have not seen the broadway production based on this novel, but the book is fantastic A.A. Milne’s Hundred Acre Wood is a vacation spot appropriate for the whole family! After 86 years of booming growth, the honey market of this forest is still thriving. Other attractions not to miss include Pooh’s thinking spot, and Rabbit’s garden.

If you’re going during rainy season, do not forget your galoshes, this forest is known for its torrential downpours. Get ready for a warm welcome from the locals, and remember “If the person you are talking to doesn’t appear to be listening, be patient.

It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.”

J.K. Rowling’s Hogwarts is the perfect conference location for all your company needs. With Apparating protection, your guests will have your utmost attention, while still enjoying spacious rooms,

interesting conversation, deceased guests, and the most delicious food prepared by a crowd of House Elves. The company protection plan also includes defense against the dark arts and a D.A. approved owl insurance program. If you’re looking for the safest place in the world, Hogwarts may have failed you by book seven, but it nonetheless provides comfort, food, excitement, and a chance to meet the Chosen One. Last, but surely not least, I urge you to bring a towel for your next journey. If the earth should be destroyed, you must be prepared to stick out your thumb. Yes, I am referring to Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the perfect way to get away from this dreary planet. The first step, of course, is not to panic. The next is to be ready to travel on someone else’s dime. The best road trip in existence may follow you behind the Vogons, and if you’re not careful, you could find out the answer to Life, The Universe, and Everything.

Yes, some would prefer to put down the books, and pick up a passport, and there’s no real harm in that. But if you would prefer to spend a little less time worrying about packing and plane tickets, literature can be the perfect escape. Just remember: having fun isn’t hard, when you have Mills Library and a student card!

VOLUME 15, ISSUE 1 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ 23

BOOK & MOVIE REVIEWS Kate Sinclair

A

ON THE

ROAD

t first I th o JACK his boo ught I would h k was th a e sort o te Jack Kerou wouldn K EROUA ac. I’m f pse ’t be The ‘sto C kind of ry’ can able to finish. I udo-intellectua a picky have to be sum l, ‘avan abando re a der t-g ad med up ns in a ma mit, it was a slo arde’, unreada and I was certa alongsid his typewrite r for th tt ble non w e his frie in e r s tart. T of sen e th se n bounce s from c d and muse, D rill of the roa tences. Sal P his book is not nse that I d a p ean Mo oast to abando riarty. O , where he se radise, a strug lot-driven. c ns him ver the eks libe g (not for oast, finally en li ng au tling do course ding fev the fi wn of the b ration and ins thor, erish w recalls h alongside “the rst time). Part p ook’s fir ith dyse fiv is last, u g st four p iration ntery in nsatisfy irl with sad eye e finishes with a M rts, S e x ico City ing enc S s” he ha “What d ounter where D al s been al back in New ifferenc w lo it e e does York Cit h Dean o better y; finally an and con king for. In the Althoug than fame in h it make after s fi c e nal pag lude a h there es, Kero tand gra isn’t mu eaven, for wha ll? — Anonym s: u nd theft a c t’ it c s y h heaven to the p a smoky ? What’ in the world of lot, the jazz clu uto, drunken e s n m e o en is arth? A vel hum bs. Kero xploits a moving ll in th s wit nd uac in readers the end. His w ’s stream of co bohemian han h the illicit plea e mind.” go su w ns o Conseq ith an overwhe rk is infused w ciousness sty uts, extra-mar res of petty crim it le lming (if uently, it al philan e his pros unspok h the desire fo , while initially singular e pulsa en) que off-putt dering and r some ity of an in te s thin tion g, s with a open ro Upon ad burning : how does on g more. Kerou is deeply ac burd e live ou and co beautifu first publicatio and an untam e ntagiou n e lly exec s desire tside of medio ns uted, th , Kerouac’s wo d country.

Keroua crity? for the e cleare rk was c himse freedom hera st a lf n finished and the boo amed as beat. nd most impo lded by the N e k, I’ve c ” r tures, n hanged At first, this s tant utterance w York Times ot only eems li as “the the my min today c ke a gro yet made by mos d. To m an relate ethos of his g th s e s e , en K o generati t ing wor ld” and to a protagonis eration, but o erouac’s work verstatement. on f those Having is signifi who str t who fe monoto th n c iv o a a e e w n t ls s t foll becaus in for an e ny of c e it cap o veryday sufficient in th owed as well. conclud mmutes and office jo that goes be e “too-huge v Certainly youth es: a y b s u o s lt n d the d “The on and pe eadenin tty com ly peop le for m g p e to live, ti ti o n. Kero e are th mad to uac e mad talk, or say a commo mad to be sav ones, the one s nplace yellow ro thing, b ed. The ones w who are mad man ca u h t o never b n u d r le n s, explo , burn, This d yaw cry to re eclaration is sti ding like spide burn like fabulo n r ll as rou aders to s acros us s sin d book le aves ad ay as it was m g, vital, and tr the stars.” mirers e iumpha ore than yet seiz nt a verywh e fifty yea ere feeli darknes d enough ecs r s ago. H n ta g s s , th is y enough , enoug world th h life, en at they have n music, at confi o o o t u r enoug nes the h vitality gh joy, enough m. from th e great

24 ▪▪ INCITE INCITE MAGAZINE MAGAZINE ▪▪ SEPTEMBER SEPTEMBER 2012 2012 24

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

S S I M E LITTL HINE SUNS

l girl in tty? am I pre e most beautifu , a p d n live: Gra pa: You are th Grand and it’s d. with you you’re that. e g v the worl in lo y a in s t because m madly ou’re jus Olive: Y No! I mean it. I’ r personality, it’s u a: eryday ins or yo Grandp , and ev f the ra s b d r a u ro o y use of winding utside o not beca side and out. families, d value o . n n e fi k ro to b in w , d l, o beautifu of beauty ing and about h ac’s On the Roa ara story u s ere 7-ye lo ro is h e d w e K n in a h ia h it g s rn w n in fo ll u n li e S a in to w C s s irec rs ut w Little Mis uerque to auty Pageant. D at couple ovie abo q th u m e lb a ily n A o is , lear fam el film aks. It ip from ine Be heartbre sence it is a trav er family on a tr ittle Miss Sunsh l of this anti-nuc veable. es the L Hoov rtraya y are lo label. In llows the led to perform in ching in their po and fallen as the fo after a lm fi The irky lescence who unflin u chedu a s q v re n s is a o a r c s e ri re v in a a Hoo udgeon Velerie F characters that r, who is old Olive ing curm roin on the t schola th s of yton and e u t a s m D ro a o P c n s t a a he h os nty Jonath snorting ve’s father, wers wit a’s forem a Edwin, a seve ie d c v n ri t u e n fo e m s s A a p Oli nk, and pre ’s Grand Village after he w crazy not to”). ncle Fra re U e theories th ’s n re n e e t e h Th men pt. T y spouts ve be re tl m a ti n e h e ta tt R d s a r I’ n o e , an ose’ pro icid o co age fuse to L e, havaker wh Sunset M xplains: “at my failed su e e f p o R s t p l u a o te n e tio wn ‘9 S reclusiv was thro egarding this, he ccessful motiva al tenets of his loof and a u is tr (r s , n s e ly in e c a re is ba Dw the pilot. prem over, is a sers,’ reiterating , Olive’s brother, ing an air force o decrepit H rd a . In their s huRich com ough g e nd ‘lo n in a b e n ’ l n in a rs o e w s rm n t u in no g to focu t its mos outrageo que about ‘w e her mother is r decidin Hoover family a d often e n es il ft a rh a te rk e W s a c . n d ip gram er h e the with h of sile s o th in w p a o , x e v e e d v t a li O an tots who and ing sworn d trip and page pageant. asoned intment e o e s p in p h re a s o is a n m d u The ro ey face e Miss S of step with the robus, th es with the Littl t ic u o rficiality. m y . w ll s o yell an supe auty woefu y tutu limax c c c ri is n e , u lm m o ts fi A n b a e f d cking be mour. Th ses and track p vy make-up an and a critique o s is one fu e Air Force ea la e h ts g if fi L in y is n . s m n ts ip gra o fl n of ntes ck th ns and d elebratio Fuck beauty co uck that. And fu ck the rest.” “ twirl bato , the film is a c F . t: .. d s n ork be , a fu a very essage Overall e, then w you love m g t e a e ll h o th film has c w p e n o u e d th s , th u e l, o m g o Y u a o s y.

Dwain s ish. die mes ther. Sch way to fl tart to fin t a hit in s after ano to fly, I’ll find a a t t s m p o te m fr n e o g tt c nt ulated a wrenchin y. If I wa hat calc d heartn w a e Academ g m n o ri s a e is is a ains end While th and rem l e fe c ti authen

O

VOLUME 15, 15, ISSUE ISSUE 11 ▪▪ INCITE INCITE MAGAZINE MAGAZINE ▪▪ 25 25 VOLUME

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN

OUT OF SPACE Steve Clare

S

ix billion years from now, the sun will end its main life cycle and start to burn through the hydrogen shell that surrounds its core. During the ensuing ’red giant’ phase, its radius will expand to up to 250 times its current size and it will burn 2700 times more brightly. As a result, the Earth that we know and love will be fried in its orbit and possibly swallowed whole by an enormous ball of gas burning at 2600 degrees Kelvin.

I’m quite fond of this planet, but I’ll never let my sentimentality get in the way of practicality. Our planet’s lifespan is finite.

If we want our species to survive, our destiny ultimately lies elsewhere.

We must take to the stars, transcend our planetary origin, and rekindle the human adventure elsewhere in the universe.

We’ve gone from the Wright brothers’ propeller planes to the James Webb space telescope in little more than a hundred years, so it seems perfectly reasonable that we’ll voyage into deep space in another billion. Unfortunately we likely won’t have a full eon before we have to evacuate Earth.

We face more pressing dangers than the inevitable explosion of our sun: apocalyptic nuclear warfare, climate change, resource scarcity, and asteroid impact all threaten to prematurely extinguish our planet. We should face the fact that we might have to leave this planet sooner than expected.

26 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ SEPTEMBER 2012

Thankfully, aerospace engineers are one step ahead of us. With their technologies, the universe seems closer than ever before. This year the Dragon Capsule became the first commercial vehicle to dock at the International Space Station. The year 2010 saw the founding of Planetary Resources, a company dedicated to developing asteroid mining technologies.

Motivated by the possibility of lucrative economic ventures, humanity is reaching into the heavens.

The promise of deep space travel is tantalizing for other reasons. The vastness of our universe is awe-inspiring and humbling. Every child dreams of being an astronaut and humans live on dreams. We dream of a better future, we dream of a better past. Our mental fantasies sustain us through the dark patches. Some would argue that our world is going through such a patch right now. The global economy is still turbulent and parts of the world are embroiled in bloody civil war. At times like these that we turn our eyes upwards and are reminded that Earth is just an infinitesimal blue marble floating in a boundless void. That’s not to say that we should blind ourselves to our terrestrial problems, but we can keep them in context. This too shall pass.

Furthermore, space travel showcases the brilliance of human ingenuity. The 20th

century space race excited an entire generation, and society reaped the benefits of innovative and idealistic engineers and scientists. We cannot afford to lose that passion for striving towards something big. As individuals and as a civilization, we need something to reach for. Our species is not perfect. We can be selfish, greedy, stubborn, and vulgar, but we also have the potential for greatness. In a few short millennia, we’ve advanced from utter ignorance to a shallow but passable understanding of the universe and our place therein. Nowhere is the culmination of our collective knowledge better exemplified than in our cosmic adventures. The science of space brings together all aspects of human knowledge: physicists unite with biologists, chemists, geologists, engineers, mathematicians, and philosophers.

Space, the final frontier, has been a part of human culture for millennia. Most ancient religions worshipped the celestial bodies. Today, we are lucky enough to be standing on the cusp of a new era: one in which we will blast off from our quaint little world and seek new adventures elsewhere. Carl Sagan said it best: “The surface of the earth is the shore of the cosmic ocean. Recently, we’ve managed to wade a little way out, maybe ankle-deep, and the water seems inviting.” Who wants to join me for a swim?

A PLANE WITHOUT BRAKES Kacper Niburski

T

ake me to the party capital of the world, and I won’t remember the trip.

It’s not because of the alcohol. Nor is it the result of lazy sun-filled days. Truth be told, I can barely recall the rocky coast or the beautiful mountains peering out into the sea.

The same could be said of the hundreds of people I met and the friends I made. Even the nude beaches elude me – for the most part at least. (Naked Greek men are too horrifying to forget.)

What I do remember though, is a single, sultry night. Moonlight bathed the hotel in shining silver. Palm trees whispered secrets to whoever walked underneath. The events of that night are as vivid as the present, and it begins as all stories do: with a red dress and a failing belt buckle. My only hope is that it didn’t end that way too.

In a fit of tears, she yelled across the hallway that she thought that this would fix everything. She was young. Her red dress hung low enough to cover her nakedness yet high enough to catch the attention of everyone around her. Her mascara ran down her face tracing misery’s tapestry. Pieces of her hair, which were once combed so masterfully, stuck out on end. Even the most careful preparation is marred eventually.

He was holding on to everything he had: his looks, his pants, and an empty bottle.

His lost shirt was the last of his concerns.He mumbled and fumbled and stumbled along laggardly. Soon his pants would be lost too.

The floor seemed to falter under his weight – not because he was fat, but because it could not support him in his time of need. The entire hall echoed rhythmically. Left.Right.Left.

Right. He was trying to catch up to her.

It was obvious enough. They were running away from something. Perhaps each other. Perhaps something else. But in the aftermath of disarray and electrified air, they were still trying to run.

I stood in the hall shirtless with aloe painting the edges of my shoulders. I had forgotten to apply sunscreen again. I’d pay for it later – maybe in a lifetime of scar tissue or unsightly freckles – but I wasn’t worrying about that. I simply stared as disaster blossomed in front of me.

Maybe I should have done something.

I would’ve liked to imagine that I could. But there in the hall as he chased after her and she chased after the nothingness between them, I understood. It’s the eternal curse of a self-proclaimed thinker: rather than act, we think, and even then we have to think about that.

So as all epiphanies go, I stood stupidly with a grin plastered onto my face, a sign that my sun-kissed self had stolen a little mystery away from the Universe. There in the sweltering heat of Spain, I realized that by travelling, a person cannot escape the troubles they try to leave behind. It is the worst part of being human. Benevolent or malevolent, good or evil, we are nomads, and what we herd with us are our problems.

The couple must’ve thought otherwise.

They assumed that by starting fresh in some foreign place, their haunting anxieties, their ceaseless problems, and their creeping inadequacies would stay where they left them if only they flew fast enough.

But here in a three-story hotel with palm trees swaying gently and an ocean roaring on endlessly, reality proved different. Wherever someone travels, their neuroses follow.

All of their fears, their pains, and their unresolved conflicts are packed into their suitcase alongside bikinis, boxers, and coats.

And only when they feel like everything is settled, that everything will be alright, does it all spill out uncontrollably like a mountain of dirty laundry.

I never learned their names. In fact, after they dashed behind the cover of a corner, I never saw them again. I don’t know what happened to the couple. I’d like to think that everything worked out and they found happiness somewhere or in something. I’d even go further and wish that by getting lost, they found themselves.

Yet I know that probably didn’t happen. Most likely they found out that in this changing world, with its disasters and magnificence so often blurred together, the only thing that is stagnant is their judgment and burdens. Wherever they go, wherever they run to, their doubts, limitations, and worries will stir silently in the suffocating air like a disaster waiting to happen, like a plane without brakes.

ARTWORK BY MARK BELAN VOLUME 15, ISSUE 1 ▪ INCITE MAGAZINE ▪ 27

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