V E R T I G O
PHOTO BY NELLY MATORINA
A GROUP OF HUMANS AND THEIR ART Rhetoric Magazine is an international collaboration project, which aims to provide an open and informal setting for creative collaboration and artistic exposure. Our community currently consists of approximately 70 contributors from over 16 different countries, with executive teams in Kingston, Canada and Edinburgh, Scotland.
ISSUE # 4: VERTIGO PREVIOUS ISSUES: NEW BEGINNINGS (2012) GOOD IDEAS GONE BAD (2013) CIRCLES AND CYCLES (2013)
PHOTO BY RENE TORRES
I’ve never been quite so aware of this medium of a magazine, its ambering of text in becoming a layout, solidified in a way that is photographic. In some sense, both images and text are read as image, they escape a form of alteration or interaction. The text, in this case, takes on an interesting position, aside from functioning as a continuous stream, it is also visual poetry and static object. Juanita Lee, curator of the section Memories Adrift, Climbing of Glass Structure writes, about Morgan Wallack’s images, “The photographs appear to be mute, but the scene is staged, the figure is posing, and there is a clear sense of direction”. I have read these words so many times. I am fascinated with the idea of a static scene where a figure is posing. It is a performative event for which an image was deemed enough. Thought patterns work in a way that is so different with static objects, the sequence of a text is inherent; with static there is the option of creating your own sequence or just consuming it, just being there. I keep thinking of the flicker, an image that is stationary, but has a rhythmic temporal frame that reminds us of its presence and directionality, the fact that this image has a temporal dimension. In static, it is so much easier to stop holding on – “You are dripping in meaning, looking for other humans to share it with. She reaches for your hand and you both jump in the water, submerged, throwing away any conclusions you might have made. The ocean shrinks and you let your memory cry about everything it has lost.” – I have fallen asleep in a field “as we begin to understand reality, true horror, and discard it “ – Lexical Gap “the last words I said Forever Stay/Reality Ruins
to
you
before
I
said
more”
–
The idea of flicker is recurring: “the purpose of this anonymity is not, according to Morgan, to keep the viewer wondering about the identity of the figure, but to keep them remembering. “ There is so much relief here: in discarding, losing, and trusting that your body will remember.
PRODUCER: Jennifer Pham
It has been four years and four issues since we first embarked on the adventure of collaborative creation. The Rhetoric Magazine you see today is different from the one that was first conceived in 2011. Our priorities have shifted – where exposure used to be a main priority, we have since learned to look inwards, focusing on the personal experiences of our contributors. We have tried out new ways of doing things – moving from being an exclusively online platform to finding ways to build real-life communities. We have found new ways of growing, and in the process, new people. We have raised the bar and become more selective of the works we publish. We are seeing interest from all corners of the world that was unimaginable before.
Perhaps the biggest change we see is in the collaboration between our artists and editors. We encourage collaboration because we believe inspiration, creation, and appreciation should be shared. The best way to do so is by creating a community in which everyone can exist and anyone can contribute. Creation, in this community, benefits everyone.
Today, our community has evolved to encompass the works of over eighty artists in sixteen different countries across the world. Our cultural diversity allows us infinite possibilities for inspiration and creation. Our geographic diversity allows us access to infinite audiences. Is this starting to sound like a Toy Story movie? Because “to infinity and beyond” could definitely be our mantra.
The issue you are reading now is a stepping stone towards infinity, and we hope you will enjoy it, take it in, relish this present point, because soon we will be moving again. The most exciting thing about working with this sort of community is the fluidity of change, and the changes we will be creating over the next cycle will involve even greater collaboration, setting the bar for our work higher, higher, higher.
So join us in our collaborative adventures, or if you are already with us, come along as we explore new ways of community creation.
SECTION 1!
SECTION2!
Memories adrift, climbing of glass structure
Asymmetrical edges
CURATOR:
SEC
semitr
CUR
CURATOR:
MALASHREE SUVEDI
JUANITA LEE
LAYOUT ARTISTS:
LUIS MIG
LAYOUT ARTIST:
MEI YUET LEE &
LAYOU
MOLLY GERTENBACH
NELLY MATORINA
JESSIC
COVER BY : GABRIELLA SCALI SOUND ARTIST: JORDAN PIER EDITORS: RACHEL CARINE LALLOUZ & AMANDA MURPHY
PHOTO BY NELLY MATORINA
JESSICA
CTION 3!
SECTION 4!
ransparent
Dissonance
RATORS:
CURATOR:
A DYKINS &
SHANNON DUANE
GUEL MUNOZ
UT ARTIST:
CA DYKINS
LAYOUT ARTIST: KELSEY O’TOOLE
KELSEY O’TOOLE
JANE KIRBY
MALASHREE SUVEDI
KIARA ZUCHKRAN
REBECCA TULK
JUANTIA LEE
MILENA SLOWIKOWSKA
MARK DIZON
SHANNON DUANE
MORGAN WALLACK
RENE TORRES
JESS DYKINS
MEI YUET LEE
XIN LI
LUIS MIGUEL MUNOZ
RACHEL JIAM
ANNE ROLD
NELLY MATORINA
SEREANA LINDSAY
GABRIELLA SCALI
STELIOS BAKLAVAS
GRACE ESFORD
JORDAN PIER
PARAS MEMON
LEYLA PAVAO
MOLLY GERTENBACH
AILSA ANDERSON
CHISAMORE
PHOTO BY RENE TORRES
CONTENTS
Memories adrift, climbing of glass structure Asymmetrical edges THE INTENSITY OF THE SUN REVERSE ABANDONMENT A WHISPER TO SOMEONE I WANT BACK LADY BIRD I HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP IN A FIELD FOREVER STAY/REALITY RUINS FRAGILE THING 3
Semitransparent TOUCHING GROUND BROKEN PLACES, BROKEN PEOPLE FOLKLORE PARANORMAL APPARITIONS UNKNOWN DIRECTION REVIVAL
Dissonance THE BALCONIES & KALLE MATTSON: THE MOVERS & THE SHAKERS BOOKS DOWN
PHOTO BY RENE TORRES
PHOTO BY NELLY MATORINA
MEMORIES ADRIFT, CLIMBING OF GLASS STRUCTURE
CURATOR: JUANITA LEE LAYOUT ARTIST: MOLLY GERTENBACH
PHOTO BY NELLY MATORINA
ASYMMETRICAL EDGES
CURATOR: MALASHREE SUVEDI LAYOUT ARTIST: MEI YUET LEE & NELLY MATORINA
THE
OF THE SUN BY KELSEY O’TOOLE
From amid my feathers I saw him flying.
w
ole sky. branch of a tree whos He landed on the spread branch of a tree whos landed on the spread branch of a tree whos spread
se canopy branch of a tree who across the whole sky. spread se canopy branch of a tree who across the whole sky. spread se canopy branch of a tree whos across the whole sky. spread His beak pruned at the pockets that let the light in. The branch bent beneath his feet and formed a staircase that led into a garden wild and abundant. There on a bench was waiting a friend beside whom he took a seat. It is obvious they are accomplices and have been for all of time by the way each face scrunches in similar directions and the ease with which their shoulders lean - relieved - one into the other. His friend is famous - I’ve seen his stature looming from the binding of many books. Libraries of every language. My family squawks behind me about their hungry bellies. His friend nods and I catch pieces of the conversation floating from their heads like music beating and bouncing against the small brain inside my skull. I spread my wings to catch the shapes. I process slower than their output but make sense of the scene. He is a painter gathering speed. He is a seer, a scientist, a sweet-honey-bee - a raucous, a relic, a roach.
His cardboard canvas speaks to:
Dreams dark and tortured of a future ever bright. I duck my head instinctively shielding from thE light.
When I dare to blink once more a hundred strings lingering and I am shake. our chunk of earth lifts, swings with the wind, and becomes an island. balloons filled with breath carry us through a watercolour wash of wishes for the world. we are travelling towards a screen displaying visions. The visions are steeped in shades of suspicion and buried in acknowledgment. His eyes are spinning reels of pictures where the power is relinquished to worming wonders that seem just beyond our reach. he was; he is: the centre of the sun. From there he began and has since gone back for visits and there he plans to retire. a small
I can’t be sure, said his friend. It doesn’t matter, Xul admits. His face was stoic but for a hint of humility. I will continue to collect the people I can reach even when i am far far away. the one’s who look at me and believe I will last. friend.
ball in the middle of the fire. His tanned skin sweat as he walked the streets between the buildings, absorbing all their angles, examining life from the perspective of infinity. a circle bent out of shape complicating all identities in its massive singular expression. I heard him say to his friend around high noon: I get this feeling of being very removed. As if regardless of physical existence my heart is on a string floating in the stars and I am heavy down here and time gathers in her hand and whispers to me things other humans say they do not catch. Am i crazy?
that is a very good idea, said his
i must admit to you: the most validating thing that’s ever been said to me was by a woman i deeply loved. she shouted from her room, “sometimes I hear you and roll my eyes.” stepping into the hall and meeting my gaze she added, “but then I look at you and I can see that you’re really, truly, feeling it.” still, she shook her head at me, resisting the knowledge that had already passed as fact. your life always makes for an excellent story, said the friend. and a manuscript dropped into the writer’s lap. the words dispel haphazardly from my keys - from a vantage point between leaves. the past comes to rest between cover pages and becomes sustenance for the future. a man will sell it for human dollars while Solar refuels and steers our ship looking towards his home - inviting Others. the size of my hope exactly matches the intensity of the sun; was the last thing I heard one of them whisper... though from which mouth it was I couldn’t say. They both nodded.
PHOTO BY NELLY MATORINA
[a moment of pause, a mark of composure, a leaning in] Like all humans, I am a quasi demi-god. Fragments of my past life seep into my teeth as I grind them together in anticipation of the cold winter to come. [too much noise in the library, a glare, a nod of disproval] tsk tsk, too much noise everywhere I go. Like I was saying, hold on to the table nearest to you. The world spins at a speed so ferocious, that our atoms are always dizzy. They're dizzy with joy & laughter & pain & birth & death. Because they feel everything, all the time, always. In their minute existences, they encompass everything. Everything, do you know the gravity of that word? Everything! Are you sad? is that what you're saying? [a disgusted look, a cough] You're wasting my time. Leave. You're confident that life is stagnant. You're confident that even when movement exists, it is in vain and for nought. That movement that overarches its back, stifles a yawn, and tells us what to do. The external forces of the universe are more powerful than we'll ever be. But that's all right with me, for I know that movement is life. Our Earth spins around our Sun, and our Sun spins around our Galaxy, and our Galaxy spins around our Black Hole. [a loud audible sigh, a cry for help, withdrawing into the chair] [too loud, too loud, you'll have to be removed] I'll keep it, I'll keep it down. Whatever I said was an over-simplification. You need to be clearer, my head hurts. I feel dizzy. That's because it's all spinning at an extraordinary speed. So fast, in a direction that you and I don't understand. This knowledge is only reserved for A-class gods, quasi demigods like us have no right to even think about it. But all you must know is that, it's all spinning. [heavy breathing, pages of old books turning from the distance] Are you saying that we are all just mad people participating in a mad charade, and we don't even know what it is about? What is the universe playing at? [haughty laughter]
a whisper to someone that I want back a whisper to someone that I want back a whisper to someone that I want back words by malashree suvedi images by nelly matorina
The universe does not care. But that's all right, because I care. We care. You might say, that's not what it seems like at this point. But I assure you, there are stars out there that can sing with the harmony of the universes. In all of its infinity. And in all of its darkness. [another cough, a leaning in] Are you saying that it's all darkness? that everything is in vain. I am saying that it's all darkness, yes. But what I am saying is that, darkness harbours life. It harbours existence. You say, the gravitational pull of your bed won't leave you alone, you say your feet are made of concrete. We're all illusions. We're all mostly empty space. But one thing I know to be true is that your words aren't empty. And there is no real concrete anchoring our beings to our beds. I have been here before, and my ship of a body will not see myself to shore.
But that's all right. I know you'll swim across.
we, I mean everyone, everything, all living and non-living things. Everything, yes, I don't understand the gravity of that word, but nor do I want to.
[a nervous giggle]
[a moment of silence,
This body, this vessel of mine is broken. Like yours is.
I can't swim.
Yes, you can. It's instinctual.
followed by a loud sigh]
Why are we even here? And by
Listen here, the luckiest people on Earth are the ones who haven't been born yet. The second luckiest are the ones who haven't died. Have you heard that before? I probably told you, in our shared past life. And it's all seeping in, isn't it? It hurts. I know. I know so much.
You are centred, right what feels like comple bility in a completely c and violent world. I ha there before, I have se You feel like a unicellu ganism. So singular so unfocused in your existence.
[a plea for silence, ag time from someone el
[voices contrived into ing]
if the universe is uncar still our mother?
I don't know about tha ably yes. Not all moth caring. But then again mothers have to give
So, it聞s not our mother? I don聞t know.
How can something so manipulative have the be called a mother.
The universe isn't kind, it mean. It is neutral, a everyone knows some neutrality is worse than that's the deal we've b en. That's how we end again. All over again, many more times do y have to do this?
I am so tired, I want to with you. I want to ge
t now, in ete immochaotic ave been een it. ular or-
gain. This lse]
o whisper-
[suddenly, a gust of wind blows and books fall down mercilessly] You don't have to walk through needles and pins to get to me, to where I am. Here. Come here. Mania. Come here. And we will have fun. And we will be in so much pain, in so much hurt, in so much agony, but it will be complete bliss. And there will be no anchors drowning us. We will swim, it is after all, instinctual. I am waiting .
ring, is it
at, probhers are n, not all birth.
o evil and e right to
, neither is and like etimes, n evil. But been givd up here, how you and I
o leave et to you.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
by Kelsey O’Toole
DEA R K I N D VESSE L ( U P O N VOY AG E AND V EN T U RE) challenge everything you know of yourself. not by fighting or forgetting it but by feeling free enough to be unencumbered by any detail you have considered to be fact. trust. you are all of the essentials you will need. always. be bold. be brave. be free. the women in my family have a lot of headaches and i believe this phenomenon coincides the procreant urge to always yet never surpass those that came before. to impress but not offend. maneuvering a wire strung between a building and a tall and strong but swaying tree. the constraints of society reaching the natural dynamics of our physical existence. symptomatic of every achievement, every attempt, every alteration of the flow the forgone, the forlorn success of the successor.
the anxiety on the edge of every possibility having the option of both positive and negative negotiation. the huffing humility of climax. the ache of the womb to wrap itself around its product and protect. the concurrent suffocation of subject and object blurring into one story. spinning somewhere between expectation and obligation. stirring finite dilemmas and smoothing creases in the well intentioned caress. sloshing around the heads of those with access to autonomy.
i had this recurring dream as a kid that i could fly. it was more so a being flung in slumber towards the sky. construction of a:stomachsick, deeppit,scrapingnailsagainstthe ridgesinthevinyl, hallowing music, fear of getting lost in the solarsystem. each and every time i was afraid i wouldn't get back. that i would be stuck like old plasticine in an ancient container. stale and soured by the vastness of age. open to the air and every element beyond our oxygen. producing and consuming sustenance at a rate too outrageous to track. a righteous riot between body and spirit. each and every time i realized i had the choice of return.
in vexation. in vacillation. in vibration. we do cyclethrough.
finding the holes in our memory something like a flat tire. redeemable in its technical deficiency. renewed through acknowledgment that one can only find the worst to be a dented frame, some broken spokes. watch your eyes. operate. intoxicate. fill until you are whole with the feelings you find when you are unafraid. the most durable scrap of paper had on it scribbled simple words. i tried to embed them in my retainer, as a perfect thing, but all i can find now is their warmth. the glow of finely tuned phrases. of freshly squeezed sentiments. the wind finding at our feet humble notes of the duration it takes to impregnate minds and obliterate all of time. love over fear and a piece of wood propping open the strong hold of however many heights were waning against the light.
voices whispering around ears of the capacity to exist simultaneously on earth and in space. of the stability in opposing forces. of the control in letting go. of the push below launch and the drag behind gravity. forget your bra, my friend, roll down your socks. the power in unknown potential is evident in the skin of your ankle and the shape of your nipple them being bridges between us and all others. family exceeding our veins and fantasy encompassing reality. i will miss you only when i forget to remember that wherever you are, i will be. and there you are in me. this is the peace to be found at the highest peak. yours in confidence. cordeli
I HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP IN A FIELD I HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP IN FANTASY I HA
DAILY WAKE AND PREPARING FOR SLEEP WERE PUBLIC RITUALS
AVE FALLEN ASLEEP IN THE MORNING I HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP WANTING MORE
NELLY MATORINA
I have fallen asleep in a field. The rose petals falling bottom-up, the field extends for infinity. In rain, in unwanted flowers, in perpetual tingling of the fingers. I draw. A mind begins to wander with circumstance, where we relax our jaw and the midline of the face forms a circular hollow that finds itself as an endless code, a scrolling, a mind dead, outrageous, a disc piercing through our eyes with words and mirrored aesthetic.
bend blocks the sun and you are on the moon again. You kiss, holding onto each other’s elbows, creating a geometric understanding. Her bottom lip is a dog slowly walking by, not there for you. On the moon, your ankles don’t mean anything. She kisses your inner thigh; you open your throat to the sunlight. II Sam is not impressed. She stares at you through the telephone and sighs out an impersonal message. Its contents fill the room you’re in.
(It seeps, splinters does not breathe) You wake up in an infinite field. She is there. Her glasses are falling and her ribs turn inward abruptly. You reach for her, your hand is full of grass. “I want limbs to have separate controllers, it is so tiresome to shift them all around like this, attached to each other like a garden hose.” She stands and moves her shoulders back in space, then stares at you, then moves them so far back that her back-
When the rain starts, you’re somewhere in the ocean already. Your books soak up the water and save it for your return. When you finally arrive, you are so broken you can only breathe from your stomach and the inside of your palm. You decide to call your mother. She, a glazed look, says you have picked out your life already. Find a bookstore, find something to do so that you are a person who feels good things again. You buy a novel and read it in 24
DRAWING BY SEREANA LINDSAY
You retreat your mind into whitespace and realize how short you’ve made your Sam’s breath fills you with so much air, days. that at work that day, you spend 10 extra minutes talking to your co-workers in He holds two sticks in his hands and gets an optimistic phrase again. Today, you up to conduct the wind, each song lasts for longer than you can keep your mind feel important. still.
III
Each of his motions is a micromovement, he is at the top of a hill, he is You and Sam sail past an industrial port right now a stranger to everyone. as you read her poetry. Your coins fall out of your pocket into Read to me. the deep hillside well, and you whisper Hungry, she reads until the water drifts “secrets” into it. into soft focus and the cranes on the He stops suddenly and says, wish for it, shoreline become autonomous crea- you’re already there, wish for it, but the tures. time you’re holding in your hands begins You arrive drunk on the corner of a light- to cry at the word wish. house and begin to run along the rocks to the peninsula. You are dripping in meaning, looking for other humans to share it with. She reaches for your hand and you both jump in the water, subm e r g e d , c o n c l u s i o n s out. The ocean shrinks and you let your memory cry about everything it has lost. IV
Clouds later, the peninsula is still in sight, and Kostya is staring. “I am calling you only slightly”, he says, “Where are you now?” You’re too landscaped. You need a room. You walk endlessly around the peninsula, only finding expensive, staring restaurants and stretches of land, enough.
Your friend Kostya runs his fingers down You are in the room of a hotel together, your forehead across your chin down watching a magic show on the TV for your throat. an hour. Kostya narrates every action You photograph him. on screen, his voice a mellow puddle, there and not there, caressing your “It is time to make a decision” landscape so that it knows that words “I do not want anything heavy, I just are not welcome here. want there to be some directionality”
PHOTO BY MILENA SLOWIKOWSKA
V In the shower, the time you hold in your hands turns into a crystal ball. Sam is here with me. We build a mountain of water in the shower, and both lean against it, entranced by the sound of motion. Vera, my feet are soaked, are you cold, is this rain No one knows if it’s rain. No one knows how cold it is. I lift us from the water and place us in a safe place. It is just us and a single hummingbird. Sam kisses my collarbone and says thanks, are you okay
The hummingbird reaches for the curtains but can’t undo the knot, we both stare at it and open the window VI We are in a city where everythign is spelled incorrectly. Each mistake, a corporate malfunction, speaks to the only TRUTHFUL things We play a game, where we pretend everyone on the street is fully human. Sam talks to everyone about contact while I inhale pent-up energy, and a girl scowls and us and then comes back She runs each of our fingers through her hand Do you feel that, she asks Yeah Tell me one human thing Heidi laughs. We take her through the down-beat-carsales to the caravan-hubs into the infinite field A small tree grows in her palm and does not budge When it flowers, its rose petals rise up to the sky
Sam begins to dance moving through water, p ing air away.
Ask me about my par she yells
Heidi throws her a sp back, and then shortly af question mark. Sam says, they’re great. VII
I’m not accomplishing thing important. Everythi a question, nothing is an fact. My apartment has come a submarine and balcony hates me.
When I put my eyes as as my shoulders, I think lets me drift forward dreams and back into ground.
I lie down and answer phone. I’m on the other l break, alone, together, f long as the day to thoughts know they are welcome here.
But when there is no m tension, Sam is standing me.
We gaze slightly past e
as if push-
rents!
pace fter a
anying is n artis bed the
wide k this into o the
r the line, I for as o let e not
more over
each
DRAWING BY SEREANA LINDSAY
VIII
You hold your parents in your lower back, it tinges today as you sit at a table with them. I don’t know what to tell you, we’re so happy you’re here, we’re so happy to see you. You watch each other in isolated space, half-asmile how’s work there’s good and bad
days, hm.
You hear a loud noise and you all move towards the apartment block window, you watch a bulldozer tear down a playground. The kettle rises and all three of you sigh in unison, grabbing onto food, onto breath, onto drink, onto the breadth of physical actions that exist for us to be in a room together. You sleep in the living room, looking through the window at the apartment buildings facing the now empty space, a parking lot. You see someone blowing bubbles out of their balcony, a fingerprint reaching. Vera, your mother whispers, are you awake She holds your hand and looks at the bags under your eyes. I know it’s dusty here, but we’re okay, and someone just needs to kiss your cheek for trying. She leaves, her whisper echoes, you, comforted, feel your life in abstract, its rhythm decaying into a pace only those with extra skin can follow, the base way in front of you, encircling and turning before you clasp both hands and decide, enough IX The world is a composition of eternal landscapes, what a CRIME to catch myself off-guard.
PHOTO BY NELLY MATORINA // DRAWING BY PARAS MEMON
PHOTO BY NELLY MATORINA
FRAGILE THING: PART 3 WORDS BY MALASHREE SUVEDI IMAGES BY XIN LI
I I n g
Y o I O u
t b
I always woke up before she did, and spent time looking at her. I watched her sleep as her breaths heaved against my arms. Her chest moved up and down like a ship in a thunderstorm. I began worrying, what if she was just an image of someone I knew, what if the 'she' right now was a hollow memory, and the 'she' I once knew was far away in some distant
everything to the centre of the earth, little children walk around with gaudy scarves, and I remain motionless as she walks in and sit facing me. "I'm trying to quit" she smiles when I offer her a cigarette. I hadn't seen in her in a few weeks, but already in that short period, she had changed infinitely. Or maybe I was just imagining that.
country. Two months ago, I "Well, that's good. It's a terrible was counting her eyelashes habit" when she woke up, her eyes met She look at me, like she wants to mine and she giggled. tell me things. She can only You're manage to nod. strange. This is strange. Stop looking at me. I had come home three weeks ago to find her sprawled in the I just can't seem to stop. living room, like a coffee table. I I said smiling. I rolled over with- knew at once that what she was, out saying a word, stood up, was ill. walked the distance to the door Are you okay? and stretched my hand to unYes, why wouldn't I be? I'm just lock the door knob, for a split listening to the Earth. moment my body filled up with fear. I had this overwhelming Oh really? sense of her being unreal. I felt You're always been so cynical, like she was a paper cut-out, and once I left the room she Abhilasha. I can practically hear you laughing at me. would disintegrate and take the universe with her. Like she I am not laughing at you, Jill. were the catalyst that the What's it saying? I got on my universe had been waiting knees and made eye contact. for. It's talking to me but I don't Now, cars honk past each other know what it's saying. She in a frenzy, the city lights reflect looked at me, and shook her in her eyes as they turned head in disappointment. You shades of green and yellow. don't believe me, do you? Just like the leaves that now occupy the streets. Gravity pulls
osk. Do I think the earth is talking to you?, I said carefully, and decid- You haven't left the house in ed against my better judgement days. to tell her the truth. Of course, She sipped her tea as she held not. the cup like a new born babe. I I have been living with the Earth could see her feel across it like for 23 years, I know when it's she was reading Braille. Then, I speaking to me. felt the world come to a standstill. I felt awe inspiring silence, I I smiled and walked away. felt all the rivers in the world dry Where are you going? Come out. Maybe the Earth could talk. back She threw the china across our I had returned a few minutes latroom and the world moved er to find her in the exact same again. It broke into so many tiny location. Do you want to play pieces that the pink flower emScrabble?. I shook the box. Maybossment fell like jasmines tobe, it'll distract you. wards the mad Earth, and the Distract me from what? tea, now yellowish and putrid in colour looked like rain. Come on. She sat up on the couch. With Today, she orders tea again. I her back straight, and eyes bite my lips as she sips carefully, steady. she looks at me and sees me. She grins too. Fine, all right. But before Scrabble, can I have some tea? I want to say, come back, my bed is empty. Too empty. I don't Sure, of course. What kind? make coffee for anyone anymore, Anything will do. I don't cook for anyone anymore. I'll be back in a moment. I came I never eat, I never laugh. My back with a tray in my hands, universe has disintegrated. I spent all night mimicking your only to find her trying to read. breaths on my arms. I never get Dostoevsky is boring me now. it right, I'm always a beat off. I She said, as she turned the pagwant to say light, I don't rememes frantically. ber what being light feels like, Well, you've read it so many what light on my skin feels like. times, that's natural. My universe has disintegrated. I Maybe I could try something don't say anything.
I mumble something inaudi
But my psychiatrist w against it right
What? I say, loud this time. ryone in the Cafe can hear m
She says I should take a and find myself. Jill wave hands and la Find yourself?
Find m
What does that even mean?
I'll tell you when I figure i
Do you want to go out and That cute little restaurant like.
I don't know,
I can understand your res tions. But we worked well.
I had a psychotic break w was with you, act That is not my fault. Tha an awful coincidence.
She is silent for a long tim silence is heavy on both o sheets made from iron.
I know that, I'm sorry. Of co I know
I look at her. Please, wh you think about all of this?
I don't think I'm right for Don't talk like you know you are for me.
lighter, something easier to She is too quiet as well. She read? could talk for ever, relating every I am tired of this, this going and little detail with each other. Hmm? Like what? Something I can find in the ki-
I miss you. She finally says.
ible.
warns t now.
. Eveme.
break es her aughs.
myself.
?
it out.
d eat? t you
, Anu.
serva-
when I tually. t was
me, the of us,
ourse, w that.
hat do
r you. what
g back forth.
You left me in the middle of the night. I had gone mad the previous day, I was worried about you. You don't think I was worried about you? A simple goodbye would've sufficed.
you this one, this exact one I don't think you understand. I sat down beside her, and rested my head on her shoulder. I held her hand and played with her fingers. I looked up, again, and lightly bit her ear , forget the cup.
She took off her shirt and I gently pinned her down. We both stumbled You would have gone, regardless. over each other, like drunk men reYes. citing soliloquies to street lamps. We filled the bathtub and let the water I miss you too, I'd like for you to clean us off our fears. come back. I can't seem to remember to water the plants every day, they I played with her feet, and she played with my curls. I moved upwhither. I feel like I wither. wards, she relaxed and let life take You're human. All flesh and bones. over. She let out sighs, one after the We don't wither. other, enough air to move small airI thought so too. ships. She kissed me out of depresWe share a shudder; it moved across sion, I kissed her into reality. You wouldn't have let me go.
both our bodies simultaneously.
The love between us wasn't enough, we needed something to bite. Some tangible. In the kiosk, we bought two apples, and sat with each other and watched the sun set.
I remember how I had calmed her down, how she said, I'll replace it, I'll replace it. She laughed, so loudly, that for a moment I though the china cup would fall back into one piece When the sun had risen again, I was on its own. in my apartment. She was not beside She said, sitting down. I'll replace it me, she had left without so much as all. a whisper, so much as a little sigh. I don't want a cheap replacement, I I look at her in the present, all flesh am not settling for a consolation and bones. She has withered too. You left without a word, I say. prize I don't think you understand, I'll get
PHOTO BY STELIOS BAKLAVAS AS PART OF THE EXHIBITION “SWIRL BODY THROUGH THE DREAM - NUDE I”
SEMITRANSPARENT
CURATORS: JESSICA DYKINS & LUIS MIGUEL MUNOZ LAYOUT ARTIST: JESSICA DYKINS
PHOTO BY STELIOS BAKLAVAS AS PART OF THE EXHIBITION “SWIRL BODY THROUGH THE DREAM - NUDE I”
I could try and slip away from this multidimensional trance, my heart leaps and jumps like years and teeth, as we begin to understand reality, true horror; and discard it. Vertigo begins to seep in in every bone of ours, and we no longer have to take calcium supplements. Our bodies become oxen trudging through the gross mud of death, until we finally end up in heaven. Although groggy and dirty we are still welcomed by harps, and all colours seem white to us. Even red, the red that once flowed out of our bodies until we clutched our ovaries for mercy, now remind us of birth. Wow, freedom. Let us smile at the sun that leans forward to kiss our chapped, dry lips. Our lips begin to quiver as we get on our knees to pray to the god of mortal action. To do, to do. Our lists never end, and this is why we should always burn every blank piece of paper and working writing tool. Consciousness, true sentiency stems from words. And true sentiency means sadness. So then, where do I put these words, this drama? I'll let it outrun itself. I'll let the chasm between this universe and I, echo my own poems back to me. It'll use vocabulary I've never heard of. I'll mock it and laugh at it, until it seeps in in every bone of mine and I'll become something other than human. Something more superhuman, something more than sentient. Something like omnipotent. I'll become one with the nihilism, the void. I'll become one with the beauty and the majesty.
Let us run then, towards the heat. Let us burn then, until our naked atoms attach themselves to the universe's folic hairs. And we shall become one with god. -
Malashree Suvedi
Photography by Mark Dizon
TO U C H
GR
IN
O U
G
ND
Touching Ground explores how the soulful individual can be marginalized in trivial dynamics when they interact with the world. It is meant to look at the tedium of poorly aimed conversation and to highlight the most beautiful but unseen qualities of those around us. If our natural state is to levitate, vertigo is all the daily forces that make us feel uncomfortably human and weighted toward the heavily tread ground.
Art by Leyla Pavao Chisamore
FG
olklore // race Esford
This piece is a response to the themes of isolation and elevation, with nature as the visual cue. The landscape of a layered waterfall acts as an elevated state. This is a state I desire, but oddly fear at the same time, for the higher an individual climbs, the more isolated one becomes. “Folklore� represents the present nature of this fear, with the inclusion of flowers acting as a barrier between the fear and myself. This growth embodies a realization of this distress in the psyche, which becomes the aesthetic transcendence of elevation in conquering fears.
Rebbeca Tulk
DISSONANCE
CURATOR: SHANNON DUANE LAYOUT ARTIST: KELSEY O’TOOLE
I came across a live performance of Mattson and was immediately drawn to his lyricism. Certain words or phrases evoked pangs of nostalgia: they were reminiscent of things I said, or wish I could have said, greater than the archetypical movie, raw and real. Listening to The Balconies is a different kind of experience: an energy that is best expressed through movement and dance. I have the urge to hit replay over and over again, just so that I can memorize the lyrics to sing along next time. I want to be a fan; I want to become a part of the community of sound they have so expertly created. But what I love
Mattson was the passing of his mother when he was 16 years old. “When I knew that I wanted to write a record about my mom, I knew I didn’t want it to be a ‘downer’ record all the way through. I wanted there to be light in it. ” Mattson was also clear that he didn’t want listeners to feel as if they Mattson’s newest album Someday, were intruding on his personal life: “It’s defiThe Moon Will Be Gold, he says, is an album nitely a record about me and what hapabout hope, but it is also fundamentally pened to me, but I tried really hard not to about death. A personal obstacle faced by make it a diary.” A decision perhaps aimed most about The Balconies and Kalle Mattson is that allowing both to coexist in my life allows me such a range of sadness and excitement within a few hours, all in the isolation of my apartment.
Kalle Mattson is a Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario native who began playing guitar at the age of 14. Four years later, he started writing his own songs after moving to Ottawa. Also adapting to life in a new city were siblings Stephen and Jacquie Neville, and friend Liam Jaeger: three classically trained musicians who formed The Balconies with Stephen on
vocals and bass, Jacquie on vocals and guitar, and Liam on drums. The group moved from Ottawa to Toronto, and after initially performing as a threepiece band, they brought in drummer Steve Molella, giving them the opportunity to deviate from indie rock to a heavier rock sound with dual guitarists. This new and improved sound appears on their latest
Mattson wrote “Amelie” – the final song on his record – from the viewpoint of his mother’s boyfriend, as an attempt to “not write about ‘me’ or ‘I’ all the time.” Listeners must take into account a new point of view, which may differ significantly from that of the artist. Is it possible to create art outside of our subjectivity that can still be interpreted by an audience? Mattson says, “To write from someone else’s perspective is always interesting and hard because it adds another layer. I knew there was a song in there, it just took a lot of being unsuccessfully at writing it to finally get it right. I always write the melodies first, and if
that feels right, then I can go to my pages of lines and words and phrases; eventually it will work itself out somehow.” The Balconies’ writing process mirrors that of Mattson: “For us, words come second when we write songs. [The lyrics] are dictated by how the music feels, and making the words match that,” emphasizes Stephen Neville, “it’s not necessarily going to be earth-shattering poetry; it’s about creating a visceral experience.”
Kalle Mattson’s new album Someday, The Moon Will Be Gold is available on iTunes and
BY ANNE ROLD