Cover Art by Angela Zhu, second-year Arts and Sciences student
Our Mission We wanted to create a platform on which artists at Marianopolis could share their work. This is why we decided to set as few limitations as possible: submissions include poetry, prose, creative nonfiction, and visual art; they vary in length, and even language. This is not about judging work. This is about working with creators, and giving everybody the opportunity to share. We know that this time in our education is full of seedling ambitions that may or may not take root. Obviously, being featured in a school magazine is not going to give aspiring artists financial stability. They will still face countless obstacles if they choose to pursue art. Yet we sincerely hope that they do pursue it, whether that is as a hobby or a career. If publishing in this magazine gives artists just an ounce of confidence, a milligram of pride, or even the fleeting sense that they are moving in the right direction, then this is worth it. To our readers, we hope you enjoy what Marianopolis’ artists have given us. We were amazed by the talent at this school, and honoured to have it feature in our magazine. We hope that you are just as impressed. Don’t forget that there’s a lot in here. Hopefully, there’s something perfect for you.
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ArtsFest Logo 2020 by Charlotte Lavoie-Auspert, first-year ALC student
Thank you to all of you who made this possible. Thank you to Professor Walser, for giving me the confidence that I needed to start this endeavour. Thank you to Professors Koumouzelis and Liss, for giving me your time and attention, and helping me along the way. Thank you, of course, to all of the editors: Amanda Kronish, Bryanna Bragagnolo, Catherine Plawutsky, Katalina Toth, Makéda Ékoué, Maria Azadian, Matthew Montoni, Olivia Shan, Rose-Marie Maniatakos, Taranjot Padda, and Stella Zeng. You have been even more formidable than I could’ve hoped. You have stayed committed through uncertainty and confusion, and you have risen to overcome every challenge we faced. You have done so much more than I asked of you, and you have shown that you are not only teammates, but friends. Some of you I know better than others, but I mean this for everyone. This magazine would obviously not have been possible without you. Thank you for sticking with it, and with me. Thank you especially to everyone who pitched in extra for the layout of the magazine: Bryanna Bragagnolo, Katalina Toth, Makéda Ékoué, Maria Azadian, and Olivia Shan. Finally, special thanks to the incredible director of Marketing, Maria Azadian. Sofia Watt Sjöström, Chief Editor
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Table of Contents All-Nighter / Maria Azadian
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Lawmaker/Lawbreaker / Yigu Zhou
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Quarantine / Sofia Watt Sjöström
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Nocta Splendoris / Nantenin Barry
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Untitled Pianist / Charlotte Lavoie-Auspert
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The Invisible Purgatory / Katalina Toth
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Flawed Anatomy / Makéda Ékoué
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3 Nudes / Charlotte Lavoie-Auspert
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Lemon Pie / Melody Zuo
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Untitled Teacups / Charlotte Lavoie-Auspert
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The Sound of Children / Amber North
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Untitled / Elizabeth Moellenhoff
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School Day / Edgar Wang
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Plum Wine / Xin Yi Fan
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Being Blind Blog / Elia Nissan
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Redemption / Heïdi Debargis
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Wall Painting / Yigu Zhou
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Breaking Ground / Rose-Marie Maniatakos
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Self-Portrait as a Naval Officer / Olivia Shan
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Dystopiae / Nantenin Barry
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Scarlett O’Hara / Yigu Zhou
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55 / Maria Azadian
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All-Nighter By Maria Azadian, first-year Liberal Arts student, editor and director of marketing
4:12. AM. sitting in front of laptop. rain hitting window. (tap tap tap) cold mix of earl grey and honey. 8 out of 10 pages written. (if i write a page per hour, i can go to sleep at 6. that’s still two healthy hours) (tap tap tap) eyes burning. shivering i leave the piles of chaos and (tap tap tap) photocopies on desk. bones crack second sweater joins first one on (tap tap tap) this moving corpse aware of my dehydration painful (tap tap tap)
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walk to the kitchen. dark tippy toes. grab a cup from the cupboard up high. place cup on counter. place both hands on counter. look down. nausea. look up. breathe. look forward. open tap, fill cup. drink water drink like there’s no tomorrow, drink like you haven’t drunk in eons and never will again. place cup on counter. go back to room. 4:16 am. (tap tap tap) back to work.
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Lawmaker, Lawbreaker By Yigu Zhou, second-year Honours Science student
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Quarantine By Sofia Watt Sjöström, first-year Liberal Arts student and chief editor
A week in, and I had already gone mad. The future stretched before me like an empty sea, tossing and turning. Day after day, all as glossy and empty as this one – and as easy to forget. A singular, churning blankness. I wandered around in pyjamas, not bothering to wash my face or drink coffee, just eating toast and honey like a convalescent child. My alarm still went off at eight o’clock, and I saw no reason to turn it off, but I was pale and unproductive all day. Without routine, time trickled out like drool from a napping mouth, pitiful and inevitable. Deep inside, I felt a horrible pang, a sense of wastage, urging me to do something – but what? There was nothing to do. Holding back time was futile. All I could do was watch. Having no one else to speak to, I began speaking to myself – aloud. “Look at you,” I said drily, casting a lazy glance at my body. It seemed clunky, unattractive, in these baggy pyjamas – for a second, I resented it – but then I remembered, “What does it matter? Nobody can see you – nobody will see you in months.” “Well, it’s not like this quarantine will go on forever…” I raised an eyebrow at my own hesitant rebuttal. The truth was that nobody knew how long this would last. It could be months – but it could also be years. That was what scientists were
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saying. It was what my older brother was saying, too. He had always been obsessed with facts, so the lack thereof was making him paranoid. “If they don’t get a vaccine…” The future was shrouded in uncertainty. I got up wearily to put the kettle on, reminding myself of how lucky I was. I wasn’t part of a vulnerable group; it was incredibly unlikely that I would die. I wasn’t doing this for my own sake. I was doing it to protect others – those that actually might. And it wasn’t exactly a strenuous endeavour. What was I doing? Ah yes – nothing. Nothing at all. Theoretically, I was preventing the spread of the virus, and saving lives. In practice, I was sitting back on my haunches, waiting like a pig for slaughter. I was staying in my apartment, instead of going to school, meeting friends, or working out. I was doing nothing whatsoever – there was, quite simply, nothing for me to do. After weeks of senseless cramming and research, of pounding headaches and afternoon naps, of dragging my body from place to place, I was free. I had no responsibilities. School was closed. I had all the time in the world – time to myself, time to do whatever I wanted to do. It was the break I had been waiting for – a gust of fresh air in my lungs – an unexpected relief. Finally, I could be home
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every day, and do all the things I never had time to do. I didn’t have to pack a lunch. I could drink five cups of tea a day. I could bake cookies and banana bread and chocolate cake. I could read all of the books that had been waiting around on my shelves. I could take long bubble baths, and watch movies, and listen to music in bed. And yet. No matter how I tried to enjoy the free time, my heart was not in it. Something was off. I had none of the anxiety that I used to have – yet I was not calm. This limited freedom did not feel like freedom at all. I missed my old life – the business, the sense of purpose, the people… Now, I only saw people online, or from a distance of at least six feet away. I only left my apartment for quick errands, to get food or breathe some fresh air. In the supermarket, I held my breath. I pulled my scarf up to my ears, as though to protect my face. My mind buzzed incessantly, and my gaze dashed over the other customers like a razor, jagged with suspicion. Murmurs filled the back of my mind: “Surely that person is looking a bit pale… Did they just cough?” I thought blandly: “You could have it – or you – or you…” It was a stupid, pointless game, because anyone could carry the disease. They didn’t even have to show symptoms.
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Outdoors, I criss-crossed the street relentlessly, dodging pedestrians on every side. I couldn’t look people in the eye. I didn’t trust them – I didn’t even trust myself. The paranoia was eating me up from inside. Not even around other people could I escape this isolation. I was fundamentally alone. A week ago, thick snow had coated the ground. My nose, cheeks and thighs had gone pink in the cold. Every day, walking to the bus stop was a struggle – but I had to do it; I had no choice. There were so many places I had to be. Now, finally, Spring was here. The transformation that I’d been waiting and hoping for had happened overnight. The raw, throaty yells of seagulls could be heard from afar. Moisture dripped from every tree branch, and the smell of unearthed dung festered in the air. The first tentative shoots were beginning to peek out. Everything was suddenly alive. Yet there was no longer any good reason for me to go outside. There was nothing I could do – nothing I should do, except wait. My old life – that facade – had been upended. I saw now that I might as well not do anything, for it hardly mattered. My whole life could stop, like this, for weeks at a time, but it made no difference. The only person it truly affected was me.
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Nocta Splendoris By Nantenin Barry, first-year Honours Social Science student
Under the Crescent moon’s light, I close my eyes and breathe in. A pleasant sensation fills my heart. During nighttime inactivity, at rest You put my mind and thoughts. It is eagerly and with open arms That I welcome you. I often wonder how alone you must feel, How, unlike your twin, you are eluded, Though you are loving and soothing. Is it peculiar to wish to know you? To want to know all of your secrets, Hidden in the immensity of a beautiful sky, Hidden in the jewels that upon us, So generously, you have bestowed. Tell me, my dear friend, What is it that your obscurity hides? What is it that the moon’s dark side At times seems to veil?
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Alas, despite your noble beauty, This golden silence that I receive as a gift, Appears to hold a sorrowful and nostalgic, But somehow so agreeable, melancholy… And every time, at your firmament I marvel, Trying to answer these questions, Trying to understand these emotions That each time we meet, fill my soul. Trying to understand this quaint empathetic connection, I confide my feelings to your eternal stars. Ô stars of the great mythical constellations, Everlasting witnesses to the exploits of mankind.
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This poem was inspired by a moon observation assignment. I felt really fascinated by the stars, which inspired me to write about nighttime. The title, “Nocta Splendoris,” is Latin for either “l’éclat de la nuit” or “la splendeur/magnificence de la nuit”.
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Untitled By Charlotte Lavoie-Auspert, first-year ALC student
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The Invisible Purgatory By Katalina Toth, first-year Liberal Arts student and editor
I am six years old, and terrified of skeletons. Even paper ones at Halloween, suspended from classroom blackboards with neon green twine. I gape at the black eye sockets -- the cavernous emptiness where iris and cornea should be. The teacher draws something on the board but I cannot move my gaze. In my mind, I dress the skeleton up in skin to calm my racing pulse. I think of nothing else for the rest of the day. That afternoon, my grandfather picks me up from school and I tell him about the skeleton. He says there is nothing to fear. Look, in my forearm there are bones, in my knees too. They are there to help us in everything we do -- they are the scaffolding that holds us up. Then he takes my hand and we walk home through the fallen leaves. Before he retired, he had been a professor. His nickname was “the Count� because he wore three piece suits and polished shoes. In my favourite picture of him, he leans jauntily to one side and waves at the camera, as if greeting the person who would stumble upon this snapshot at the bottom of a drawer, years later. I recognize the glint in his eye from my childhood, when he would get down on his hands and knees and pretend to be the Big Bad Wolf to my Little Red Riding Hood. The year I developed osteophobia was the year my grandfather
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was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. At first, the problem was his memory, but gradually, things got worse. By the time I was in grade 4, my grandmother was starting to burn out. He would wake her seven times during the night, his hand shaking her shoulder, his eyes wide with panic. At first, she would be worried. The drawers were pulled from the dresser, their contents scattered in piles of bills and torn-open envelopes on the carpeted floor like the first snow of winter. His keys were missing. Can’t we look for them in the morning? No, they’re missing. The next day, the keys were found in his toilet bag. He was at a loss to explain. My grandmother was tired. Then there was the day of total confusion, when he was weak and his words wouldn’t come out right. My parents brought him to the hospital despite his protests. The fluorescent lights in the waiting room cast shadows under his collarbones and he looked skinnier than I had ever seen him. He smiled at the doctors, and thanked them charmingly for their trouble. But that night we were brought into a room with a cluster of monitors, projecting cross sections of his brain. My mother is a neuroscientist, and she was stunned at the images. She pointed out the deep black in so many places it shouldn’t have been; she said it was a miracle he could do what he still did. She told us that a normal brain is plump and takes up all of the cranial space. His was crumpled like a used kleenex. Eventually, my grandfather had to go into care, and my
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parents were happy that a bed opened up in the best nursing home in Ontario. It had a “snoezelen room,” music therapy, and a solarium that looked out to where people strolled by with their dogs. But it was quickly apparent that life on this ward was not the life of brochures. The unit was noisy, with patients yelling and people who looked like they were in veritable agony doubled over in salmon-pink leather chairs. Music played on a radio by the door while a nearby TV broadcasted whatever random show was on. The staff, who were responsible for keeping the patients calm and comfortable, were hiding out in the nurses’ station, hunched over coffee. The only non-patient who ventured out was an older woman delivering meds, whose smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was clear that most of the patients here hadn’t felt happiness in a long time. We visited my grandfather every day, and I realized that deterioration could be externally inflicted. One afternoon, he was not wearing his dentures. The nurse told us they were lost, but that it wasn’t a big deal because the kitchen staff would puree his food. That evening, I sat beside him looking at his dinner, a wet and pulpy Irish flag on his plate, a green stripe of vegetables, a white stripe of sludgy chicken and an orange stripe of damp carrots. He ate nothing. Things degenerated. Maybe because he was no longer eating proper meals, my grandfather got hungry and irritable. One day, out of desperation, he grabbed a box of Rice Krispies off a
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shelf in the cafeteria. A nurse yelled at him and tried to yank the box away. He shoved her aside and ravenously stuffed fistfuls of the treat into his mouth. The nurse, shocked at having been pushed, declared him violent, and he was put on antipsychotics. The day he started on those meds, the bright and energetic man we knew started to slip away. The Haldol made him almost catatonic. He could no longer walk, his feet swelled to the size that he could no longer wear shoes, only box-shaped slippers. His hands shook so much he had to drink from a sippy cup, and his head hung forward. From the point of view of the staff, he was better this way, no longer looking for food, no longer “exit-seeking,� no longer resisting their commands. He could be parked in a wheelchair for twelve hours at a time unable to string a sentence together. The laughing man in the tweed suit had disappeared. On his sister’s birthday, we called her so that she could hear him sing. Our voices swelled, but his trailed off. Whose birthday was it? She began to cry. I wanted to cry too. We could no longer bear to leave him in the home. Luckily, my family was able to get my grandfather an apartment across the street from us with friendly caregivers who provide him with the best possible quality of life. However, the financial requirements of this arrangement are such that for most families, it would not be feasible. Many people are forced to leave their loved ones to live out their days in institutions just like the one my grandfather was in, because the government
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hasn’t devoted time or money to create something better. My grandfather cured me of my fear of skeletons, not with his words that day after school, but with the heartbreak of his suffering in government care. Is death really what I have to fear? There is a quote: “They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.” (Banksy) That is sad , but it is not as sad as the truth. Many people’s lives end within whitewashed walls long before they take their last breath. We imagine ourselves spending our final days content and surrounded by loving family members and caring doctors. If you don’t get Alzheimer’s, that may be your reality; but for those in the Alzheimer unit of nursing homes across Canada, lost and segregated from the happy singing and sewing circles on other floors, there is a very different, bitter truth.
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Flawed Anatomy By Makéda Ékoué, first-year Arts and Sciences student and editor
my sternum is but a small and fragile piece of bone when my heart beats too fast, i hear it crack my god how i hate that sound i would’ve liked things to be different, but i can’t change how i was made i was born with that tiny stick between my ribs, above my lungs and i was born with the softest heart when i see her, i lay my palms over my chest to hold my ribs in place while my sternum slowly crumbles when i see her, my heart doesn’t know what to do with itself when i see her, i feel myself die, and it comforts me my heart moves around, my lungs flatten themselves, i almost feel good though, she’s not pretty she’s on fire, she makes me angry, she scares me, she disgusts me but all of that only makes me love her more the more i look at her, the more i fall apart, the more i feel at ease in my internal chaos
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my organs bounce around and party without even once thinking about me my sternum dissolves into powder and infiltrates my stomach, goes towards my intestines i look at her and i smile, i don’t feel anything anymore she pretends she doesn’t give a shit about me, but i know she’s pretending people say she’s got helium-inflated lungs and a metal sternum whatever i know she’s got a soft heart, messed up by all the past and brief love stories just like mine i see it in her eyes, that she loves me and wants me in her arms so for days i try to ignore her making her jealous will surely make her come to me it’s what i keep saying, but never does she do so much as look at me so of course, my lungs crash into my ribcage my ribs, that up till now had survived all earthquakes, now tremble to the rhythm of my blood flow
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i curl up in a weak attempt to keep my heart in one piece i fail i’ve had enough all day, my eyes scan the world for her i look for those eyes who’ll know how to bandage all my wounds and put my insides back in place all day i crawl, disturbed, destroyed from the inside touching the lymph nodes that try to pierce through my skin i’m dying but that’s not what i want anymore at last, she appears at first i see only the top of her head, her messy hair floating above all then i stand, making sure to hold my stomach my diaphragm falls onto my tailbone and my liver slides along the inside of my leg only to end up stuck in my calf it hurts so much but once on my feet, right in front of the mirror, i feel relieved i finally see her, there with her big wet eyes my organs regenerate instantly, both our soft hearts start beating fast as they can
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i put my hand on the glass, i want to touch her, feel her warmth she does the same on her side while my backbone finishes screwing itself back on its axis my god how i love her i’ve just come back to life and i’m already falling for her again my sternum is barely resurrected, but it starts to roar, i know it’s warning me that it’ll soon break again my sternum is but a small and fragile piece of bone, but it’s okay i’m used to it now
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3 Nudes By Charlotte Lavoie-Auspert, first-year ALC student
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Lemon Pie By Melody Zuo, first-year Honours Science student
She was a waitress waitressing around in a small cafe, wearing a tight black skirt and her hair in a high ponytail. He was a fireman extinguishing fires, with broad shoulders and clumpy boots. At first, he saw her perfect fingernails. Rosy pink, cut in smooth oval shapes, they placed the piece of lemon pie and the steaming cup of mocha that he had ordered on the table. Their eyes met for a fraction of second. Hers were black. So were his. Noises faded away. Time went to a standstill. At last she broke off the contact, turned around and walked away. He didn’t really taste the pie that day. The next day, he went back. Pink nails and dark gaze. Their eyes met again, and this time a small smile accompanied it. Her smile was sweet and crisp, like the caramelized crust on a crème brûlée. A third day passed, then a fourth did. He went back to that café every single day for three months. The lemon pie was very good.
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And they never talked to each other. Nor did they know each other’s names. In fact, absolutely nothing happened between them, because noticing someone’s nails and eyes doesn’t mean, in any way, that a relationship is blossoming.
Untitled By Charlotte Lavoie-Auspert, first-year ALC student
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The Sound of Children By Amber North, second-year ALC student
The sound of children fills the air; Their giggles echo everywhere. Some are seeking, some are hiding; Others chase, while the rest escape. Oh, how joyful, the sound of children, Without a care in the world, They play in their fantasy world. They skip and run, having so much fun. From make-believe to games with marbles, A child’s life is one of marvels. They play hopscotch, and count to ten. Oh, how I wish I could be a kid again! Eating cookies, exchanging snacks, These are childhood ritual facts. From early mornings to bedtime stories, The life of a child is never boring. Now, playdates and recess are no more. As you get older, you get more chores. When you make a wish on stars or candles, Disappointment becomes easier to handle. If I were a child, well then, Life would be full of wonder again. Because the sound of children, at its core, Is the sound of life, ready to soar.
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Untitled By Elizabeth Moellenhoff, second-year Arts and Sciences student
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School Day By Edgar Wang, second-year Honours Science student
The students move through the hallways like automatons. I watch as a guy in a blue track suit makes his fourth lap around the cafeteria, while a heavily spectacled youth, with two three-ring binders tucked in an antiparallel fashion under his armpits, bobs his head up and down to read the time. I wonder why he even needs the watch strapped tight on his wrist, but my thoughts are interrupted by another kid abruptly resuming his wound-up trajectory to class. Although it is somewhat peculiar, the school has grown on me over my first hours. Or maybe that’s just Hensel’s diabolic whispering. He’s visibly enjoying my discomfort at his furry paws crawling down my chest. Despite his prurience, I agreed that he could be my orientation guide because of his voice: he has the characteristically suave voice of a good expositor. “I can get away with things because I’m a talking cat,” he explains, happily rubbing his head against my arm from where he is seated on my shoulder. We go to Homeroom, where a squadron of students, each furiously attacking a Scantron sheet, is huddled in rectangular formation. Hensel, eagerly digging into my knapsack for a dessert, explains: “Tests are a big part of life here! You need a 38 to leave.
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That’s the tradeoff for a world-renowned secondary education!” I notice a few balding heads and an ungodly potbelly among my peers, and ask “Are they…?” “Dotson there has been getting 37s for the last twenty-three years now,” Hensel answers with a hint of exasperation. “Right now, they’re practicing Scantron patterns. On every test, you have a multiple-choice section. Time is of the essence! Kravintsky there is practicing consecutive As”. I look over and immediately notice a black line of dots sprinting down the line from a pencil in the aforenamed Kravintsky’s muscular hand. “There are many key points to Scantrons. They need to fit exactly in the bubble, you can’t make X’s or scribbles, you can’t press too hard in case you need to erase… you don’t want the machine to scan it wrong! That’s why there is a ron in Scantron! Geraldson’s doing straight B’s, Schumacher is practicing the skip -- you want to leave blanks when there are penalties for wrong answers -- Zhang there is doing the alteration!” Zhang’s pencil moves like lightning, effectuating a pattern so complex that I can barely discern any regularity. Unlike the others who use your standard HB2 pencil, Zhang holds what looks like a surgeon’s tool. “Do all answer schemes follow one of these patterns?” I ask,
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puzzled. “Not exactly, but say you stared down three C’s in a row -you’d want to know how to get them all. You also need to know how to switch between patterns. If the bubbles are doing knight jumps right after you’ve done a polka, you need to nail the transition.” Just then, Zhang enters the final stretch of his routine. He furiously discards his surgical stylus, and unsheathes a much heavier pencil. “If tests are so important, why don’t students spend time studying the topics?” Hensel laughs. “Getting a 38 is no walk in the park. Dotson’s learnt everything there is to learn in his twenty-three years here. To leave, you must be fast, too.” I shiver somewhat, but I am determined to succeed. I pick up a Scantron from the stack, and start on my own column of A’s. The tip of my pencil rubs against the off-white page, and I feel like a sage grinding stone into liquid ink. The quiet vibration of crinkling paper phases out all other sounds. I contemplate the black circle spiraling out of the white, a reverse siphon, a universe leaking out of lead. When I’m a dozen A’s in, a fidgety boy approaches and asks in a vibrating crackle whether I’d kindly fill out his survey. It
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contains only one question: “Do you write your name before, or after, you’ve completed your test?” I stare in confusion - it’s one of these questions you don’t think about, like do you brush with your right hand and rinse with your left or vice versa - and Hensel intercedes. “Johnston forgot to write his name on the last test one year and got a 37.9 because they couldn’t grade that test,” he says, “ever since, he’s been trying to optimize his scheme, by asking as many people as possible how they do it. He’s been at it for two years now.” “Two?” I ask, confused. “See, for the entirety of last year, he’s been experimentally verifying the effectiveness of writing his name at the end.” “So?” “The catch is that he sometimes forgets that he’s running the experiment. Thinking he filled his name out before the test started, he forgets to write his name at all!” Hensel laughs. I fill in my age, height, weight, place of birth, before circling the bubble marked “After” on Johnston’s survey sheet. Only then do I print my name at the top of the page. The following days play out in a similar fashion, and my life falls into a mechanical comfort. I need only follow the rhythm of other students, spinning about the school. All my activities have a primordial mission: to fill in blanks. I sit in
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the auditorium, jot down punctuation signs in the white spaces on grammar quizzes, and, of course, fill out Scantron after Scantron of empty white bubbles. Hensel always finds his way into my knapsack, easing into his role as my guide, although we haven’t grown any closer since his display of overt affection on the first day, nor do I need a guide as it is always very clear to me where I should go. My third week at school is marked by a student production of Molière’s The Misanthrope, or the Cantankerous Lover. We pour into the auditorium in reverse alphabetical order. The Zhangs and Zhous cluster at the front. Hensel smiles at the play in a very satisfied manner. Half the people understand the dialogue. The others record it verbatim on yellow legal pads. The more experienced few also map out the blocking and sketch facial expressions. I look straight ahead, having never taken French. Hensel translates key moments in my ear. When one of the characters tells a joke, Hensel cracks wise. Dotson gets it. Schumacher doesn’t. Kravintsky doesn’t know the words, but notes the joke down all the same. We will be tested. On stage, a guy begins a disjointed monologue. When he pauses, the room is filled by the thunderous noise of a thousand scratching pens. The few silent seats are occupied by those who’ve been at school long enough to have seen every answer choice possibility for the test.
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When the play is over, we walk out of the auditorium, this time in alphabetical order. Nobody chitchats nor shares any impressions. I go to my next class. On a damp March afternoon, Hensel attempts to unwrap a vacuum-sealed slice of strawberry cake trapped underneath two heavy Arithmetic textbooks. I stare wearily through the barred windows at the grey clouds outside. Suddenly, an unusual shuffling around the desks before me interrupts the routine. A mouse skitters on all fours towards me, and climbs up onto my desk. It looks into my eyes earnestly, almost pleadingly, and breaks into a tirade, waving its forepaw grandiloquently. “You! New kid! Do you not feel your spirit become numb? Flee this absurdity! You have it in you! Go!� Hensel stretches his back out, lurches away from my cake, and quickly devours the mouse. I think nothing more of it.
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Plum Wine Inspired by Kore-Eda’s Our Little Sister By Xin Yi Fan, second-year Honours Science student
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Being Blind Blog By Elia Nissan, second-year Science student
Night and day, Honolulu was filled with tourists. The city had a sort of buzz to it that never seemed to die down. As we walked around, people admired the blinding lights and the warm weather. Cameras flashed. It seemed like every block had a Chanel next to a Panda Express. A commercial, plastic, and money-driven city surrounded me, one I could have placed in any other Western country. After all, Starbucks, Taco Bell and Kaye Jewelers each have over 1000 stores worldwide. I realized that I, too, was a slave to consumerism. We become slaves to consumerism whether we like it or not, at once blinded and drawn in by the lights of the city. We are mesmerized by Michael Kors purses, Hermes rings, and Louis Vuitton shoes. We idolize people for their money, mansions, and other material things. Honolulu was a plastic city, but it was designed for me. For us. I also spent some time on a smaller island called Molokai. It was very different: there was one main road, no street lights, and only a handful of local shops. This place did not have Honolulu’s busy buzz. It was a place of nature. Instead of huge buildings, there were farms, mountains and trees. People said that they felt so safe there that they would leave their front doors open. One man told me that the local
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government rejected big commercial enterprises deliberately, because they did not want to see the island turned into a plastic hub. This small community wasn’t made for tourists like me, but I enjoyed it nevertheless. It felt like I had found something real.
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Redemption By Heïdi Debargis, second-year Liberal Arts student
“This is our chance at redemption,” I cry. It is our chance to reflect on what is no longer normal: the destruction that we have caused. It is our chance to make amends and hold ourselves accountable for our faults. “This is our chance at redemption,” I yell. It is our chance to come together, more than ever. Although social distancing is important, socially distancing is not. Let’s help each other and grow together, more than ever. “This is our chance at redemption,” I shout. Ce n’est pas l'heure du jour, the French say, to blame, hurt or be greedy. Il est le temps de cueillir son propre jardin. It is time to adapt to a new reality. It is time to find a new routine. Let’s not take things for granted, again. Let’s appreciate as much as we can. “THIS IS OUR CHANCE AT REDEMPTION,” Je cris à tue-tête. It is our chance to hold hands again, not physically, but in harmony nonetheless. Redemption is a precious thing. Let’s not let this chance go to waste.
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Translation of a Poem: “A thousand years’ worth of sorrow in less than a hundred years' lifetime; Days are short but nights are long, so why not journey to the night’s end by a candle? Make happiness right now: what if spring does not return? Fools that clung onto their fortune are made object of ridicule by those after him; And forget about living forever: that is way too long. [stamp] Yigu Zhou October 14th, 2019”
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The smile of late South Korean entertainer Sulli (Choi Jin-ri, 1994-2019) on her birthday night is permanently engraved into Internet memory, and now imprinted onto a pencil sketch which was supposed to be reproduced, enlarged, on a construction wall. She was a friend to many during our pre-teen years, following the protocol of an unfriendly industry. That is probably sufficient justification for painting her face on a wall, but it is also important that it is not just any wall: it is a temporary wall, constructed for the school’s HVAC renovations. Because this painting’s genesis would not have been possible without the HVAC renovations, its end is inevitably tied to that of the renovations. One outcome will replace the other. I see this as empowering: rather than feeling discomfort at the loss that is inevitable, passersby might feel comfort and joy, because this monument is fleeting. They are lucky to be there at that precise moment in time. I started painting this on the HVAC construction wall at the main entrance of the College building after the New Year, aiming to complete it for Arts Fest. The process has been facilitated by both college staff and fellow students. I enjoyed it very much and am happy still, despite the fact that I may never finish it. Yigu Zhou, second-year Honours Science student
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Breaking Ground By Rose-Marie Maniatakos, second-year Commerce student and editor
Canadian writing and culture has often had at its centre the pioneer and the conquering of new frontiers. “Breaking Ground” explores the implications of pioneer culture and the effects it’s had on those who lived long before its founders stepped foot on the land Canada now calls home. ~ Your pioneer eye follows streams Through to the drop in the valley You take in the flaxen fields of wheat Breathe in that great big victory One big gulp atop the mountain kingdom The history of our people sinks low Deeper than bone and perfect green Beyond the young tree roots And that holy nitrous smell You threw down on moving day One by one, you see buildings grow Earth broken, sun open, the kindest gore Just the right angle to let the light in Yet ever a hair close to hitting Those bright white bones underneath
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They call on the pioneer feast The enemy rapids and exanimate trees And you thank them one by one For your house, your fertilizer Your brand-new tree seeds They’ll never say what it really took There is not a coin-side wide enough For dead beasts strewn, slaughtered Or a dollar bill worth enough For toy parts thrown and carted Soon you wince at great railroads built Upon a tight-lipped immolation gaining speed As the day the train needs to ride through Those very valleys they let you settle Your trees are the first to be moved There’d be no hesitation You know it and so do they.
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Self-Portrait as a Naval Officer By Olivia Shan, second-year ALC student and editor
In my Painting class, we were instructed to create a self-portrait using a limited color palette. When I was conceptualizing this painting, I studied and was inspired by portraits that were done for admirals and captains during the Victorian era. I was struck by their rich and textured use of color and how wonderfully artists rendered the finery of the uniforms to show off the grandeur of their subjects. Not only did I wish to pay homage to that beautiful style of painting, which is nowadays entirely obsolete, but I also wanted to reclaim that aesthetic, typically reserved for high-ranking European men, and make it so that it would represent my own story and honor my Chinese heritage.
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Dystopiae By Nantenin Barry, first-year Honours Social Science student
Un monde qui ne se veut éphémère Champs-Élysées, paradis terrestre Vie douce à l’arrière-goût amer. Bâti des espoirs, des regrets de l’homme, De sa cruauté, de sa cupidité A surgi un éden aux fleurs d’opium. Leurs arômes bercent les âmes et les cœurs, Étouffent les flammes de leur rancœur, Empêchent ainsi une fatale désillusion…
~
Ce poème a été inspiré par le roman « Le meilleur des mondes ou Brave New World » d’Aldous Huxley.
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Scarlett O’Hara in Rhett Butler’s Suit By Yigu Zhou, second-year Honours Science student
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55 By Maria Azadian, first-year Liberal Arts student, editor and director of marketing
The light from the streetlamp illuminates the sign: 55 – Place des Arts. I walk over, stand directly beneath it and turn on my phone. Three minutes to go. Saint-Laurent Boulevard often feels strange at night: busy yet calm, all at once. Faint music resonates from a nearby bar. A couple crosses the street. A man rides his bicycle downhill, and a group of loud, intoxicated women in pink feather boas whistle at him. I turn to see the bus’ headlights approach, emitting a warm glow. After slinging my backpack to my chest, I unzip it, to extract my wallet. The bus stops at my feet. Salut. I tap my Opus card on the reader and head for the empty seat in the back, as confident as a vulture charging at its prey. I lean on the window, carefully placing the left side of my head on the cool glass. Gross. My reflection stares back at me: a blurry, dark, unrecognizable, almost surreal version of myself. My Oreo Blizzard flavoured tongue dries up. I scramble to find my phone. In my right pocket. Obviously.
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I turn it on and try to unlock it by placing my finger on the home button. After a few failed attempts, I give up and enter my passcode. The rainbow flower icon leads me to the pictures we took tonight. I scroll through them. Out of about 30, only one makes the cut. I open Instagram, select the right shot, and type “fun night with the girls�. For a few seconds, my thumb hovers over the screen, but then I do it. Post. My eyes start to wander around. A middle-aged woman is having a loud conversation on her phone, something about not wanting to sign the papers, while a teenager, blatantly ignoring the No Smoking sign, blows a cotton candy flavoured cloud directly towards my face. And then it sinks in.
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That feeling of emptiness. A dark cave, a pit, a cavity in my chest. A moat surrounding my heart, with alligators swimming inside. Growing, widening, pushing my lungs outwards, crushing them into my ribs. I am drowning. Sounds from tonight replay in my head. Laughter, conversations, more laughter, more words, getting faster, mixing, blending into each other, a symphony of gibberish bouncing inside my skull. I shut my eyes. Breathe. You are here. You are here. I open my eyes. The speaker announces my stop. I press the red button and rush to the door. Merci. I embark on the two-minute journey home.
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The emptiness stays, but I can bear it. I know that. I feel it, lodged deep within my chest, nestled between my heart and my lungs. The void is more of a discomfort now, like a room that is just a little too cold, or an itchy tag on the inside of a shirt. An inconvenience, something I will soon get used to, or simply forget. Breathe. Finally, my building is towering over me. I reach for my keys and unlock the door. The sounds of my footsteps resonate through the hallway. I reach my apartment door and crack open the final lock. Holding onto the door frame for balance and for dear life, I carefully remove my Vans. I make my way to my room with my backpack in one hand, and my shoes in the other. A loud thud echoes, as my items land in the corner where I threw them. I collapse and sink into my mattress, facedown and fully-clothed.
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Reader, Thank you for supporting Marianopolis’ artists! Don’t forget to follow our Instagram @marianopolislitmag and to like our Facebook page, Marianopolis Literary Magazine. Also, check out Marianopolis Artsfest on Facebook for more amazing, student-made art! We are sorry that neither the Artsfest, nor the print edition of this magazine, came to fruition. Yet the truth is that these difficult times were also an opportunity for us to create this magazine. Had things been different, it would have been different, too. That isn’t to say not to resent this situation: resent it all you like. Ultimately, though, we are all going to have to move forward. And that is why we say: expect to hear from us again, later this year. Expect -- fingers crossed -Volume 2.
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