Editor In-Chief
Happy new year!
Wow, it’s been half a year already since we took up this post. Befitting the time, this issue’s theme is: Reminiscence. Halfway through our term now as E-i-C’s, we certainly have a lot to look back on, and with that just as much to look forward to. It must be said, this issue came with a certain melancholy. Maybe it’s just the nature of the subject, or perhaps it is because this marks the beginning of our final semester at university. Either way, there is something profoundly cathartic in reading so many articles in the same note. This might be my favourite issue yet, covering ducks to bees to that feeling of loneliness that brings us, ironically, together.
Ah. This note is kind of a bummer, clearly the graduation blues are setting in.
All the best to you and yours going forward, make good choices!
Much love,
Creative Directors
Hey readers,
We’re thrilled to be stepping up from our roles as designers to Creative Directors! We love and admire the creativity, collaboration, hard work, and care that goes into the creation of The Magdalen and can’t wait to be a bigger part of it this year. We have exciting things planned, so stay tuned!
The hugest thank you to Luna and Afia for leaving the most beautiful mark on The Mag last year and for guiding us through the compilation of our very first issue!
And thank you to all the writers, editors, and designers who have contributed to this issue - it’s a fun one! Hope you enjoy reading it as much as we did making it.
All the best, Heidi & Ayla
Hannah & Arianna & &
What's
If you were on the internet between 2021 and 2023 you must have run across the sensation of Long Boi, an Indian runner duck who lived peacefully by the Heslington Fish Pond on the University of York Campus. Long boi was the unofficial university mascot, allegedly mentioned to new students as much as the “Dundee is sunniest city of Scotland” fun fact is fed to us. He stood tall over all the other ducks of the pond, seemingly on his tippy toes, running around with his long neck and long body that secured him the name of Long Boi. He was a long boi, and people loved him for that. His disappearance in late April 2023 did not go unnoticed and he was sadly presumed dead by May after weeks of research. In September 2024 the
unveiling of the Long Boi statue attracted hundreds of people that celebrated the beloved boi with a minute of quaking. Long Boi now stands tall, forever immortalised in bronze, towering from his plinth overlooking the pond where he met fame thanks to his stature.
There are countless examples around the world of beloved pets turned into statues. Dogs, cats, horses and at least one duck, a boll weevil, a walrus, a sea lion, a bear, a polar bear (you know which one, you just have to walk in the city centre of Dundee to see it), a cow, a gorilla (I dare you to go look for
Design: Ayla Ahmed
“Why do we as humans go to the length of creating a statue of a pet?”
all of them online). From Mrs Chippy, the carpenter’s cat on board of the famous Shackleton expedition ship that met a tragic fate once the crew got stuck in the freezing unhospitable Antarctic tundra, to “Smoky the Yorkie Doodle Dandy, and the Dogs of All Wars” as reported on his plinth, who is accredited as the first recorded therapy dog working during and after World War II. They are remembered for their small contribution to history, leaving their paw print in the fabric of time. But not all pets were war heroes or adventurers discovering new lands. Some of them became an important part of a place just for existing and being spotted and recognised by all so that their eventual passing was felt by the entire community. We all know the story of Greyfriars Bobby, the Terrier that guarded the grave of his owner until his death. No immortalised in a bronze statue that sits on top of a fountain in Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh, Bobby gets visited by tourists who pet his nose which is now shiny with all the love he receives. Or have you heard of Hamish McHamish? The orange tabby cat that
roamed the streets of St Andrews between 1999 and 2014, taking naps around town and being fed by the community, hosted in different houses. He became famous outside the town thanks to his Facebook page and the book Hamish McHamish of St Andrews: Cool Cat About Town by Susan McMullan about his life and his favourite activities. Or Tombili, another cat but this one roaming the streets of Istanbul. He was a chubby cat (hence the name which means chubby in Turkish) who was often seen and photographed reclining like a little lazy human on the pavements of the city. His bronze statue poses just like him, looking like your uncle at the pub waiting for his pint to be placed in front of him. All these were beloved pets recognised around thanks for some quirky aspect of them or just for being the village’s pet. The people asked for them to be immortalised so that they could live forever, their memory preserved in bronze, and so that everyone would have a way to mourn the little creatures and their sudden absence.
Why do we as humans go to the length of creating a statue of a pet? Why do we give them a nice monument to something as easy as being longer than the other ducks in the pond? Is it because in the shorter life span of these animals, we recognise our mortality, and how quickly life starts and finishes in the grand scheme of things? Is it because we hope that if the street cat that simply lived his everyday life in a small Scottish town can be remembered
possibly forever, we also can? Is it because we are just humans at the end of the day and have always been easily emotionally attached to the small creatures that we think are cute and kind of quirky (a cat that sits like a human, a very long duck). The ancient Egyptians mummified animals, especially cats in certain areas, to grant them immortality. Such a complex and laborious process so that their pet could join them in the afterlife (take notes Catholics!). A statue from 1777 representing the dog Tago can be found in the Museum of Archeology in Bologna, Italy. His owner Tommaso dè Buoi commissioned a statue for his pet to remember him after he fell from the windowsill too happy to see his owner coming back from a long journey. And then we can go back to Long Boi. He was just a small pond duck living on the University of York Campus. He was beloved by the students by the virtue of standing out (literally) and seemingly appearing out of nowhere but got his rise to fame when two students decided to post about him on Instagram making him into an internet sensation and a meme. People got invested in this peculiar (just an Indian running duck) quaker that brought people closer. As cheesy as it might sound, this is simply how memes work, creating a common piece of knowledge that people can share the details of and feel connected through. He was funny-looking and he had a great PR team behind him. Add to that the so human tendency to feeling of akin
Design: Ayla Ahmed
towards anything that we can humanise, that made so that his passing was a sad moment for many. The statue was a public request, just like Hamish McHamish and Tombili. The money to complete it was raised completely through donations as people wanted to have something that could stand where Long Boi used to, something that people could remember him by, a place where to talk about him way after he was gone. As humans we want to create things to be remembered, we want to make lasting memories, both individual and collective.
“We create culture though the shared memories of a community.”
This is the thread that connects all these statues of pets across time. They become lieu de mémoire (site of memory) a physical manifestation of a memory, a visual prompt to think about the things that were. Memories can fade if they are just words in a story, but a physical reminder will spark questions. Who was that duck and why does it have a statue? Why is the dog on the fountain being petted by tourists? Is that a cat reclining and why does it look so relaxed? Their story will end up changing becoming more and more mythical compared to the original one, but their existence will not be forgotten. We create culture though the shared memories of a community. We create moments to stop and think about history and heritance, sometimes thanks to the silliest of the reasons.
Legends Retold: The Legend of Zelda Remakes
Since 1998, Nintendo has retold many Legends of Zelda. As with all Legends told over time, some details may change. On Nintendo’s past three consoles, six games from The Legend of Zelda franchise have been remastered and their stories retold. Some aspects changed for the better, and others for the worse.
On the 3DS, the Nintendo 64 titles were remade. ‘Ocarina of Time’ is the most popular Zelda game and the one that got the ball rolling for the series. When compared to the 3D remake, there isn’t much difference other than the new graphics, and the use of the 3DS’ touchscreen. There’s a lot of controversy surrounding ‘Majora’s Mask 3D’, however, mainly because of a few minute changes (like Zora swimming using up magic) that cause slight inconveniences to gameplay mechanics.
The WiiU features ‘Wind Waker HD’ and ‘Twilight Princess HD’. Compared to the original, ‘Wind Waker HD’ doesn’t add many more features to the main story, and the only big change in graphics is lighting and shadow effects. The biggest changes are things that make gameplay more of a breeze. The swift sail, for example, increases sailing speed. One portion of the game in the original involves a lot of backtracking and in the HD version, this quest is fairly shortened.
‘Twilight Princess’ greatly benefits from the HD graphics. They’re stunning and perfectly complement the story’s eerie atmosphere. It’s also worth noting that the HD version is a remake of the GameCube edition; on the Wii, the entire map is inverted (similar to ‘master’ mode in several games, which is a harder playthrough option unlocked after completing the game for the first time).
Despite already being remade for the GameBoy, in 2019 ‘Link’s Awakening’ was adapted for the Nintendo Switch. Like the 3DS remakes, LA had a complete change of art style, which is the same style featured in the newest release ‘Echoes of Wisdom’. There aren’t many other changes but be warned—the game is rather difficult despite what the art style may suggest.
‘Skyward Sword HD’ easily outweighs the original. One of the biggest complaints when the game was first released was the gameplay mechanics, AKA the Wiimote. It’s just a pain. The controls on the Switch make the game more enjoyable and user-friendly.
To anyone who hasn’t played the originals: play the newer version. You’ll have essentially the same experience with some improvements. The world of Zelda is beautiful and immersive; from the soundtrack to the story, there’s an aspect of Zelda that’s enjoyable for everyone.
The Resurgence of Monster High
WhenI was younger, I would spend many evenings after school laying on my stomach, browsing through an Argos catalogue with a permanent marker in hand, circling every new toy or game that caught my eye. If I were lucky enough, I would be rewarded with the object of my desires, and often, it would be a doll. I had a vast collection of dolls growing up, ranging from Barbies to LaLa Loopsies, though occasionally a Bratz doll would find her place in my world of classic pink and princesses. But one fateful day, an advert for a new line of dolls graced our staticky TV screen and my world was forever transformed.
Monster High, created by Mattel, was a series of dolls focused on the children of classic monsters, myths, and legends, such as Frankenstein, Dracula, the Werewolf, and many more. The line hit shelves in 2010, immediately being met with widespread acclaim and controversy. These dolls were significantly darker and edgier than
any other on the market at the time, which left children enthralled and parents outraged. However, despite its subversion of the wholesome blonde aesthetic that reigned over toy aisles, Monster High was a momentous success, quickly becoming a household name with over seven hundred dolls and a loyal fanbase since its release.
The original cast consisted of six ghouls (girls, for you Monster High newbies): Frankie Stein, daughter of Frankenstein’s Monster, Clawdeen Wolf, daughter of a Werewolf, Draculaura, daughter of Dracula, Lagoona Blue, daughter of a Sea Monster, Ghoulia Yelps, daughter of a Zombie, and Cleo De Nile, daughter of the Mummy. Each doll came with an array of accessories, ranging from a hairbrush to a pet to a diary detailing the ghoul’s personalities, likes, dislikes, friends, and crushes. The premise of the line was for our core characters to attend the titular Monster High, which was renowned for allowing monsters of all kinds to come and study, thus inviting more
freaky and fabulous dolls to be added to the cast over time!
As popularity grew, Mattel released collectable items such as magazines, cards, plushies, mini-figures, and other accessories, eventually launching an official Monster High website (which sadly no longer exists) where you could play games, design your own monster, and watch animated webisodes. The webisodes led to their first short movie Monster High: New Ghoul at School (2010) which served to properly introduce the characters and how they all came to be such freakishly cool friends. Since then, approximately twelve movies and five video games, released on a variety of consoles, were released during the run of G1, introducing many more characters during their adventures for the fanbase to indulge in.
But not everything can last forever. During the run of Monster High, another doll-line was released by Mattel which involved a familiar concept. Ever After High was similar in the sense that it followed the lives of the children of Grimm’s Tales characters and it was teased in one of the final Monster High movies, Boo York, Boo York (2015) that both universes were linked by a mutual character, Cupid, and this plotline would soon be explored. However, due to copyright issues with Disney, who were using the same concept for their series Descendants, this storyline was abandoned, and production consistency took a hit.
Around 2016, Mattel began to face budget issues, and the quality of Monster High consequently suffered. After half a decade of backlash from parents, Mattel attempted to rebrand and recover their
relevance in the doll industry. Monster High underwent a makeover, making the faces softer and the characters more Barbie-like to try and appeal to younger audiences. G2 was not appreciated by fans, and the decline in quality meant there was not much left to hold their interest. In the end, Monster High dug their own grave.
But behold, the dead are rising!
Monster High has returned with G3, rebranded characters, new movies, a new cartoon series, and new dolls, and the fanbase has returned with it. However, not for the reasons you may believe. While some welcome the new versions of their once beloved childhood dolls, majority are not impressed by the drastic changes to character’s designs, personalities, and relationships. The resurgence of Monster High is one of nostalgia and yearning for the uniqueness of the past, and thus G1 of Monster High has been resurrected and along with it, an achingly intense regret for forgetting such an important part of my life.
I am sure most teenagers are also hit with the need to purge their bedroom of any remnants of childhood and my Monster High collection did not survive such a purge. All that remains is two of my favourite dolls, a classic Draculaura and Twyla, the daughter of Boogeyman, and a fervent desire to begin my collection anew, an endeavour I am sure younger me would be delighted with.
Diminishing Discourse: The Cultural Cost of Trivial Language Trends
In our contemporary landscape, shaped by the pervasive influence of social media and its immediacy of instant communication, colloquialisms such as ‘yapping,’ ‘womp womp,’ and ‘hope this helps’ have permeated discourse, whilst words once imbued with signification— like ‘aesthetic’ and ‘demure’—have been deflated to a state of vacuity in their misuse. This linguistic phenomenon serves as a harbinger of a broader malaise, one marked by nihilism, ego-inflation, and social disintegration.
‘We are in a universe where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning.’ — Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (1981)
Traditionally, language emerges from a prior, pre-linguistic delineation of the world into entities and events that can be named and spoken. It is through this intricate web of language that discourse weaves itself into the very fabric of communication, the world is a construct which is not merely encountered but instead intelligibly fashioned. Language does more than merely reflect reality, it actively shapes it, mediating a narrative that discloses the underlying ideologies that govern our perceptions and experiences. When language is perverted by misuse and dismissive language trends, it functions as an inversion of discourse.
The symbolism of language, specifically the language of modernity, screens the
phenomenology of its meaning. The words we use distance us from genuine engagement with both ourselves and the world around us, ensuing a dialectical process between a desire for connection and the alienation engendered by our linguistic choices. The digital ether of buzzwords obfuscates and creates a gap in language. It is this gap which instead ‘produces meaning.’ Otherwise, the gap between the signifier (the buzzword) and the signified (the intended meaning) serves as a bridge rather than a barrier to understanding. The gap is that which provokes language to function as a dialogic, opening space for understanding, not the signifier.
A H
This signifier/signified relationship isn’t a simple failure of communication, but a symptom of a deeper ideological exertion. This ideology operates in a fantasy realm, not by concealing the truth but by shaping the language and the terms through which we discuss it, effectively obfuscating the truth. The disengagement and its disillusionment with discourse fosters a passive nihilism. So too does self-image become tied to trends of language, reinforcing a bidirectional relationship: our identities become moulded by the buzzwords and phrases from trends which we adopt, while, in turn, this language maintains the ideologies which inform our social interactions. Our language tacitly endorses a self-abnegation which we misrecognise as connection and understanding.
Word: Shannon O’Donnell, Design: Beth
In the Mood for (a
very
niche and specific kind of) Love: Laufey’s Reflective Romanticism
I think it fits that the first time I heard Laufey’s music was at Assai Records when the cashier played her Bewitched album on the record player. As an artist, Laufey repurposes aesthetics of the past to bring them into a modern setting, saying in an interview that she looks to ‘bring the magic of [the past] into this world. But of course, without the problems of that time.’
A warmth and romantic vulnerability permeate her music, echoing the jazz standards she is inspired by. As a genre, jazz is known for building upon a history of reflective and personal music, often engaging openly with the genre’s history through covers, odes to the past, and references to idols. Laufey’s cover of ‘Misty’ illustrates this. Written by Erroll Garner in 1954, the song has been covered by many of the greats: Ella Fitzgerald, Johnny Mathis, Sarah Vaughn—the list goes on. Laufey’s cover echoes Fitzgerald’s, although her slow and pensive piano playing adds another layer of contemplation to the songs’ hopeless romanticism.
Laufey often adds elements of old Hollywood scores to her form of reflection. Throughout her discography, you can hear the swelling of orchestral strings, reminiscent of the dramatic and sentimental scores of old Hollywood romances, or the openings of midtwentieth-century Disney films.
Beyond genre-based reflection, Laufey also couples a first-person past-tense narration with a direct address to her subject to concoct a thoughtful and intimate atmosphere. Her warm and airy instrumental fosters intimacy. Her song ‘Must be Love’ exudes that sense of closeness as you can hear her fingers moving along the fretboard.
I think in many ways Laufey’s music personifies the last few months of the year. In the ruins of the year, the final months become a space of contemplation—of the past, present and how the future could look. Laufey’s music is a soundtrack of memory and ideals, of love and life. It is deeply reflective, stylistically and thematically, but it is also rejuvenating in the ways she brings the sound of old into a modern setting, infusing contemporary subjects with fairytale lyricism. There’s a comforting warmth to her music that complements the bittersweet end to the year; a spirited awareness and meditation on her past intertwined with hope and wonder for what the future could look like.
A Universal Horror –The First Cinematic Universe A Universal Horror –The First Cinematic Universe
In 1818, famously known as ‘the year without a summer’, famed Dundee resident Mary Godwin (soon-to-be Shelley) found herself at Villa Diodati in Geneva, alongside some distinguished company. To break the monotony of endless orgies, the group proposed a game—to write tales of gripping terror. Here, Shelley penned her story of an ambitious inventor who dared to create life, the titular Frankenstein. That same night, John Polidori crafted The Vampyre, a chilling tale about a bloodthirsty creature that would inspire Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Remarkably, the archetypal vampire and Frankenstein’s monster were conceived the same night. But surely these legendary monsters didn’t also share their cinematic debut? Well, it’s close.
1931 – it’s the Great Depression, things are bleak, money tight, and fledgling film production studio Universal is willing to risk it and do the unthinkable: adapt Dracula and Frankenstein for Hollywood! Both had been adapted before, famously Dracula into the copyright-infringing German silent film Nosferatu and Frankenstein into a primitive Edison-One-Reeler. But in 1931, Studio boss Carl Laemmle of Universal Pictures bit the bullet and legends were born. Bela Lugosi is Dracula (filmed by day, while Carlos Villarías portrayed the
Spanish-language Dracula at night on the same sets) and Boris Karloff (billed as ‘???’) is the Creature. These two actors would become titans of the genre, and these two films would kick start a franchise that would last for nearly thirty years.
The Mummy would follow in 1932, the story more being an adaptation of Dracula with different set dressing as opposed to what we might expect from having only seen the 90s Brendan Fraser blockbuster. Frankenstein would then get a sequel where he got a Bride (which in my opinion may be the greatest sequel of all time), and Dracula’s Daughter would pull the censors into meltdown with its hints of lesbianism. Claude Rains, famous for appearing in Casablanca, would get his first film role under piles of bandages in The Invisible Man. Then, come the war years, a more sympathetic, reluctant monster was required for audiences— the half-man, half-wolf Wolf-Man, played by Lon Chaney Jr. (whose father had previously been the go-to monster guy, infamous for his role as The Phantom of the Opera). As colour film emerged, the final of the classic monsters would be born: The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Each monster spawned its series of sequels, with some
movies allowing for the monsters to meet each other. Ultimately, they all suffered a comedic coda alongside Abbott and Costello. The Universal Monsters became the first franchise to interconnect their movies; the first cinematic universe! (Take that, Marvel).
These films are nearly a century old, and you may wonder: Why watch? Well, because you might be missing something extraordinary. My first encounter with these classics was spontaneous—I picked up a Blu-ray of Frankenstein from a charity shop. As the opening credits rolled and I was transported to a haunting, gothic castle, I knew I was in for a treat. Karloff’s portrayal, with those dead, sunken eyes still sends shivers down my spine. I watched Dracula soon after. Admittedly, it’s a slower film, but Lugosi is utterly magnetic. He is Dracula, and his performance was so iconic that he was even buried in the cape that defined/ruined his career.
From there, I delved deeper into the world of classic monster films—even the socalled ‘B-movies’, produced when the original magic had started to wane. Some, like The Mummy sequels, suffered over time: the nuanced character of the original film gave way to a mummified zombie under the control of anyone in a tarboosh. The Creature from the Black Lagoon,
a more layered figure that acted as an analogy for displaced minorities in its first appearance, ultimately faded into a mindless monster in sequels. Even Dracula was softened, his menace tempered with time and the effects of WWII on Hollywood. The Wolf-Man, however, stayed surprisingly consistent, gnawing at audiences’ heartstrings while linking many of the films together. His ultimate release from his curse served as a fitting close to the series.
Despite their age, flaws, crackles, occasional slow pacing, and controversies, these films are brilliant in their own way. Timeless charm, iconic performances, and sheer cinematic power have made them immortal. Their appeal endures— even today, multimillion-dollar theme parks invest in these iconic creatures. And why shouldn’t they? These monsters remain as captivating and terrifying as ever, embodying why it is called a ‘Universal Picture’.
Returning to the most famous of the series, Frankenstein opens with a fitting monologue, which for nearly a century has prepared audiences for the terror to come: ‘It would be a little unkind to present this picture without just a word of friendly warning. I think it will thrill you. It may shock you. It might even horrify you. So, if any of you feel that you do not care to subject your nerves to such a strain, now is your chance to, uh... Well, we’ve warned you!’
Words: Rebecca Lewis
LONELINESS
Her tears keep falling like rain, forgotten and neglected memories no one will ever see. She is falling, too, but never quite reaching the ground of the abyss. She can still see the world but through a dark tint, never in all of its beautiful shades and beaming colours. She listens to the music that artists on Earth compose and sing every day but can only hear the melancholic tunes and minor keys. She is flying as freely as a bird in a golden cage, despite the shining gold leaf still a prisoner of this universe and its endless emptiness.
While being further sucked into this black hole and feeling its pressure suffocating and draining all the colour and joy out of her, she began thinking. Why did it feel like she was lost and stuck in a never-ending dream? Was there anything of significance and meaning in the infinite isolation of space where there was nothing left to see, nothing left to say? Everyone had always told her that pain was the worst feeling. But could there really be anything worse than this eternal silence inside of her? The numbness to the world and its surroundings felt like being banished into an alternate universe where the iciness of space and the pull towards the uncertain darkness of the black were all that existed and mattered. She had been falling and floating forever, unable to arrive anywhere.
The earth looks beautiful from up here, with all its deep blue and bright green colours, but it still felt like being secluded in a personal dark paradise. All she felt were the meaninglessness of existence, the threat of infinity and the ignorance of the only humans who could reach her. It was a vast ocean to drown in, not one with rhythmic waves to soothe you and sing you to sleep.
Looking down on her earth, it only belonged to other people. Humans who still managed to live and stay there instead of being imprisoned by their mere existence. She could see herself on her planet, walking, talking, laughing, but it wasn’t her doing these things, it wasn’t her body moving, she didn’t control it anymore. And whatever she did, she still felt nothing. An indifference to the world and everything around her. She was unable to be human again but also not allowed to become part of something or give herself up to the dark, endless depths of space. All her life, she had felt like she was floating outside of her body, looking down on herself, hating what she saw. But still, she thought, it had always been you and me, always forever, they could stay alone together. Every day was the same overwhelming nothingness swallowing her. She was sleeping but never truly dreaming, cracking but never quite reaching the breaking point.
Memories flashed, lightning blazed through the grey cloud and fog, and she remem-bered a better time, a previous life full of light and wonder. When she was a child, pure as the driven snow, going through life like it was a storybook, laughing at the world, romanticising melancholic solitude, waiting for someone to come save her from the dangers of the world. She believed in miracles and wished on the stars in the indigo-blue night sky, seeing the endless possibilities in a rose-coloured world. Another flash revealed a memory of laughter with her friends and family, who once knew the lyrics to each other’s songs and sang them out loudly and triumphantly like there was no tomorrow. Little did she know that once she reached a certain age, there would be no tomorrow for her anymore but only a repetition of the same in-significant achromatic numbness. Not an interesting Vantablack that hid fascinating secrets and mysteries waiting to be uncovered, or a pure white sheet begging to be written on so a story could unfold, but a dull grey. The rose-coloured glasses shat-tered. The grey stifled all melodies of love and adoration, strangled every source of light trying to get through to her and hid all the stars she had once loved so dearly. She learned that she didn’t possess whatever magic was required to turn an idea into reality in a hollow world of infinite possibilities. She realised that some scars inflicted on her might never heal, no, they remained blood-red stains splashed onto a white wall that no amount of paint could ever cover up. She considered how to disappear. Then came the realisation that no one would be waiting for her on the other side. And the vicious cycle continued. They might be with her if she were ever released from this generational curse, but they surely wouldn’t be waiting for her when she left everything, her body, mind, and soul behind.
Her tears keep falling into the abyss, beautiful like falling snow. She hadn’t cried when she left at first, but every time she faced the reality of disappearing, it hurt. So maybe one day, she would finally give in to the absence of colour, that complete darkness where no colour could exist, and accept the eternal silence and senselessness of the world. Then, she would finally be able to let go and fade into the darkness. But not today.
To Be Seen
My dog must think I’m crazy.
Ever since he first barked at me in fear when I decided to wear a hat one day, I’ve realised he must see me as this strange, mysterious creature that is constantly changing shape, colour, scent, and sound for no apparent reason.
It’s made me wonder, why do we humans decorate ourselves? Other animals don’t seem to do it. There’s no apparent evolutionary need for it because it’s not just about staying warm or cool or covering nakedness or procreating. Is it about controlling our image? The reflection of who we believe we are (or wish we were)? But what are we trying to display, and why do we do it?
From my own experience, I would exposit some of us are trying to make what we believe to be invisible, visible. “Do you see me?” our disheveled appearance asks. “I’m more than my body.” Others want to mask what may be invisible with what is definitely visible. “Do you see me?” our perfectly applied makeup asks. “My body is amazing.”
And now with social media, we’ve taken it a step further. “Do you see me?” our filter asks. “Do you see me?” our like button asks. “Do you see me?” our carefully crafted post asks.
It goes deeper even than our physical appearance. We decorate our words. Alter our personality. Ruin our lives, even. Anything necessary to be seen. From the cradle to the grave, we are asking this question, and yet we are never satisfied, no matter how many compliments, likes, or affirmations we receive. This hunger has perhaps ruled us, defined us, controlled us since the dawning of humanity. Some years ago, I was watching a documentary on the recent unearthing of an ancient tomb in Egypt. There was much excitement over some hieroglyphs carved within, but soon, disappointment clouded the discovery. Apparently, the writing was just from one of the construction workers that had built the tomb. It basically said, “So-and-so was here.”
Let that sink in for a moment. Millennia have passed, and yet it’s the same thing we’re carving, pray painting, and scribbling on walls today. Or on social media profiles. Or with our outfits, make-up, muscles, haircuts, piercings, tattoos…
Do you see me?
Do I matter?
Am I valuable?
…I was here…
Why is this so important to us, more important at times, than even our very survival?
Recently, I was privileged with the opportunity to explore the Highlands. There, in the stunning absence of humanity, nature loomed so large, and the sky was so broad, I felt nearly swallowed up by it all.
But the resulting invisibility wasn’t bad, and at first, I wasn’t sure why. As I travelled, moments would strike me with understanding, like Newton’s apple. I would observe the mathematical pattern of the curling rivers and burns flowing through the land, and would suddenly be reminded of the veins winding across the tops of my hands. I would gaze up at the stars on a rare cloudless night, and discover they looked like inversions of the freckles on my skin. I would hear the wind blowing through the forest, moaning between crevices narrow enough to produce audible pitch, and would harmonise with it as my breath vibrated over my vocal cords.
Was I projecting, or was I simply observing evidence of common design? How could I be sure?
What I did know for certain was this. The land was there before me, and it would be there long after me. And while I was there, just like
the land, I could simply be. There was no need for doing, no need for presenting or filtering or adjusting, no need to alter who I was, no need to watch what I said or try to translate what others said. The void of spoken word, which is the wondrous silence of nature, wasn’t heavy or oppressive. It was like a low humming chord, just beyond the reach of my hearing, yet I could feel the vibration of it, harmonious and resounding.
The silence was so vivid and alive, I knew it had to be filled with something. As Torricelli discovered when he found the atmosphere wasn’t empty after all, but filled with the invisible element of air, I wondered, do we live in the midst of a resounding sound, unheard but felt?
And if we do, what was it saying?
As I stood there amongst the resonance, I felt it deep down, at the spring of my soul, the root of my being, the foundation of my mind. I wasn’t separate. I was a part of the whole. I belonged. I was seen.
I joined in with the silent song, and whispered, “I see You.”
My heart always tossed with you.
I cradled your head, whispering
A prayer of rest for my wakeful angel.
Now,
In light of morning, In a still and desecrated bed, In the dewy eyes of a cozened head, Hindsight.
No wonder you couldn’t sleep at night.
I pray now, for his sake, Never yours, never mine, That you sleep better by his side.
Memories Baked Into Bricks
She leaned against the burning bricks of the dilapidated boundary wall, staring at me longingly. I have been a robust anchor in her life, tethering the chaos brewed by the amalgamation of reminiscent memories of the past and radiant hopes for the future. I am capacious, with my open spaces and accessible nooks. I house natural light in my simplistic design, creating an atmosphere so magical for her and her peers in the community that they feel empowered to hope and dream. I contain darkness under my enlarged canopies providing shade, and protecting from the scorching heat, but simultaneously creating obvious opportunities for concealment. In these parts, lurk the clandestine shadows of the dark history of my design. My vast floors and tall ceilings provide for the smooth passage of a soft, melancholic breeze, carrying away the rife stench of suffocation. My life began as an experiment in the African colonies — a specimen of modernism, well-equipped to handle the antics of the tropical weather in my birthplace. This brainchild of the coloniser was named tropical modernism. The art adorning me was stolen. It was passed down as a precious heirloom
locked in the relics and artefacts of her people, which then was snatched away. Her people were never credited for their unique creativity and stellar talent. Their patterns, designs and colours were stolen by an authoritarian entity, with greed-filled eyes and limited comprehension of the sagacity of the art and the meaning behind it. They were called ‘savages’ with beautiful objects to steal and exploit. They were mercilessly wounded, looted and invaded. It is a ruthless irony that the colonising minds who inflicted this plunder and bloodshed upon them were never dubbed barbaric. They birthed an enterprise which shall not be attributed to civilisation without consequences. I was a mere speck in this vicious enterprise spanned over the vast ‘tropics’. It was invented to pillage resources and destroy lives. My design was created to placate a restive population resisting their occupation.
I have witnessed her people fight for freedom. I have seen them defeated and desperate, trying to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. I have also seen them eventually emerge victorious.
“ In these parts, lurks the clandestine shadows of the dark history of my design. ”
They resurrected me, taking away the heaps of documents, scribbled with military records and official statistics laying heavy on my chest. I was decorated with bright colours and reunited with nature. My countless gardens and rooms bustling with life and community. Those who come from the land know how to build on it. They weave their sacred knowledge and insight into beautiful patterns; they lock it in a precious medium to travel through generations. “Come back home for lunch,” a frail yet firm voice echoed in my yard. She instantly snatched her eyes away from me. Her mother was here; she was here to fetch her for lunch like she has done on countless other occasions. The strength in her voice declining over the years was only allusive to human mortality not a weakness of mind or character. However, humans are wonderful creatures, their memories, ideas and thoughts survive what their bodies certainly will not. They are sustained over generations, immortalised in bricks of structures like myself, an ordinary yet special community centre. My connection to her and her people is our interwoven history, bonded future and interlinked fate like the intricate patterns of their beautiful art.
