KCL Journal: Issue 15 by kcljournal-gmail

KCL JOURNAL POETRY | PROSE | ESSAY | VISUAL ARTS

new beginnings SUMMER 2021

ISSUE 15 | est. 2012

KCL

JOURNAL ISSUE N° 15

SUMMER 2021

EST. 2012

COMMITTEE

putra Callista Sa f

ie editor-in-ch

Aditya V erma p oetry edit or

Theodora Dumitru

prose editor

Maisiiteor All

non-fiction

Tara Choudhary digital editor

Propa Anwar treasurer

Parisa Omar graphic designer

contributing editors

Eun Jae Kim

Fin Cousins

James Mumford

Julia Hoffman

Lauren Mossman

Liv Pilling

Petra Lindnerova

Richard Enright

Saul Levene

Soraya Siregar

Thema Archer

a note from the editor-in-chief The genesis for our summer issue is to highlight the importance of new beginnings; that is our collective capability to begin again and remind ourselves that even after an extended period of enforced isolation, we find that we’re still here.

The various content featured in our latest publication represents this desire for hope, and all of the submissions found here depict each artist’s unique approach to our central theme. Having the privilege to read and publish each of the featured writers’ pieces is one that I will never take for granted, and I hope that our dear readers would also be able to enjoy and find their own experiences reflected in our curated selection of works.

Most importantly, the making of this issue would have never been possible without the involvement of our incredible editorial board and members. Working together while many of us have spent the year scattered in various places around the globe is a difficult task to manage, however I am grateful that we have all found ways to overcome it and ensure that our production would not suffer because of it.

This is my last issue as the editor in chief of the KCL Journal, and I am always so thankful to have been able to become part of this incredible society. Again, the greatest joy for me was always being able to have front row access to the endless supply of talents that our writers have, and I hope that this issue brings to you what it has given me during these times of uncertainty; that is the reminder to find solace and meaning in art and the world around us.

Callista Saputra

contents poetry

GOLDEN SPRING, Biha Saheed

pg 12

CARDBOARD FORTRESS, Monica Richards

pg 13

ACRIMONIOUS, Simran Garcha

pg 14

DISTANCE’S TENURE, Monica Richards

pg 15

TROJAN, Monica Richards

pg 17

TREPIDATION — EASE IN DISCOMPOSURE, Aditya Verma

pg 18

prose

GETTING THERE, Enyu Li

pg 20

JUBILANT, Nikko Yaqin

pg 23

INTRO TO IMMUNOLOGY, Paula Lago Burity

pg 24

essay

TODAY LONDON CAME ALIVE, Amalia Hajieva

pg 26

THE BEAUTY OF STUDIO GHIBLI FILMS, Haleema Ayyub

pg 28

IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME, Callista Saputra

pg 32

Golden Spring by Biha Saheed

The soil contracts and shudders, parting to make way

as a small sprout pushes through the soil, the birth of nature’s

Newest child, weak and wavery, reaching upwards in search of light at first,

Leafy stems chasing and grabbing at water and air, the hue of green

That colours it is vibrant, ruddy-cheeked, the little sapling strengthens and grows and is

A blooming bud that blossoms, spreads its flowered-wings of yellow gold.

It braves the winds, the rains and the scorch of sun, nothing

Dampens that bright smile, that radiant burnished gold

That reaches out, delicately strong petals that can

Gleam and smile through the season, through the night and comes to stay

Within the cradle of a new spring day.

Cardboard Fortress by Monica Richards

Trees looked like pencilled sketches

Along the motorway’s border, etched:

A zoetrope morphing the

Silhouetted arms into

The watercolour palette behind.

We cruised, centred in the

Middle lane, overtaken;

Serenity’s touch

As soft as peaches—

Welcomed against my cheekbones.

My compass sat beside me

Navigating the M6

Seamlessly; salient

Insights ameliorating,

Conducive to maturation—

A slight - slip - in his reference

And my cardboard fortress is

Trampled on, stripped. I regress

Into my cautious solitude—

“Familiar, mi amor?”

Acrimonious by Simran Garcha

you took my heart in the divorce

but it’s okay i grew another,

i kissed myself the way you should have

whispered sweet nothings in my ear

held myself up and strengthened all my pieces

reinforcement with my own touch.

thank you for leaving,

i am more me than i have ever been.

Distance’s Tenure by Monica Richards

That spineless, irreverent grin

That one might call Distance is

Ajar

And warped—;

A disjointed manifestation

Of the miles unreeled between us.

Your precious touch

Becomes a looping memory

Until our next embrace.

An irrefutable power

And strength that warms me,

And I thought that you too—,

Doubtful thoughts manifest

Yet we digress

In a cautious solitude

Whilst side-by-side.

Jeering in our wake

As we traverse to fall or fly.

Trojan by Monica Richards

A mirror rests on my palm,

A wooden trojan, alight.

The flame’s contours reach forth,

Spiny fingers elucidating

The imperfections that lie

Concretely amongst my scars.

Cinders congregate perturbed

As the brazen fingers

Trace along my collarbones—

Its hot breath despite my demur

Lapsing, carnivorously;

Its ashen trail scolding my skin.

Trepidation —

Ease in Discomposure by Aditya Verma

Once the night begins, Hell’s bells pound his head.

In the void of silence and frost,

His confidence drops dead.

Mozart and Beethoven’s music have given their word,

Symphonies of black rain and hell’s pain

Throng his brain in plain dark mist and dust.

‘Twas scintillating, but not the morning star,

The charmed covers of graves.

Mayday he calls, the shadows scream.

Another panxiety attack,

His eyes squirt black, the iris bleeds -

Pushes open his eyes, but fail does he.

For he, the sun set upon his eyes,

On a bed of black roses, his tormented soul cries.

He soon does realize, the tears, in guise,

Were his soul bleeding pearls.

The morning never came,

he had to, a lustful sin, serve.

The dungeon echoed,

From his screams unheard.

His death bed chant, song of pain, His faith was met with,

black blood - black rain.

Cascading effect, hath it on his soul

Destroyed in seconds, he was a man unknown

The shadows guide him, in a place unseen.

His gentle hand, caressed the beast.

The hands shiver, the poison runs deep.

The heart pounds the chest;

Yet echo, the unheard screams.

The beast welcomes (him), with wide arms

He chokes to death, and the shores loath

regret....

The rain shall fall, the angels will sing,

To stitch back his broken wings,

to wash away, the profane sin.

The morning star, shall rise again,

For blood shed, and tears forced fed,

Shall see the dawn of day.

The wounded shall walk,

the shadows shall fade,

Peace he must find….

For unwashed shores,

Are a mere fallacy

For life thou live, must be unlived;

For fate thou met, must be unmet.

Getting There by Enyu Li

Lorna was an optimist out of necessity. She had been through the wringer, true, but it would not do to give up. She had survived till now, hadn’t she? None of it had beaten her. Not when her father cut the wrong kidney out of a rich man’s abdomen and lost his job. Not when he went fishing for so long the police had to go and fish him out. Not when she ate cream crackers for every meal until her teeth started to crumble. Not when she left college to load pallets and wash hair. Not when she moved into an orange house full of roaches with a man who called her Peaches. Not when she couldn’t stand to have his children. Not when he re-mortgaged the orange house to restore his hideous 1974 Porsche Carrera. Not even when the gearstick stuck, and he was ground into mincemeat on the highway.

At his funeral she called him an idiot for playing mechanic and no one laughed. Peggy appeared the next day brandishing a lasagne the size of an overdue baby, a cigarette twitching between her teeth. They ate on the front porch off the paper plates Peggy bought to save from doing dishes. Later, she mowed Lorna’s lawn whilst shaking her head and murmuring about how she couldn’t believe it, Jesus Christ she just couldn’t believe it. This was not something Lorna struggled with, not really. These things happen, she told herself. These things happen and they’ll happen to you. Best to accept it as soon as possible and spare yourself the sting of chronic incredulity.

Because of this, Lorna was able to think of her life as having been a happy one. Far from lucky, sure, but nothing bad ever came to stay. No creeping ghost tracked mud into her house if she didn’t let it. She was not one to hoard demons in her attic. Morning welled up in her day after day whether she liked it or not so she might as well like it. She was generally glad to be alive, glad to drink cold milk on a hot day, glad to eat anything but crackers, glad to pick out flowers even if they were for a funeral. Glad too to still have a mind to make up and change. Sometimes she believed in God, sometimes she didn’t. That was okay, it wasn’t as if he was going anywhere.

It wasn’t until Peggy keeled over blowing smoke rings outside the post office that Lorna started to panic. Sat on her porch, gazing at her scuffed black shoes, she felt suddenly that her heart just wasn’t in it anymore. Up until now, her life had kept her busy with things to deal with. Every end had pointed towards a new beginning, but now there was no one left. No one to rob or cheat her, no one left to die or disappear. Nothing left to get over except her own good night. Now with mother gone, father gone, husband gone, places gone, places forgotten, money earned, money spent, hearts broken, hearts mended – what was there left to do? Just her alone in her orange house where she hadn’t seen a roach in weeks.

Intro to Immunology by Paula Lago Burity

The body is essentially a series of folded up tubes.

This is what I have learnt so far.

Problems start when the tubes malfunction.

They twist themselves in knots and rip holes in each other.

We are a complex web of squishing bags and creaky gears and churning valves. Stinking great chasms and craters and lumps. Smooth shiny exteriors. Glossy headlamps that blink and chrome gnashers that bite. Bleeding, damp holes. Tangled strings and warm vents. Breathing, fleshy bellows. We’re all built of different parts. Screws out of place, dents in the chassis, loose wires.

But we are more than machinery, we are home.

We house an ecosystem. It is only logical that we are never in complete balance. Our bodies are in constant flux - like nature around us. Civilisations of gut bacteria thrive. Farming, eating, drinking, being merry. They travel, they invade. They colonise.They raze the land native bacteria live on. We - omniscient masters of our bodies - bombard our innards with medication, burning the coloniser bacteria away. With time, the native bacteria grow back - balance once again.

Until the next time.

Jubilant

by Nikko Yaqin

Within all the dread and lead of this new life, there comes a burst of color every now and then. Slow has been the pace of my walks, but patient is what I’ve been. Though constrained by an unseen enemy, a menace to the world, some people seem to thrive, and – I confess with pride – I too.

What I’ve learned is that happiness comes in many forms. For me, every little thing counts. Every single day, you invest little bits of joy, and in the end, jubilant is all you are. And at that moment, all the suppression and uproar you caged within your chest break free, signalling change, screaming freedom far and wide.

You may recall the distant faces of your past that began to fade. Yet it matters not, for the faces you see here came in all colours of merry. Not a single ounce of doubt smeared across their visage, only words that form a sense of warmth, hugging you like a childhood friend you never had. A new and old sensation combined, like finding a brand new vintage tee you never thought you needed. Familiar, yet never before encountered. Estranged yet acquainted. Archaic yet contemporary.

This town is unlike the faraway city I escaped from. After settling into the newness here, I can explicitly tell them apart – the grandeur, the charm. To be free in whatever you could think of paves the way for you to shape out and mould. Unlike the city afar, this town and the new fellows I met are conducive to anyone’s revival. No tinge of dark remarks staining you, only whispers of hope invigorating you to be your authentic self.

There is no better word than “jubilant” to capture the essence of this warming sensation I feel in my soul. No amount of money could replace the cascade of happiness this new town had given me. No amount of wrongs can give me regret, for I could always begin again and rise like the sun at a different wake each time.

Today London Came Alive by Amalia Hajieva

Today London came alive. Layers upon layers of conversation rustled in the background. Birds told stories of how they missed flying over crowded greens; squirrels complained about the return of curious toddlers. All is right in the parks of London.

As I strolled past the bird-watchers and the picnics, in search of a place to sit for the afternoon, I reluctantly packed my sunglasses away and allowed the sun to hurt my eyes for first time in months.

I picked the sunniest bench and sat there for three hours, switching my attention between the stories on my blindingly

bright pages, and the snippets of passer-by-talk.

“He said I was being silly!” complained one girlfriend to the other.

“No, Lizzy, you’re being wildly silly,” the other laughs, leaving me stuck on a cliff-hanger of what seemed like an early 2000s rom-com.

A soft, motherly voice whispers, “Viens, mon amour,” to one of those squirrel-harassing toddlers. Sometimes, the Arabic conversations take over the background noise in such a way that they almost compose a song. And as stomping footsteps approach, I notice runners pantingly slow down to try read the cover of my book.

Seconds after my return into the world of the pages in front of me, a lost-looking man asks me for directions to Green Park. Having glanced around and seen only trees but no exit path, I realized that 1. I would be of no help to this man, and 2. that Londoners today are moving only within the confines of greenery and sunshine.

With every dive back into my book, I’m more and more convinced that I had already finished reading a story entirely separate from the paper in my hands.

Today, London came alive, and oh how I’d missed it.

The Beauty of Studio Ghibli Films by Haleema Ayyub

“I would like to make a film to tell children,

‘it’s good to be alive’.”

— Hayao Miyazaki Hayao Miyazaki’s filmmaking goal has been to provide a view of life that is beautiful and inspiring. Recently, he himself has ‘come out of retirement in order to live’ which is lovely news as his legacy is unparalleled. I got into Ghibli movies during this pandemic period, due to the nagging of one of my close friends, after missing out on watching them as a child. Having never had the time to get into them before, lockdown presented the perfect opportunity, and I became absolutely obsessed. It offered a gateway into a world that reflected ours but was fantastical with stunning animation, well developed characters and good plotlines.

Furthermore, I think my obsession came about because of how the movies romanticise day-to-day living and often have an important moral message. Especially during these tumultuous times, the mental health boost was even more pervasive. The first Ghibli film I watched and really enjoyed was Whisper of the Heart (1995). It was at the start of lockdown and while it made me yearn for normal life, while Shizuku goes on her ordinary adventures, it also made me feel so happy about being able to be at home and to live vicariously through these movies. To some extent, lockdown wasn’t totally hellish at first- it was a break from exhaustive commutes, always being out, always being busy and I welcomed it. Although I was finding it so hard with increasing anxiety while closely monitoring the news last March, Ghibli provided that fictional respite I so desperately craved. It made me more hopeful every morning, wanting to see the good in everything and appreciate the comfort that a cup of tea provided. The scene in Ponyo (2008) where Sosuke and Ponyo are eating ramen is the epitome of cosiness.

While I love all Studio Ghibli movies, Whisper of the Heart (1997) and Spirited Away (2001) have a special place in my heart. In regard to Whisper of the Heart (1997), the fact that it reflected real life and was the story of a bookworm trying her best to find a dream and then have the courage to pursue is something that I think resonates with a lot of people. When Shizuku and Seiji discuss their dreams and Shizuku replies with, ‘I’ve got no idea at all. I just go from one day to the next’, that felt perfect for my situation. Sitting at home in March during the start of lockdown had my anxiety levels at its peak. From constantly seeing the mounting death toll and with the anxiety around COVID-19 in general really had me feeling existential. That one line provided so much comfort at a time where the uncertainty surrounding the future is almost crippling. Whenever someone asks me about my future plans, I look at them in dread because I don’t know what to say- I haven’t even planned that far ahead! If anything, this pandemic taught us that any plans you do make may not even happen and to just take one day at a time. I think everyone can relate to this movie and these sentiments in general which all Ghibli movies reiterate- to take life as it comes – which is why they are so important.

Even more relevant due to the times we live in, Ghibli movies perfectly encapsulate that human yearning for a better world. With movies such as Princess Mononoke(1997), Ponyo (2008) and Spirited Away (2001) making points about the devastating effects of capitalism and climate change, these movies are timeless as these problems still exist today. What’s even more timeless is the spirit of resilience embodied in nearly every character. Ghibli movies provide us with hope- hope that tomorrow will be better. As an adult, these points glared at me in the face but what I love about Ghibli movies, regardless whether you’re a child or an adult, they are a treat to watch. From the characters to the animation to the plot -

the movies have

you hooked from start to finish. Usually, the message of a Ghibli movie will be something insightful and inspiring. Especially during this time, the importance of rest and recovery in Kiki’s Delivery Service is a reminder I really appreciated.

Ultimately, Miyazaki’s wish for his movies to make children ‘feel happy to be alive’ seems to be achieved. They really provide a mental health boost and the scenes where it seems like characters are ‘doing nothing’ are often the most memorable for how soothing they are. While some of the plots of the movie are fantasy related, the fact that most scenes can be related to real life with morning routines and memorable dialogue give Ghibli movies a comfortable relatability.

The movies feel like friends

and give you the courage to start again.

In Search of Lost Time –

on social media and the allure of the attention economy by Callista Saputra These days there’s nothing I love more than walking. The movement of walking itself recalls the figure of the Flaneur, which is a term coined by Charles Baudelaire to denote someone who “wanders with no purpose in a city.” When I think of my days pre-pandemic, I associated walking with endlessly busy schedules, running from place to place to no avail in an effort to constantly be productive and make the most out of my seemingly numbered time. Thus, the idea of being a Flaneur who strolls through a place without any intention of rushing to a particular place at any moment whilst casually observing the absurdism of society feels inherently paradoxical.

When the first wave of lockdown hit, I found myself relocating to the comfort of my suburban home in Indonesia. This was when I started going on long meandering walks, and it has become one constant motive that I have kept in my life all throughout the year. What triggered it was a period of disillusionment when I found myself being confined in my room and increasingly glued to the screen all day; consuming an endless cycle of terrible news.

Yet to be honest, this lockdown wasn’t my first experience of being stuck inside a room. I felt a strange feeling of deja vu as I spent my days staring blankly into a screen, which was made even more powerful by the fact that I was spending my first few months of lockdown in my childhood home. The truth is that this lockdown has me reflecting on the chronic online-ness of my experience growing up. I remember the emergence of Facebook and Instagram during middle school, along with the era in which Youtube celebrities began to gain popularity. What I felt was a novel feeling of connection I had with the online world, as the internet opened the floodgates to unlimited content made by and for everyone. The overconnectivity I found compensated for the lack of connection I was

feeling in the real world of school and adolescence, which I found to be disorienting and confusing. I realised that as a kid I used to find the digital world to be an escape from reality, although now it feels as though the digital space has increasingly overtaken the natural world.

So much has been said about social media causing people to not “live in the moment” but not much has been said about the specific dissociative feelings caused by it: that is of feeling like a spectator of my own life, of being nostalgic for things that haven’t happened yet, and being constantly aware of my own self-image and how others perceive me online. The rise in popularity of vlogs and influencer culture has also caused a belief in seeing life as content opportunities, that is to see moments in real life as opportunities for taking pictures and making content.

In one of the most powerful moments of his comedy special ‘Inside’, Bo Burnham takes the persona of a villainous carnival barker to signify the dangerous allure of the internet. “Could I interest you in everything all of the time?,” he asks. “Apathy is a tragedy and boredom is a crime.” It is a startling moment and articulates how the infrastructure of social media has democratized information in no particular order of importance. My Instagram feed is constantly filled with tragic news headlines, memes, selfies, and discourse about a “problematic” celebrity. The overstimulation caused by the internet has led me to feel everything, or even worse numbed down to feeling nothing at all at the same time. We’re victims of an overload of content, and we’re also at the same time being complicit by making our own.

I vowed to take a step away from social media and being online. Although I’m aware that there isn’t really a way of escaping the internet, as shown by the rise in trend of “digital detox”. So much of those retreats are still based on optimization - that is the belief that once one emerges from it one would return in a refreshed state fully equipped to become even more productive machines - and also suggest a personal solution to an institutional and societal question.

In her book ‘How to do Nothing’, Jenny Odell outlines the impossibility of retreat and her alternative:

“I will suggest something else in place of the language of retreat or exile. It is a simple disjuncture that I will call “standing apart.” Standing apart represents the moment in which the desperate desire to leave (forever!) matures into a commitment to live in permanent refusal, where one already is, and to meet others in the common space of that refusal. This kind of resistance still manifests as participating, but participating in the “wrong way”: a way that undermines the authority of the hegemonic game and creates possibilities outside of it.”

Walking has become my own method of “standing apart”, to accept the boredom of the everyday and the moments in between. I was used to seeing the movement of walking as a way of maximisng my time and most of it spent mindlessly listening to music and anxiously picking up my phone. I understand that I can never become fully free of the pressures of social media - and that I will probably remain complicit in its use although I am hopeful that there is a way to have a healthier relationship to it.

During one afternoon I stepped outside of my room to take my daily walk. I now find myself spending the summer back at home after spending some time living under multiple lockdowns in London. In many ways I am right where I started last year, and in many ways I am not. After time spent focusing on more “mindful” activities I didn’t find that I have become a better or more productive person, but instead I have found a better sense of calm in monotony. It was after one particularly rainy afternoon and the sun had begun to shine again. I’ve grown accustomed to the gloomy weather in London, and so the feeling of the sun softly touching on the skin of my body felt like a welcome and strange sensation. I realised that up until last year I never properly observed the beauty of the neighbourhood I grew up in, and I felt a sense of melancholy that I’ve just discovered something I had all my life. This moment of realisation also coincided with the fact that I’ve recently finished my mandatory quarantine and also my final assessment of second year, and something in the air feels different.

Perhaps what I have found is a sense of selfhood that isn’t constructed or defined. To live out moments which aren’t captured to be seen by others, or to look at a beautiful flower without the need to post it. During my walks I am able to assume the identity of an insider and an outsider, and I’d often hear random sets of conversation and during those moments sometimes I would wonder and think to myself about what types of lives that other people are leading. The feeling provides an acute sense of unknowability, mysterious to myself and others, to be both at the centre of the world and hidden at the same time. I looked out to the Kamboja trees in wander and basked in the glow of the sunshine. As I returned back to my room, I found my phone glowing with new notifications, and wondered if it contained the same amount of multitudes as the neighbourhood around me. Ultimately the digital world is a simulacrum of reality, and in the end it does not compare to the natural one which positions me in the present and my own body, instead of both a dissociative participant and viewer of my own life.

Photography by Parisa Omar

and Martina Pontello