MUSE XXVIII

Letter from the Editior

In whatever form you create or consume creativity, it is an experience that is never truly felt in isolation. While it can be hard to find spaces that encourage artistry, creativity thrives best when in company.

The joys one experiences when creating are intertwined with our connection with others. Humans can develop deep ties to works, regardless of form, with thousands of people around us: concerts, movie theaters, and galleries. These are spaces where the individual love of creativity creates ties between different walks of life to foster collectivity.

Ultimately, I am trying to say that my personal experience with creativity has always been about connection and community. And uniquely, creativity allows us to build community out of words, paint strokes, and photos. Strangers bond through their love of creating art and consuming art, and despite our merciless and competitive society, creativity emerges. It’s a beacon of hope and incites joyous communion of community between artists.

For all these reasons, I am so grateful for my time at MUSE Magazine. This publication has allowed me to explore my connection to various facets of my identity and be a part of a community that is accepting, inspired, and incredibly vocal about their love for the creative spirit. This issue is my final project with MUSE Magazine, and the stories captured within these sixty-four pages fill me with gratitude for the community I have been a part of for the last three years. Within this issue, you will find musings on connection everywhere: to our identity, to our culture, to art itself, to our name, to comedy, to clothing (whether we made it or stole it from a parent’s closet). In many ways, Issue XXVIII is a fusion of what MUSE Magazine has always intended to be: a place for creativity, a space to explore connection and a physical manifestation of the community behind this magazine.

This issue is for all of you who have found yourself unable to voice the deep connection you feel to works of art. Here at MUSE Magazine, you will always find a community that understands your inexplicable connection to creation. One that will always encourage you to color outside the lines. MUSE is a community that will never shame you for your words and will always, always, leave you feeling inspired by what you can create tomorrow.

And I speak from firsthand experience.

Yours creatively,

Liz Gonzalez Editor in Chief, 2023-2024

OPPOSITES ABSTRACT

Creative Director: Rav Mall

Photo: Olivia Smith

Video: Julia Dasilva-Lee

MUA: Pearla Abdulnour

Models: Will Grimes & Kyla

Floor Mattress

My mattress is on the floor. It’s a double bed, and it looks uncomfortably thin without any supporting furniture. It’s draped in a distinctly boyish comforter—blue and white stripes, of course—and accessorized with my childhood teddy bear. I’ve tried to get a bed frame. I brought one up from home; one that my family had collected during our many moves and finally laid to rest in our garage. It kept breaking though. Each morning, I would wake up and shove its pieces back together, and it would break again the next night. After a month, it broke in a very serious, final way. I enlisted my roommate to help me fix it. I would connect two joints while she would try to keep another two attached. It would work! It did not work. Moments later, like in a Chaplinesque silent comedy, the entire frame would collapse. I tried superglue. The whole thing was a hilarious humiliation. But a self-respecting adult such as myself should have a bed frame, and he should be able to get one. I tried to buy a cheap frame online, but failed to purchase the necessary, complimentary box spring: a juvenile mistake. The mattress fell through the frame and I gave up trying. I’m in my final year of university and I’ve been bested by two different bed frames—how demoralizing.

After my failed attempts at bed framing,

it was finals season. I remember coming home from the library and, much to my chagrin, finding the Floor Mattress lying there. That sad, lonely thing. It seemed to me a physical manifestation of my hopelessness, serving as a reminder that I am not a problem solver. I am a twentyone-year-old man with his mattress on the floor (and a The Smiths poster right above it, unframed). Not a great look. Finals were challenging, and the Floor Mattress was not inspiring.

I’ve since made peace with the Floor Mattress. Now, I think it’s pretty funny. I look at the room I have made for myself, in its immaculate immaturity, and I laugh at it. But this concerns me in a new way. I am graduating soon, and as I audit my situation I see furniture and sensibilities that suggest adolescence, but I feel expectations that require great maturity. I want to be an adult with independence and stability. I want to feel safe in myself. But instead I find my childhood teddy bear on the Floor Mattress, and I find that I like it there. My attempts at maturity feel feigning and futile. I don’t think I’m even really trying that hard. Eventually, I will want to frame the artwork in my room and I will not feel fine about a Floor Mattress, but that time has not come. I’m not going to force it. I’ll follow the tide while sleeping at sea level.

Will Grimes

My Dreams

Are Important

Pearla Abdulnour

In a world where dreams are as diverse as the people who harbour them, how is it that society still casts such heavy judgement over specific pursuits, specifically creative aspirations? From mocking youtube creators to teasing aspiring dancers for posting their choreography on TikTok, the dichotomy between the acceptance of academic pursuits and the skepticism surrounding creative endeavours is a glaring double standard. While studying for a medical degree is praised, going to an audition is often met with raised eyebrows. This double standard extends to the dismissive label often attached to creative expression until success validates them. This all brings up the question: why

do we criticize those chasing their dreams in the creative realm while applauding those in the sciences without batting an eye?

Interestly, this criticism happens up until the individual reaches success in their field; after that, everyone wants to talk about how they knew them and saw their rise to fame. Only then do societal perceptions shift, and the journey becomes a celebrated narrative. It doesn’t make sense that people who pursue creative endeavours are often viewed as lesser until they achieve fame and recognition. The preconceived notion that creative pursuits are somehow less legitimate or

deserving of respect is a paradox in itself. It raises questions about the criteria society uses to assess the worthiness of different aspirations. Why is there a tendency to dismiss creative endeavours as frivolous or inconsequential until external validation, like fame or success, is achieved?

This phenomenon underscores a broader social issue of judgement based on superficial criteria, which limits the scope of what is considered acceptable or praiseworthy. Such a mindset perpetuates a culture of conformity, stifling individual expression while also hampering the diversity and richness of creative contributions to society.

Moreover, this narrow perspective is not only detrimental to those pursuing creative endeavours, but it also has wider implications for society as a whole. By dismissing certain pursuits to the realm of “cringe”, we risk missing out on groundbreaking ideas and perspectives that could challenge and reshape society as we know it. The rejection of unconventional expressions may inadvertently stifle the very innovation that has historically driven progress in various fields.

To overcome this limitation, it is crucial to shift the narrative surrounding creative pursuits and challenge the ingrained biases that lead to dismissive judgments. Encouraging a more open-minded and accepting attitude towards diverse forms of expression not only empowers individuals to pursue their passions freely, but also contributes to a society that thrives on the richness of its diverse culture and creative contributions.

Let’s delve into a question that piques my curiosity – why do you care? Why invest energy into someone posting a singing video on Instagram, attending an audition for a commercial, or launching a small crochet business on Instagram? The remedy appears straightforward: scroll past the video, opt out of the audition, or abstain from making a purchase from

their small business. It seems like a logical course of action, yet, for some, this proves to be an insurmountable challenge. For some, it seems impossible to scroll past the video without sending it to a friend with the “OMG this is so embarrassing, why would they post this?” text. The underlying query remains – why does the pursuit of one’s passions elicit a response from others, and why is it often met with either positive encouragement or, conversely, unwarranted criticism?

Now, the most obvious answer is deeprooted insecurity, of course. It’s a tale as old as time – someone wants to chase an “unconventional” dream, but outside influences won’t let them. These individuals simply lack the courage to stand up to these influences and pursue their true dreams. But diving a bit deeper reveals a mix of societal expectations, fear of judgement, and a tendency to stick to the norms, leading to those with the courage to pursue unconventional dreams often shaking up the status quo. Understanding what’s going on behind these reactions helps us see not only why some people criticise creatives, but also the internal struggles faced by those trying to follow their passions in the face of societal criticism.

Here’s a parting thought: who the hell cares! Go ahead, post that video, start that business, audition for that role, apply to that grad school. People will talk – they always do, especially those unsatisfied with their own lives who find comfort in picking apart others. Regardless of whether fame and success follow, you’ll have fun and might just connect with some like-minded people along the way. So, why hold back? Embrace your passions, enjoy the journey, and let the naysayers chatter away.

Siblings, Siblings, Siblings

Siblings, Siblings, Siblings

Julia Liu

Growing up, my house was full of energy. The constant chatter, people running up and down the stairs – there was no doubt that if I ever needed a distraction, someone would be around to keep me company.

This was the privilege of being raised alongside three siblings. With an older sister and two younger brothers, I slot in as the second-born in our family of six. Going out in public, people often made remarks to my parents, expressing how ‘lucky’ they were to have two girls and two boys, each successively born two years apart.

And we were more than lucky; we were the epitome of a picture-perfect, nuclear family. While my siblings and I share about 50% of the same DNA and were brought up under the same roof, we could not be more different.

A major influence on our developmental years is birth order, or a person’s position in the age hierarchy of siblings. Somehow, this can leave a lasting impression on our overall personalities, interests, aspirations, and relationships with others.

There is a certain connotation associated with being the first-born. Often high-

achievers and natural leaders, my sister (L) embodies this archetype as a medical student with a habit of taking care of others above themselves – especially their younger siblings. Working tirelessly to balance her academics with creative pursuits, L can be a little neurotic at times, but her compassion provides a grounding aura to those in her life.

Middle children, sandwiched between their siblings, rarely have their parents' attention to themselves. My brother (N), like many others, sought comfort through friendships. He has an intrinsic ability to connect with all sorts of people, and a fearlessness to take risks and be authentically himself, no matter the crowd or the setting.

The youngest sibling is the baby of the family, regardless of their age. Spoiled with opportunities and freedom, my brother (B) is introspective and ambitious, always striving to learn something new and become the best. From playing basketball, to consistently crushing us in Super Smash Bros, B’s tenacity never goes unnoticed.

Ultimately, our personalities and differences in the paths we’ve taken are a subconscious strategy for us to separate ourselves from our siblings. Families are a bit like ecosystems, where siblings are competing for toys, clothes, but most importantly our parents’ attention. By carving out a specialized niche for ourselves, we compromise and evolve, allowing us to individually thrive within the ecosystem.

I envision myself as the middle ground between my siblings and me. While I am distinct in the way I express myself or am perceived by others, I adopt traits from L, N, and B. I love my siblings – though it would be borderline illegal for me to say it to their faces – and I would never be who I am today without them.

In the end, maybe it’s not the order we are born in, but the relationships we have within our families that shape who we are – and who we become.

Look into the future, what do you see?

Creative Director: Olivia Parent

Photo: Sheana Tchebotaryov

Video: Keon Smith

MUA: Fiona Parfitt

I believe in the never-ending search for identity; I don’t think you can ever truly find yourself. As hopeless as it may sound, I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing, but rather a representation of the fact that we are continuously changing. The human experience rests on perception, and the clothes you wear are an extension of this.

There’s not very many hobbies I would associate with both the 13 year old version of myself and my grandmother, minus sewing, that is. I spent an endless number of hours wandering around the craft store, but my perfectionism often left my creative projects with much to be desired. My mom enrolled my cousin and I in sewing classes over the summer of 2015, and whether she did it as a means to get me out of her hair over the break, or she wanted me to learn some of the same skills that her mother taught her, I can confidently argue that both were accomplished. Sewing has seemingly been the one hobby that has stuck with me all these years, (hopefully) proving to my mom that the sewing machine she bought for me for my 15th birthday wasn’t a waste of money after all.

Keeping this in mind, I had no sense of identity at 13 years old. However, I did have the basic knowledge to create my own clothes, and as a result of this, the ability to control how I wished to be perceived. You most certainly won’t catch me strutting around campus in the tie-dye matching set, neon orange bathing suit cover-up, or mint green tote bag I created in the early years of my sewing experience, yet at the time, they were my proudest creations. While you could have found any one of these pieces at your local tween clothing store, there was something particularly special about the autonomy that creating those pieces gave over my own, changing body.

Being able to tailor a garment to the shape of my body has relieved me of some of the perfectionist tendencies that have followed me into my twenties. Whenever I start a new project, I hear the voice of my instructor say to me, “make sure you leave room for seam allowances!” This phrase

Isabella Hamilton

has always been a reminder that error is inevitable, and not just in sewing. The flexibility that sewing offers, to so easily change the shape of a garment, negates the urge to be perfect 100% of the time.

While there is certainly an art to creating clothes, I think the best projects are the ones that have a missed stitch along the way; they are a reminder that nothing that is beautiful needs to be perfect. Adjusting the seam of a shirt that fits a little too big, or hemming a pair of pants that hang a little too low, encapsulate the beauty of the craft, and act as my own form of defiance against the sizing standards of the fashion industry.

Sewing is more than just a skill or a hobby to me, it’s a reminder that I will always have control over my own identity. I don’t have to leave it up to the trend cycle to determine what I’ll have in my closet, I can rely on my ideas, my creativity, and most importantly, my sewing machine.

Sydney Toby

I define the modern woman by her drink of choice, her favourite writer, and the composition of her “fits” Pinterest board. Mine features inspiration from Zoë Kravitz, the girls of the @1nternet.gf Instagram account, Odessa A’zion and, of course, Miss Emma Chamberlain. While these women have varying styles and different vibes, they share one thing in common: tattoos.

Specifically minimalist tattoos, with their crisp, clean symbols, short phrases in cursive writing, and monochrome ink. Zoë Kravitz has so many that I would almost qualify them as patchwork. Tattoos, like most trends perpetuated by my age group, are the result of these cool, stylish trendsetters, defining fashion standards in a generation searching for identity.

When did tattoos shift away from taboo, to fall so far under the broad scope of fashion? Historically, one of their original functions was to mark criminals and slaves in Ancient civilizations; it’s quite the jump from class marker to fashion statement. In the last century, tattoos have become more about the visual, but my generation has taken it a step further - we’re treating them like accessories. A concern, though, is how our identities, as young adults, will morph into something completely different as we age. It begs the question: are we making a mistake treating tattoos like a permanent fashion accessory?

If I were to wear clothes from ten years ago, I’d be sporting a lot of Justice. While the sequins used to be my statement, you couldn’t catch me in them today. Obviously, I’m not the same person at twenty that I was at nine. I also won’t be the same person at forty that I am right now. The difference between tattoos and a yellow sparkly headband lies in the permanence. I can’t take them off without time, money, and some laser-induced pain.

Fashion is largely about self-expression. It’s why I, and many others, heavily attribute it to our identity (that, and because our society is all for judging the cover). Tattoos are also about selfexpression, which is why I understand my generation’s willingness to define them as fashion. However, I think it’s risky to express ourselves in such a permanent way during the age when we’re not supposed to know who we are. Our twenties are about recognizing our ever-changing, fluid conception of the self. Branding ourselves with symbols that represent us at a time when we don’t understand our full capacity as humans is buying a label that will define us for years.

For the record, I am not rejecting the minimalist tattoo trend. Seeing as I have two myself (plot twist), that opinion would be massively hypocritical. However my tattoos, while admittedly purchased for aesthetic benefit, do have meaning. They match with my best friend Sam, who

I’ve known since diapers were my only fashion. I’m happy to have something that concretely connects us. I’m rejecting tattoos strictly as a trend. I like it when they represent something, even if that something is a drunken night at a tattoo bar in Bali. But the words “trend” and “identity” juxtapose in my mind. Don’t get me wrong, I support the answer “because I wanted to” when hearing a tattoo explanation. I am not the kind of girl who polices what others do with their bodies. However, the thought that immediately enters my mind after hearing that answer is: Did you, or has your body just fallen victim to the trendy tattoo cycle? We all follow trends of some kind, we all go through phases. But when you fully realize your individuality, will you still want those trends permanently inked on your skin?

As I type this, my Pinterest is open on my “tattoos” board, and I’m painfully aware of the meaningless, minimalist tattoos that lie within. But I like the idea of commemorating my youth in this way, in permanently marking myself with something that reminds me of who I was at twenty. And I can make sense of even the randomest tattoos when I think of the bigger picture.

Humanity’s beauty lies in its struggle against inevitable change. This way of marking our bodies gives us a small permanence that’s completely in our control. But I think having an element of meaning is a critical step of the tattoo process. Finding even a small, tiny significance will ensure that the ink is personal and unique to your human experience. For your own sake, I implore you - consider something sincere before you jump into the black ink deep end. This may seem overly analytical for a simple form of fashion, art, and expression. But if we’re permanently marking the one body we’ve been given, we better be certain it’s not under any influence except our own (and maybe some alcohol).

omething w S Borro ed

Katarina Bojic

It’s not just about the leather jacket. It’s about what the leather jacket has been through. A deeply worn out and oversized black Avirex bomber. I have never worn it without someone complimenting it. It puts the engineers’ jackets to shame. You might be wondering how I got my hands on it? Can you get one too? Drop the name of the thrift store now! Before I get to that, you should know, I have an obsession with stories. Stories attempt to fulfill my insatiable desire to be close to the people I meet. Clothing has a way of telling stories, especially about the people I love.

The iconic jacket in question used to belong to my dad. He bought it from a friend soon after moving to Canada from Serbia in the 80s. The reliable soft leather has wrapped me up while falling in love with my friends on nights out, and while trenching to class at 8:30 AM. When I talk to my dad, it seems like he had similar experiences during his share of wearing the jacket too.

My mom, who used to work part time as a flight attendant while getting her engineering degree, has a collection of beautiful clothing items from all of the places she had the chance to visit. One day, I came to my mom with the link to a scarf I wanted to buy online and she laughed. She went to the basement and pulled out of a drawer, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of their hat, a luxurious and authentic mohair scarf. This is how

I magically acquired the red fuzzy scarf I’ve been wearing dutifully during the cold winter this year. I am holding on to a bit of her trip to England in ‘85.

It’s weird to consider my parents that they lived a life before me, especially because they don’t dwell on the past too often. They grew up in Belgrade surrounded by… well, I’m not too sure. Both of them wanted to take on the world. As their daughter, I’ve only ever known the version of them that pays a mortgage and drives me to rehearsals. I can’t picture them wild, confused, reckless in the way most of us behave in our young adult lives. The closest I have to their past are the possessions in my closet. And yet, I suspect that the experiences from our youth are more similar than I once thought. While I moved away from my parents for school, every time someone pays a little extra attention to my jeans or sweater, my heart warms. It makes me feel close to them. I am proud of the places they have been and how far they have come. I get to show the world that I am excited to be a part of them.

I can remember the smile I put on my dad’s face when I left the house in his jacket. Maybe it’s because I reminded him of a time when the only thing on his mind was a passion to embrace all of the opportunities yet to come his way. Dad, if you think I only “borrowed” your leather jacket, I hate to tell you that you’re never getting it back.

The Framework

Creative Director: Nadisha Gautam

Photography: Jade Robinson

Videography: Bronwyn Tyndall

MUA: Khush Sagar

Model: Avery Simard

Carolyn Kane

TAKE A LOOK

I think art is for everyone, but the pace isn’t for me.

We need to start looking at art – really looking at art. The average time a person looks at an artwork is eight seconds. Art needs to be examined the way you examine a person, figuring out their quirks and oddities. This simply cannot be done in eight seconds. In an ideal world, the visitors would be able to examine art for as long as they want. However, there are limitations to the visitation of art. Gallery spaces can be overwhelming, especially for those who are socially anxious.

When I was in high school I would break down in tears in my mom’s car. I couldn’t bear the thought of walking down the crowded halls. I was incredibly socially anxious, which made the most simple and essential tasks terrifying. Years later, it still affects me in many different ways. Especially in the places I love most, galleries. The National Art Gallery in Ottawa always felt like home to me because I’ve had so many great memories there, and because I’ve experienced the least amount of social anxiety there, which hasn’t been the same for other galleries. Reality sets in when I get to the galleries, hoards of people who like me are there to see art, but I don’t feel inspired, I feel overwhelmed.

The wonderful thing about art is that it’s easy to love, easy to talk about, and there’s so much to talk about. However, with great art comes great crowds, flocking to the site to witness its glory. On the other hand,

it’s busy, crowded, loud, unhygienic and overall overwhelming.

It’s crucial to remember that everyone has the right to art, nobody should feel excluded, even when you have social anxiety.

The only way I began to ease out of being socially anxious in galleries was to slow down. I found ways to be in my own space by listening to music. It, it was scary at first because we live in a fast-paced world where slowing down can be a sign of weakness. There is so much pressure to be efficient and fast. Often we forget that everyone works on different timelines, and when something unexpected happens we fail to appreciate what we have and look around. Our lives have been built around getting answers quickly and having access to knowledge. Art challenges this, art takes time to understand, analysis is involved, and many times the analysis is foreign to our daily lives. When we slow down and put our assumptions to rest we can peer into another place, time and perspective. As someone who once felt that social anxiety would be a prison that I would be banished to for the rest of my days, the examination of art was my saviour. To slow down and forget the world, during the time I was looking at the art, I felt at ease, transported out of a crowded gallery and into the painting which I viewed. Magical things can happen when you slow down and take a look.

BACK ON

Explore the intersectionality of different artforms through Jungle’s latest project Volcano - a true testament to the evolving landscape of art that offers a sensory feast for creatives of all kinds. For months the irresistible beats from “Back on 74” have been stuck in all of our heads, so if you are looking for something new to watch, listen to, and fangirl over, Jungle’s album-long music video is just what you need.

Having been a competitive dancer for ten years while always possessing a deep appreciation for music, fashion, and art, Jungle’s album rollout for Volcano only solidified my love for this duo. This rhythmic record that features fourteen tracks encapsulating feelings of love and loss, was accompanied by an album-long dance music video. Having discovered this one late night while being off of school, I was able to dive into every facet of this masterpiece; each individual song, their accompanying dance pieces, the costuming and the cinematography. I have never seen so many of my interests intertwine in such a new way. Volcano is a cohesive and creative collection of many minds that came together and made what I like to call a multidimensional work of art. The crossover seen between these different artforms allows for a holistic and sensory experience that enhances each individual element when consumed as one.

Now this is not a revolutionary idea combining different artforms in one piece. I myself grew up using dance as my creative outlet, something that involves

both physical movement as art and music. What makes this project so special to me, and unique to the world of art, is how it can serve as inspiration for absolutely anyone. Whether that comes to fruition through outfit ideas, challenging yourself to learn some dance moves, or falling in love with the use of an atypical vessel to tell a story. Each element of this piece has been created with intent and is destined to be appreciated by the masses. Jungle has allowed me to share something that inspires me with those I love, even the ones that are not typically into this type of thing, and be able to watch them fall in love with Volcano almost as much as I did.

This is where the future of art lies - the place where the intersectionality of different artforms allows anyone to immerse themselves in, appreciate, and be inspired by a piece. The convergence from “typical art” seen in this project exhibits the segway into an era of artistic innovation and experimentation that resonates with a bigger crowd than ever. Through the album’s beautiful craftsmanship, embark on a journey of inspiration promising a one-of-a-kind artistic adventure. Jungle’s Volcano is a multidimensional experience that transcends traditional artistic boundaries, and has ignited my passion for the limitless potential of creativity.

THE ART OF MATTERING

As a kid, the most excited and comfortable I ever felt was on stage. Yet, growing up in an environment that deemed pursuits in STEM fields as careers, and arts as more of a hobby, I never considered acting as a viable career choice. So when I came to university I dropped theatre entirely. Until it came back to me, this time in the form of playwriting. I was quickly reminded of my first love and was overcome by the desire to finally take the arts seriously and become a professional playwright. Almost simultaneously, I realized that becoming a playwright would not guarantee a steady career.

The devaluation of arts in society is extremely discouraging to artists everywhere. Artistic disciplines that people spend decades mastering, have been reduced to hobbies. All the while, people love using art as social currency. We hang pictures of musicians on the wall, and comment on the Oscar nominations as a signal to others that we are in tune with culture. This same courtesy is not reserved for the kid who wants to play in a band, or the actor going from audition to audition. These artists are met with the same statement, “Get a real job” and “if you really loved making art, you would do it for free”. Yet, in a society where a person’s worth is measured by their monetary value and how much money they can make, suggesting someone produce their art for

free inherently shows that society does not value the skills it takes to create art.

Knowing that as an aspiring writer, what I loved to do is not valued by society, is extremely discouraged and made writing feel meaningless. One day I will be dead and no one will remember the play I wrote when I was 21, so what was the point of writing it at all? Maybe if somehow my work outlived me and I became the next Shakespeare, my artistry would matter and there would be a point to writing. Yet, just like mine, Shakespeare’s work will one day die, even if that is when the earth freezes over and is swallowed by the sun. One day, everything that holds value now will cease to exist. So, in the end, not even the ‘valuable’ work will matter, and this thought became oddly comforting.

If everything will die, it doesn’t matter if I choose to become a playwright or a rocket scientist. In the end, the work I choose will hold the same value, so I may as well do what I love. And you should too. Whether that be a 60 minutes play, or a research paper on glycoproteins. The work you choose to do matters, even if it is just for a moment in time.

Kate Cullen

SOLO

Creative Director:

Tryphena Evborokhai

Photo: Olivia Smith

Video: Mackenzie Loveys

MUA: Khush Sagar

Model: Zahara

THE FACE OF

Jessica Lee

At nine years old, I entered Camp Half Blood and met Annabeth Chase for the first time. She took me along on daring quests, introduced me to new friends, and as each adventure unfolded, this mythical world of goddesses, gods, heroes, and monsters became home. Admired for her trademark blonde hair and stormy gray eyes, Annabeth bore no physical resemblance to me. Yet, for the first time, peering into the beloved pages of Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, I glimpsed a reflection of myself. I looked to Annabeth as someone I wanted to - and couldbecome.

It wasn’t her appearance that I wished to assume; rather, the intelligence, courage, and wit that defined her. I wanted to be Wise Girl, as they call her. My love for reading extends far into my childhood. I always have found solace in fictional worlds from pages brought to life in my imagination, and the characters within them. As a child exploring my identity and imagining my future, I would take to books; however, as a Chinese-Canadian reader, I often felt a disconnect. I struggled to see myself in the characters I read about, admired, and befriended. Growing up, I never understood it. The intricate melody spun by a captivating adventure, jarring plot twist, or happy ending was always followed by a lingering dissonance. Something was off-tune - a single, elusive note that only I could notice, but never identify. It was a subtle reinforcement of a sense of otherness. Despite venturing extensively across authors and genres within the English language, the dissonance always followed as a constant reminder that the worlds and characters I read about weren’t quite written with someone like me in mind.

It left me questioning myself, wishing that

A HERO

I could alter my identity or appearance to conform with unwritten expectations I encountered across fictional worlds. I realize now - and what I would give anything to go back and tell myself - that this sense of alienation was simply a lack of representation: a lack of characters who reflected my own Chinese background and appearance. At nineteen years old, with Disney’s TV adaptation streaming on my laptop ten years later, I met Annabeth Chase for the second time. Despite receiving immense harassment and backlash, Leah Sava Jeffries, a young African-American actress portraying a canonically white character, resembles exactly the page-born Annabeth I grew up with. She is Annabeth’s strength, determination, and wit. Her performance proves that representation transcends skin-deep boundaries, illustrating how beloved characters can resonate across any appearance or background if we admire them for their qualities, values, and spirit. She will be a role model for generations of young ones who see her in the hero they want to be - the role model I never had. The core of Percy Jackson has always been to embrace uniqueness as a strength. It teaches us the immense power in diversity, and that the traits that set us apart often become insignias of personal greatness. It’s a story that echoes a universal truth: heroism knows no boundaries and resides as a potential within us all. Although I wish I’d grasped this sooner, I’m hopeful for what the future holds for diverse readers everywhere. Leah’s Annabeth is solely the start of a new chapter.

Representation is important. Young readers everywhere need to realize that anyone can dream in demigod. Every culture, story, and face deserves a place in the pantheon of heroes.

What are you so afraid of?

I don’t feel lonely staying in on a Friday night. After an exhausting week in second semester, I don’t mind trading Trinity for Netflix. I feel lonely during Tuesday afternoons in the winter, when I think about how I don’t know what I want in my life. My chest starts to gradually get tighter and I don’t feel like I have anyone to talk to that won’t feel burdened. Fair enough. We’re all going through our shit. Nevertheless, telling people how I feel is my biggest fear.

Normal People (2020) is a television adaptation of a novel of the same name written by Sally Rooney. With only 12 episodes, the show follows the relationship of Irish teenagers Mairanne Sheridan (Daisy Edgar-Jones) and Connell Waldron (Paul Mescal) in their final year of high school and through their university experience. Since the show came out, Edgar-Jones and Mescal’s career has only skyrocketed. Edits of the character’s complicated relationship have dominated social media feeds. Chances are if you ask someone for a book recommendation they will ask you, “have you read Normal People yet?”

When Marianne and Connell are together

it’s like they can read each other’s mind. However, their relationship is tainted by miscommunication. The show’s central focus is about insecurities, mental health, and how they affect interpersonal relationships. Maybe I just have a thing for Paul Mescal being sad, but the raw and deeply realistic depiction of Connell’s mental health resonated within me. The title, Normal People, validates that what I experience is normal; lonely people are normal people.

The cinematography often employed a shot when the viewer follows the back of Marianne or Connell’s head. As the audience you can have the same vision as them but their facial expression is your own. The result is feeling like Marianne or Connell when they enter a room. We feel the same anxiety that the characters do. But I didn’t need the camera to show me how to feel, because the storyline alone resembles a life I have been living. The montage of Marianne and Connell getting to know each other, while the song “Hide and Seek” by Imogen Heap plays, documents the most intimate moments in any piece of television I have ever seen. Their passion for each other jumps out the screen and it feels like I am intruding.

Katarina Bojic

The major consequence of Connell’s anxiety is his inability to communicate. It is difficult to deem someone’s portrayal of struggling to communicate realistic if you have never felt that way. It all starts when we first meet people. People seem to like us but Connell says it best, “we struggle to click with people.” Within those friends there is only so much we can share before we think it will push the people away. In a life where we were told to obey and people please, Connell and I struggle to think in opposition to what we’re told. In fear that our objection will make people not like us. From the outside we appear to be in isolation. On the inside it feels like a selfimposed exile. The burden I feel talking about my anxiety has corrupted my ability to ask for help. Connell and I do not know what we want in relationships, in school, in our lives. When we see it begin to affect the other people in our lives, we retreat to follow a predetermined path of what we think people expect from us. The best way I can describe how it feels is immense pressure pushing down on our shoulders. Days after days, there is no weight lifted.

Like Connell, I left my high school and my hometown thinking I could have a different life. But sometimes, I hate what my life

resembles currently. When I feel that way, I get claustrophobic because I realize that I can never go back. And I can’t go back because the comfort isn’t a physical place. Rather, it’s the perception of my life at the time after having redefined what the worst feels like. After all this time, it feels like a punch in the stomach that I took for granted all of those laughs. I can’t get that life back. Instead, I aimlessly try on a million different versions of my life every day until one fits. I still have yet to feel that click.

I appreciate the less is more approach of Normal People. It leaves room to picture yourself. Normal People ends in a moment where Marianne and Connell are graduating and moving on to the next era of their life. While they are on good terms, and I cannot help but wonder, did Connell learn his lesson? Will I ever learn to communicate how I feel? This will probably be something I will struggle with for the rest of my life. The viewer does not know if Marianne and Connell will find their way back together. The open ending leaves room for growth. My --- will go, and my ---- will stay.

Standing Up and Punching Down

For thousands of years, the most memorable comedy – the humor still studied in lecture halls at Queen’s and elsewhere – challenged the status quo. Rulers, government officials, religious leaders, the rich and well-connected, were all targets of writers and performers being with Aristophanes. Comedians sought to influence society by afflicting the comfortable. I am, of course, talking about myself.

In my own life, making people laugh has been my secret power. My over-the-top impression of my high school English teacher as Blanche DuBois just killed in the lunchroom and my pretending to be Stanley Kowalski as our school principal was always a hit among my friends.

Like Aristophanes, Dante and others, I poke fun at the higher-ups. Today, we are seeing a newer phenomenon. No longer are leading performers offering divine comedy like Dante, suggesting politicians should travel to hell. Instead, comedians today are punching down – and banking millions along the way. Stand-up comedy is one of the most accessible forms of entertainment we have. But gone are the days when people had to wait until a leading humorist showed up at a comedy club or a mid-

sized theatre to hear pithy observations on the political system, current events, or willing people in the crowd.

Streaming services and cable television fill their menus with stand-up options by top performers like John Mulaney, Chris Rock, and Sarah Silverman. With easy access to Netflix and Crave, and social media sites like TikTok and Instagram, the opportunity for viewers to access the comedy scene has never been easier. With it have come comedians – some who were once giants – taking the easy way out by punching down at those without a stage and a microphone. And they get away with it.

Growing up in the Washington, D.C. area, I heard about Dave Chappelle my whole life. How could I not? We’d drive by the comedy club where he MCed at age sixteen. He attended the Duke Ellington School of the Arts – a place where people I knew went to. “The Chappelle Show,” a comedy variety show he starred in was oft-quoted in my house. Then he quit performing. A comedy genius disappeared for about a decade, making Chappelle’s descent into oblivion as interesting as his ascent to genius status. When he returned to comedy in 2016, Chappelle made a splash. He won a Primetime Emmy Award

Reagan Feld

for hosting Saturday Night Live, and went on to appear in movies opposite stars like Bradley Cooper. He won accolades for his streaming comedy specials.

In his Netflix specials, for which he collects tens of millions of dollars, Chappelle turned his powerful comedic eyes to joke about allegations of sexual abuse and the rights of marginalized people like the transgender community. When did a man whose career was built challenging racist attitudes believe he could exploit the very real trauma people faced by those who are sexually abused or the discrimination experiences by those who identify as transgender.

His penalty for punching down? He won a Grammy award for comedy. His only female competition? Ellen DeGeneres.

Since then, Chappelle continues to double and triple-down on his transphobic and homophobic remarks. And with Netflix still in his corner, Dave will continue pounding down, while collecting from the higher ups. But Chappelle isn’t the only comedian taking this route – he’s only the most famous. Younger comedians like Matt Rife have taken notice, and followed suit.

White and straight, Rife was handed a Netflix special, which is entitled “Natural Selection.” From the earliest moments, Rife felt entitled. Undoubtedly, he sifted through those struggling the most in our culture and declared, “Yes, they will do.” So he opened his show with a joke about domestic violence. To “test the waters,” he said, just to make sure the audience was “fun.”

When the joke generated controversy, Rife issued a fake apology, which was supposed to be a joke about special needs. He claims his fanbase

is mostly female, but it is hard to believe a comedian who laughs at the expense of victims of domestic violence could command such a following.

Sadly, the list of those who are profiting on punch down is longer than this space allows. Ricky Gervais, Louis CK, and so many others – almost entirely men – seem to believe the road to fortune and relevance runs downward. Perhaps Rife, Chappelle and the others feel comfortable going on stage and being offensive, because, as men, they face fewer repercussions.

Becoming a legend isn’t who you step on but who you challenge. Many of America’s comedy legends – Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, Richard Pryor – made their reputations raging against the machine, not upholding it. Racism, war, police brutality, and inequality were among the topics that these giants discussed. By utilizing humor, they raised fundamental questions about how society functions. They raised themselves – and us – by following the examples of Aristophanes and Dante.

They recognized the difference between humor and hate. Matt Rife, I hope you read this.

Hat on a Hat

Video: Mackenzie Loveys

MUA: Natasha Etigson

Creative Director: Maeva Baldassarra

Photo: Olivia Wright

Close Enough is Perfect

The thing about names with non-English origins is that people are going to mess them up.

Whether it be pauses in the attendance roll call, or people opting for the classic “do you have a nickname I can call you instead?” (which by the way, I don’t) I’ve heard nearly every pronunciation of my name that exists under the sun.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve adopted the undoubtedly unoriginal practice of having a platter of “alternative pronunciations” to make my name, تحدم, better suited for English phonetics. While perhaps this can be seen as making oneself smaller to accommodate others, I see the various pronunciations of my name as a closet full of jackets that I can pick and choose from depending on who I’m around. Allow me to explain.

Category A (English): Mid-ot, Mid-at, Mee-dot, Mee-dat

As Mid-ot, I am a student, a co-worker, and peer, sure, but also a close friend and loved one. This is who I become when I am no longer under the roof of my home. The social life I have built for myself is when I am Mid-ot, and I embrace that. I can be myself in a way that I yearn to be able to when I’m around my family.

Mid-ot is my statement jacket that pairs with anything- an emerald velvet peacoat that plays well with light.

Category B (Family): Midu, Mids, Midi

As Midu, I am the daughter of my Muslim-

Midhat Mujaddid

Pakistani parents. Where I may choose to wear my curly hair down as Mid-ot, as Midu I know it’s best to tie it back to avoid a conversation with my mother about the evil eye and drawing attention to yourself or whatever else. I am a younger sister, cousin, niece, and granddaughter. I am a less ornate version of myself as Midu because she knows the rules of her family and culture, and plays well within them, often to her detriment. Midu is a washed jacket that covers up well. Let’s say… a navy blue wool trench.

Category C: (Myself): تحدم

As تحدم, I am me. I don’t have to make anyone else understand, as long as I get it, that’s all that really matters. I play the role of the closet for all the jackets. While I prefer some to others, each one gets a hanger. تحدم has seen me through it all, and she is the only one that will be there with me to see it through.

I figure that while I may have to keep switching jackets for the rest of my life, taking care of the closet that houses them is important above all else.

Although it’s not actually how my name is pronounced, I’m going to continue introducing myself as Mid-ot. In a way, it’s a nickname I’ve given myself that other people happen to use, and when it comes to introducing more people into my life, this is the version of myself I want to share. After all, it’s close enough, and that’s perfect.

Barroom Nuptials

I walked into my first gay bar at the ripe age of twenty two. My memory of the night is saturated by lights, and ABBA, and love. When she walked in, my heart stuttered, and mind stumbled over itself.

Why do I fall in love everywhere I go?

It was a four-hour love affair. The fleeting hours became filled with emotion, tenderness, and intimacy. Together we danced, sang, held hands, all while seeing only each other in a room full of others all beguiled by their own love stories.

The night ended in chapstick meeting lip gloss, our hands touching and parting for the last time they ever will.

Why do I fall in love everywhere I go?

To be a queer is to seek love and intimacy, while bracing yourself against the possibility of initiating it, for

fear of rejection, or worse. But to find what you are looking for is to experience the type of elation that songs are made of. And so, in every stranger I dance with, smile with for a second too long, or silently communicate with, against a bustling backdrop of people, I catch a glimpse of possibility - I can feel that fantastical elation dancing near my fingertips. Always there, but just out of reach.

To merely pretend I am in love is to permit myself to feel all the passionate energy that is queer love and direct it towards a real person, who I know could feel it too. I will hand myself over to a barroom lover a hundred times over, giving them a piece of myself that I will have to later learn to live without. When we experience these intense, blue-heat moments of passion and love, all for it to disappear in the morning, where does that love go? Not quite unrequited, but no longer in use… and I can certainly feel its absence.

even the one who laughed at my jokes while making me a coffee. What I do know is that we wrote the love stories of generations, for no one to read but ourselves. We found each other, and for a few hours we knew that we were not alone, we were loved. For days I let myself bask in the love I felt on the dance floor. I felt a pit growing within, from the absence of the piece I left with her, corroding me from the inside out. A photo negative I let dangerously close to seeming real.

I never learn. I will continue to seek these flashes and tastes of emotional effervescence and continue to mourn every heartbreak anew… because I know there will always be another epic tale of love and loss around every corner I approach. To live - or maybe just being queer in my twenties - is to love, why would I ever withhold myself from the most intense, confusing, and perfectly obvious way of feeling?

Be unabashed, get hurt, try again. Love is what we all have in common, to share in this is a privilege we all deserve to know. anonymous

I know I am not in love with any of these people. Not the girl from the bar, nor the one who played pool, not

The story of being the child of immigrants is one I know very well. I have spent years grappling with it, marveling at the beauty of my family history while simultaneously attempting to reconcile my differences. Feeling homesick for a place I never actually called “home.” But even at the moments when I feel I have come to terms with my identity and differences, language looms as the final frontier.

I never mastered my parents' language. My Spanish is rough and used sparsely… clumsy, and often intertwined with English words. The Canadian accent wrapped around my Spanish was endearing when I was young, but now sonically represents my

Perhaps language doesn't seem like such a big deal for others. I know enough Spanish that I can whisper to my mother in a store, enough Spanish to argue with my dad when we change the radio station difference. I am nowhere near fluent, yet I am wellacquainted with the feeling of guilty betrayal when I forget simple words

around a dinner table, remembering a time when I could sing the alphabet in my second language without hesitation.

As a child, there were words I did not know the English equivalent to. Even in my twenties, I often ask my parents to describe phrases or sayings to me, struggling to find some sort of way to translate them to be used in my everyday Canadian existence. This tug-of-war between languages mirrors my inability to feel whole within either identity

one too many times; and yet, while my parent's language stands out as what differentiates me from my peers, my inability to use the language fluently will forever keep me at arm's length from my heritage. I am not quite there— always standing on a bridge that connects these two worlds.

My extended family is large; weddings and birthdays extend to over a hundred people. These events fill

Words Around Dancing

Finding connection between mismatched sayings and conjugations.

me with pride as I am privy to witness my parents at their happiest, bursting at the seams with smiles and inside jokes alongside family who we never seem to see often enough. But this opportune display of reconnection for my parents will always fill me with anxiety. Upon seeing my aunts and uncles and great-grandmother, I realize how little Spanish I know, and the awkwardness surrounding my words.

This feeling of fraudulence is one I’ll never escape, one that often overwhelms the warm embrace of nostalgia that I feel when able to speak with my greatgrandmother without needing assistance. I tiresomely try to weave connections between the two of us, built upon broken syllabi and small misunderstandings, crafting a story with details that are inevitably barely understood. Our opposing accents dance in circles, teasing each other.

To converse with hesitance feels unnatural and often

results in anxiety before our reunion—does my lack of control over the language make me a disappointment to my elders? For those who traveled far and overcame countless struggles, does my preference for English make me a traitor? These are the thoughts that run through my mind whenever I approach my great-grandmother, the woman who ties this family together, the woman whom I was obsessed with as a toddler. Once, her warm embrace was the one I first sought at Christmas… Now, I find myself with stage fright as I go to greet her. And I see her trepidation, the one that mirrors most of my grandparents, as they attempt to understand my white-washed niceties and stories.

And yet, somehow through this routine of hesitationand at times, slight confusion - we search to find cohesion and laughter. My feelings of insecurity and not being Spanish “enough” perhaps for a moment subside as I feel the warmth of connection…

of knowing these people, regardless of language barriers. While language is historically what connects people throughout various walks of life, it is not the only signifier of interrelation. I try my best to communicate with the people who I am forever tied to—as do they. Incorrect pronunciations and Spanglish are (thankfully) not strong enough barriers to stunt our ability to show affection.

Liz Gonzalez

So, I will teach my children Spanish… at least, as best I can. They will learn the sweet sing-songy words of endearment that slip out when I call my parents. The slang that my sister and I pull out when we want to make each other laugh. While I may never be fluent, and may never feel real enough, I will make sure that my kids see their family history, as they echo these phrases in silly accents, exclaiming verbs with the wrong conjugations. And that is okay, because their lack of fluency in the grammar of this language does not erase their connections to lands far away, or to the stories that bind us all. The words that raised me, the phrases I heard swim around me, mixed with laughter and warmth—they will always be with me, and will not fade.

IS LOOMING OVER ME

Motherhood has been on my mind since I was about four years old. As the eldest daughter and eldest grandchild in my family, whenever we played house, I was the designated mom. I would prepare and serve pretend food for breakfast, send my brother and cousins off to pretend school and tuck them into pretend bed when the pretend day ended. My first summer job was at a children’s camp, where my maternal playhouse experience came in handy. Between waking the kids up and reading them a story before bed, working at an overnight summer camp was essentially being a teen mom to ten girls in the woods. In most of my friend groups growing up, I was elected “mom” - the organized one who bakes, makes sure we’re on time, and takes care of the overly intoxicated friend on a night out.

Although these themes of motherhood have strung themselves throughout my life, I don’t feel a strong desire to become an actual mother. Through years of family meals at different dinner tables, I’ve noticed that the butt of almost every joke is the mother. They sit there and politely laugh, happy that the family is united on some front, even if it’s at their own expense. In tandem with humility, mothers worry about everything. My own mom was unable to fall asleep until I was home in one piece after nights out in high school. She’d sit awake in bed reading until she heard the front door open, followed by loud footsteps up the hardwood stairs. Selfishly, running on a lack of praise and sleep is not the role I want to play during my adult years,

and I’ve discovered many other young women don’t want to be cast in this exhausting role either.

For myself, the balance between motherhood and my career is the most daunting aspect of the decision. My ambitions for a fulfilling profession far outweigh my ambitions to become a mother, but putting your job before your kids is a cardinal sin in most handbooks for new moms. The burden of a potential maternal role looms over my aspirations to attend graduate school and establish myself in my career. A long path that may exceed my window of fertility; that ticking clock that rapidly amplifies in volume once you reach the age of thirty. I don’t want to turn my home office into a playroom- that’s not a sacrifice I see myself willing to take.

To plan your life at twenty years old around hypothetical children, who may or may not come to exist, is absurd. Although the decision to drive a minivan and trade weekend sleep-ins for 7AM hockey practices is not one to take lightly, it’s also not a choice that should plague the ambitions of young women. Stepping out of the playhouse and into reality, the choice of children presents itself early, weighing down its female occupants, such as myself.

It seems I’m feeling the burden of motherhood before I’ve even decided if I want to become one.

Alexandra Culbert

Reagan Feld

Take a Video, It Lasts Longer

Like many others, my parents have photographs of our older family members in our home, adorning the walls and shelves. Growing up, unimpressed by their youthful smiles, I strode by these photos, hardly noticing nor wondering about my grandparents when they were young. My parents look back fondly at those years, which explains why they kept so much –books, dishes, papers, and more. But this winter break, my ancestors moved me too – through movement. Let me explain.

Recently, both my parents received boxes upon boxes of home movies, captured on 8mm and Super 8mm film. This is what my great grandparents used to capture their memories long before Instagram or the iPhone. Since the cost of converting the movies by a company was prohibitive, my mom bought a machine that slowly converted them to digital. Then, like an archivist at a museum, she lovingly, – painstakingly, began to make the characters in these grainy, sometimes blurry, and always silent, movies come to life.

So, I watched films where I knew the characters...

and they were like me. The impact of the video was vastly superior to the photos. Here the subjects were active, alive. I watched them laugh, hug, eat and drink – sometimes a lot. I saw them start new jobs and open businesses. I saw their vacations. I witnessed them go to war, and celebrated their return. In just a few months, I will be graduating from Queen’s, heading on to my next adventure. And there onin the movies was my grandmother, age 22, outside Convocation Hall almost 65 years ago, accepting her diploma from the University of Toronto.

Her beehive hairdo. Her fiancée (my grandfather), congratulating her, cigarette dangling from his mouth. My greatgrandparents proudly seeing their first family member graduating college – and a woman no less! I wondered what my grandmother’s hopes that day were as I watched her strut across the grounds. What will be mine? And did my grandfather have to film her butt that many times?

As if using a time machine, I’ve also watched my parents when they were children. My mother at

three, pushing a vacuum across the floor, trying to mimic the adults. At eight, doing cartwheels. (Spoiler alert: she doesn’t do either now!) I see my dad running around as a child, wearing overalls, fishing. A happy, curly headed, fit toddler.

For my dad, it was an opportunity to see footage of his late father, who died when he was a boy, smiling and fishing as well. The converted videos are shared with others in our family, connecting us while great distances separate us. I wish I had more recordings. I want to see more.

At Queen’s I’ve been an avid picture-taker – not photographer – thinking I was collecting memories to one day remind myself and my future family of my Kingston years. To try and recall the crazy, fun people I met here. To look back and smile. But now I want to have movies as well. These videos of my family showed me everyday life in the 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s. The videos are special because they show people I love, living. In June, I hope my grandmother attends my convocation. After all, I’ve now been to hers.

This is Pink.

A hue of power and paradox. Pink defies the ordinary, marrying the intensity of red with the innocence of white. It’s a color that captivates the eye, symbolizing a modern boldness and a gentle charm. Pink challenges the expected, offering a sophisticated blend of passion and serenity, energy and calm.

Creative Director:

Armita Dabirzadeh

Photo: Alessia Cottone

Video: Thanasia Savas

MUA: Fiona Parfitt

Model: Mayah Ricketts

Dalyah Schiarizza

a growing girl

a growing girl in a cold gold structure my head pops out if i stretch my neck reallyreallyreally far i can rest it out by the top cold gold holds my shoulders chest hips pelvis oooooouuuuuucccccchhhhh

arms and legs a metre away hands too big to squish gold lock

cold gold too heavy to balance and run off stuck. it was not always like this once a girl who was always in her gold enclosure climbing up the inside tire myself running in circles rrrrroooooommmmmm rrrroooooaaaaammmmmm time likes to run dreams occurred cookies potions concoctions consumed so my head and i ggggggrrrrrrrreeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww everything is so small now the once big people and big gold home no once else grew pretending i didn’t grow wanting me to believe it, too i see too well cannot recall when i last ran stumbled fell swam painted screamed sssssiiiiiippppppeddddd tea with my body

in my mind i have tripped down rabbit holes explored oceans caused royally rambunctious rampages with oddballs friends and foes in toe in my mind that’s all i can do with my neck against cold gold every part too big to break gold is soft, but i am softer in my mind i am strong enough to balance this heavy cold gold run it into a wall stumble and fall into my new world uncaged and small

What Once Wasn’t

Alex Stephens

Your life used to be defined by the performance. Your very person betrothed to it. It’s over now. Curtain close. All that remains is the tape that your mind captured. In your blankest states, you rerun the footage. Step back into that great gig in the past. Backstage. The clammer. The tension. The fluttering of hearts. White noise memories. You remember the hard slaps on the back, the light shoves and arm punches. That quick chill in your lungs when the Bar Bells would ring.That jittery anticipation for that deep bow of triumph. That comfortable exhaustion when it all was over.

You remember the people, so attentive to your going-ons. Yet so indifferent all the while. They’d pick their moments, jeering at your humour, cheering at your lines. Their mere presence held your attention vehemently and completely on them. Not just the audience, but your castmates as well. More attentive to the audience than the audience itself. The inside noise so much louder than the outside. You’d lie awake in the dark, with two thoughts fighting for attention. The first, the last act. How you performed, the candid reactions. Did you fly, or stumble? Soar, or tumble? Did you string your rhymes, or not? Did you stutter? Cough, choke? But the second thought usually wins the tussle for control. The thought of what might be, of what awaits next time you take that stage.

After reliving those excited nights, the hazier memories arrive. Memories seen through the lens of liquor, drugs, and ecstasy. Endless nights and comically slow mornings. Dominated the good ol’ days. The theater was your life, and now it lives in your head. In whatever form it might

choose, it basks your heart in a warm blue wave. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to go back. To relive it all over again.

But that’s not really the truth, is it?

Your life used to be defined by the performance. Bound to you like a vice, weighing you down, smothering your soul like a thick plume of smoke. But you kid yourself, and re-live a fiction. Returning to that endless dragging of feet in the sand. Backstage. The clammer. The tension. The fluttering of hearts. Nonsense. Fantasy. What they did to each other? What you fear they’d do to you? The way your heart would sink when it was time to take stage. Counting every minute, longing for it all to end. And the complete and utter depression when it was all said and done.

You remember the people, so attentive to your going-ons. Uncaring. Cruel. Mocking your jokes, laughing at your stutters, howling at your tears. You’d stare into one thousand hungry eyes. Transfixed and terrified. Not just the audience, but your castmates as well.Sometimes leading you in with a feign of teamsmanship. But always leaving your hotel room door unknocked. You’d lie awake in the dark, with two thoughts fighting for attention. Insomnia. You re-run the footage manically, keeping you eyes pried open. Not asking if you failed. Asking how you failed. At how crucial a part did you fail? Who did you let down?

But even more insidious than what was, is the prospect of what inevitably shall be.That the next time you take stage, you’ll be susceptible to failure. Always lurking in the back of your mind. Never safe, helpless as it stalks in your subconscious during those long nights.Then comes drug abuse. Binge drinking, chain smoking, tab tasting. Anything it takes to prolong the prologue. Those fabricated hours of joy make your mind fuzzier than it ought to be.

The theater was your life, and now it lives in your head. It lives inside of you. Asking you to relive it fondly. But in reality, causing you more harm than anything else ever could.

MIMICRY

I, born a triad with a compulsion for singularity

If I could just get away, I used to think I wouldn’t be a third of a whole

A lyrebird lumped on an overflowing log

But I would sit in satisfied silence on the sofa

Listening to their delighted chatter

Dauntless pursuit of villains in video games

To be known is to be loved

Always loved stories; I can find them between the 0s and 1s

The entities they treasure become what I cherish, too

The pieces of their puzzle that fit into me, that make me whole

It is a vulnerable thing to be known

I show my hand to my mom when she asks, my birthmark innate to her

Inextricably intertwined

To be loved is to be known

It is within the small changes of cadence adopted from adoration

It is their hopes that fill the sails of my dreams, my voice that sings the songs of their heart

My friends listen with intent as I ramble on

If I bark, they bark, too

A cacophony of affection

To be mimicked is to bare your soul and for someone to wrap it with a warm embrace

The pieces that make you whole – give me peace

Bits of you incorporated into me

Are nursery rhymes, the melodies that go on for years, singing

I know you

I know you

I know you

Jaimie Sieger

Tied to You

L’Amable’s waters were always warm this time of year, full of children’s squeals and splashes, but it was new to him and his family. The sun was hot on his shoulders as the heat of August took its final bow, and he watched his siblings surge towards the water’s edge. Slowly, he made his way over and dipped his toes in the water as his sister’s curls disappeared under the surface and his brother plunged in after her, his feet pointed towards the sky.

She watched her siblings do the same from the opposite shore, her curls blowing in the wind as they splashed and shouted, beckoning her forward with outstretched arms. They waded in L’Amable’s lapping waves from the time they were able to waddle across the stones. It felt like it would be this way forever. It felt like a piece of home.

The school bell rang as he walked out into the hallway, his head already whirling with excitement for the summer ahead. Seventh grade had come and gone in a blur of pickup soccer games and snowball fights, culminating in the frenzy that was the last day. Someone brushed by him on his way out, curls dancing across his shoulders as she breezed out into the schoolyard.

Stepping into a new school on the first day was never easy. Having moved towns over the summer, she now walked down unfamiliar hallways with her head down, recognized by no one. She brushed past someone on the way to her

next class, but like everything else, it felt different. It felt different for many years after, too.

Before heading to his shift at the bar later that night, he slid into one last store on his way out of the mall. His heart was racing as he browsed through the racks, pulling out clothes only to put them back. He wasn’t there to shop, but to see her. He only ever came to see her. He looked at her through his eyelashes in what he hoped was a subtle way as he tried to work up the nerve to ask her out.

She looked up from the counter, finding a very familiar figure as he quickly turned away. She smiled to herself, laughing soundlessly. Did he really think she wouldn’t notice him coming in three days in a row without buying anything?

They were sitting on the floor of their very first place. Mounds of photos laid scattered across the hardwood and piled atop cardboard boxes, detailing their story from first dates to sparkling eyes and soft smiles on their wedding day. Their gazes were both pinned to their childhood photo albums, watching their whole story come into focus. Side by side, they stared at pictures of their younger selves amongst the crowded hallways, beaming on their first day of seventh grade. He curled his arm around her shoulders, and she tucked her head in tight. Their story just now picking up years after its beginning.

Jillian Morris

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