Volume 16, Issue 4 March 2017
The Harmony Issue
VOLUME 16 ISSUE 4 MARCH 2017
Music is love in search of the words. ASHLEIGH ADELE BALL (1983- )
Memories in B minor
Music and Romance
A Duet of Time and Sweets
At the Hospital
Songs of Fitzgerald
Music From the Other Room
It’s Only 3
The Moon’s Orchestra
The Sky At Night, Over Rome
In the Midst of Everything
JUDY BARAZI MANREET LACHHAR REBECCA FLETCHER
NON-FICTION Folk Dances
ERIN BULL REBECCA ALLISON
DONNIQUE WILLIAMS ERYK BURNS PREYE T A
DONNÉ MARSHALL MARIAH JACKLIN JANE EDMISTON CYNTHIA YEH
ALEXANDRIA CLÉMENT MADELINE MCINNIS STEPHANIE SILVA
JOVANA DJERMANOVIC CHARIS HESKETH
KIMBERLY CHUNG EAKAMJIT GILL
EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Breanna Kettles email@example.com
Production Manager Amanda Scheifele firstname.lastname@example.org
Literary Editor Manreet Lachhar email@example.com
Art/Photography Manager Carina Rampelt firstname.lastname@example.org
Promotions Manager Erica Parnis email@example.com
Web Editor Vacant
The Harmony Issue My production team is probably sick and tired of hearing the Theme of King JJ during production. But they put up with it because we all take a turn playing the music we love. Production, like many things in life, goes more easily when people are in tune with one another. It’s frustrating when one or two people refuse or are unable to sing in key, because it makes the whole melody difficult to hold together. This production was especially special because it’s my last issue as Editor in Chief, so be sure to play us out however you see fit. Who knows what we’ll play from now on?
Intern Stephanie Silva
Art/Photography Intern Vacant firstname.lastname@example.org
Rebecca Allison, Kimberly Chung, Eliza Heeney, Charis Hesketh, Madeline McInnis, Mariah Jacklin, Amanda Scheifele, Stephanie Silva, Donnique Williams
In this issue, we wanted to explore the ways music works its way into our lives. I grew up completely enveloped in choirs and orchestras, but the same can’t be said for everyone. Some may use music as an escape, while others just look for harmony in the people around them, others can tell you what key you speak in. No matter what music and harmony are to you, I hope this finds you in balance. There are so many songs left to sing, so do your best, and find comfort in the familiar tunes. And on that note, I wish you all goodbye, dear readers.
Caroline Alpert, Judy Barazi, Erin Bull, Eryk Burns, Alexandria Clement, Jovana Djermanovic, Jane Edmiston, Rebecca Fletcher, Eakamjit Gill, Cora Vanessa Haven, Donne Marshall, Erica Parnis, Tristan Renaud, Preye TA, Adina Turkonje, Cynthia Yeh
Breanna Kettles Editor-in-Chief
ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Meghan Roach Executive Director Lakyn Barton HR Manager Taylor Berzins Finance Manager Randy Moore Advertising Manager Care Schummer Treasurer John Pehar Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Director Maddy Cutts Director Mynt Marsellus Director Matt Burley Community Director Fred Kuntz Community Director Gary Doyle
CONTACT Blueprint Magazine 75 University Ave W Waterloo ON N2L 3C5 p 519.884.0710 x3564 blueprintmagazine.ca Advertise email@example.com blueprintmagazine.ca/advertise Contribute firstname.lastname@example.org blueprintmagazine.ca/contribute
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by ADINA TURKONJE
My mother and I sat under a shade of trees at my grandmother’s nursing home in Serbia. Dementia occupied my grandmother to the fullest. She often forgot who we are and where she was but sometimes the world would stand still, with the sun peeping through the open space the trees gave. You could see planes leaving white trails behind, clouds close to touching and God looking down at us. She looked up at the sky sometimes and her murky white eyes would look happy. I think she felt harmony in everything around her. In me. In my mother. In the trees. In the sky. In the earth. And in life.
Opinions in Blueprint are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those of Blueprint’s management, Blueprint, WLUSP, or WLU. Blueprint is created using Macintosh computers running Adobe Creative Suite.
NEXT ISSUE Apocalypse On stands September 2017
88 ERIN BULL
All lined up in one long row one after another keys dusty and forgotten waiting for someone to come along and give them purpose
sdsdsdsdsdsd o Folk Dances o MADELINE MCINNIS
In grade twelve, our concert band played “Folk Dances” by Dmitri Shostakovich. When I hear that song, it’ll always bring a smile to my face. The truth was, I never liked it. It was one of the most difficult songs I ever played, and I had to work so hard to get my part right. Individually, my parts were some melody, but for the majority of the song, I was playing shot note harmonies. Practicing it was a shot in the dark to say the least. The rest of the band didn’t seem to like it much better. The parts were too complex, and we all had to work together so perfectly to make it sound like much of anything. Everyone hated it. That’s what made me decide to love it. Nothing changed in the song or my method except my attitude. I started to hear the swells and feel the excitement. I created a story in my head to fit the music. Instead of reading music off a sheet, I could hear where my part was important. I let go of the control, and I let the emotion reign. That was the best performance of my life. It was hard. We had to persevere, but it made it that much more rewarding to pull through with a successful concert at the end. No one understood why I loved it so much until the finished product. I never liked it. I just convinced myself I did until it was true. That made all the difference in the outcome.
TYPEWRITER MEMOIRS REBECCA ALLISON
A samba performed across a dancefloor of blue lines, The pen almost failing to keep pace, While the long forgotten voice Attempts to stay on key Amongst the scrawlings of ink, Too entranced in the dance to form words. A Tower of Babel separated and joined by words, Their comprehension or confusion sewn within a few lines, Thoughts to be spoken or documented in ink, New languages singing at their own pace, Understanding such intricacies of connotation and tone the key To forming and understanding our own voice. The beginning, but a thought to voice, Evolution to bring about a hatchery of new words, The clicking symphony of each key, Leading to its crescendo, its climax a bell, as lines Walk about the typewriter, one more pace Towards a future of graphite and ink. An autumn landscape composed of absence and ink, Each petal, leaf and stamen, the musings of a voice, Along a foot path, too wide to pace, With cobblestones aligned by mortar of truth and words, A destination beyond the lines Of imagination unlocked by the most ancient key. Adorned in gold trim and red satin, its walls the key, A vacant stage for an actor too ready to bleed like ink, As his monologue, a soul composed of lines, Prances across the upstage along his voice, Merely players in a tsunami of words, The audience, silent in the darkness, behind by but a pace. The written word, often perceived behind a fast worldâ€™s new pace, Yet each song, dance, painting or performance but a locksmith searching for a key To the realms and spirits contained and liberated by the power of words, Each name or story, searching for atonement in the solace of ink, The whistle of a dove, the rumbling thunder of the heart, the whispering voice, Found on pages, branded into the soul and along the warmth of smile lines. Pace by pace, lives articulated and silenced in ink, Key to worlds and thoughts to voice, Words defined and immortalized in lines.
Music & Romance DONNIQUE WILLIAMS
Our eyes met. The notes rang. The smiles were mutual and my butterflies fluttered. But one heart beat to a different rhythm and that’s why I’m ambivalent now. Because I faked the symphony, but didn’t hear the song.
At The Hospital
the hospital at the hospital the Ottawa General Hospital waiting in the chapel the hospital chapel waiting for my mother having cataracts removed four Muslims walked in four Muslims for prayer salem aleikoum, I said gesture of hospitality aleikoumu salem, one replied as they turned towards Qiblah as I turned away to give them some privacy and flipped through pages of a Buddhist text left there in the chapel a Christian chapel when one tapped me on the shoulder and asked would you like to pray with us? how could I say no to that kind of medicine that kind of healing? so together we prayed we prayed together the five of us in the hospital chapel of the hospital the Ottawa General
or world the world is a hospital the world waiting for new eyes
12 AMANDA SCHEIFELE
Songs of Fitzgerald PREYE T A
As a little girl, “love” was almost a dirty word It wasn’t presented as a possibility So, I fell for music instead And though I mildly deviated from the mainstream, I was sufficiently synchronized so it seldom showed I wasn’t sure I would ever feel anything Me: a conscientious, repetitive android, The kid who danced great but couldn’t sing Got good grades but couldn’t feel a thing I found balance in the beauty That lives in music and poetry But recently, a boy rattled my brain And suddenly familiar songs had sweet murmurs I never noticed before For the first time in years I had feelings It was like Pinocchio had finally become a real girl My robot thoughts and wonted workdays were Now pervaded by how wide his eyes were when he smiled, How wonderful his voice was, How when he saw me, my skin buzzed And even though I smiled back He didn’t fall off his feet like I had, But at least he took the numbness away. I had him under my skin so I knew that There was space for a son who didn’t grow inside me, To coexist within even though it cost me balance. So, while these boots are walking away, They strut with sprightliness Knowing that I have the capacity to catch Someone who will feel the songs of Fitzgerald as I do, Someone who will be shattered when I smile too. And join me in making our delight the duet we dance to
Music From the Other Room ELIZA HEENEY
My feet hum In sweet harmony With the wafting scent of the Music from the Other Room Playing through the walls, I can hear the soft notes Like the train of a wedding gown And a bright bouquet Perfect fifths and minor thirds Coming up from below, Leading my legs over the unseen feet of the Invisible corps I am spinning And slipping On the shining stones of melodic runs. Each one drops into the water like a small stone And the subtle sound waves curl over my listening toes It grows louder and rounder and fuller Until it rings out, Dissipating into the air like a Summer steam And I am left turning on the hardwood Now without purpose
Humans have been around for 6 million years All extinct except for us in the last 200 thousand years That’s only 3 percent For 200 thousand years we’ve been Sapiens And we’ve only documented 6 thousand years That’s only 3 percent Y2K all 6 billion of us were there 70 years before there was only 2 billion Just multiply by 3 Time is just relative, something I simply cannot grasp I try to take in the last 1,000 years But I’m simply 3 years away from that 3 percent Doesn’t it make you wonder, what ignorance we uphold? The loud minds of 7 billion Our lack of humbleness The pride of one that can only gather 3% of knowledge That limited concept of who we are Only able to gather fragments of information for less than 130 years All we know is we are here now The future has an untimely death The past just the same Infinite time that simply faded away The truth is I might pass by 0.3 percent of all of you But it does not change my only relation to you Time
It’s Only 3 DONNÉ MARSHALL
The Melody MARIAH JACKLIN
The melody played, soft and peaceful. Like a symphony from Beethoven. The instruments strung in perfect balance while notes played as one. It seemed to be as masterpiece like no other. But then the melody changed. It became dark and gloomy. And soon, it began to fall apart. The instruments no longer strung together, the notes played in separate keys. It needed to be rewritten. With time and effort, practice and hard work, the melody began to find a voice once more. Louder than before the instruments rang to a new tune bold and beautiful. It captured the world.
17 MADELINE MCINNIS
The Moonâ€™s Orchestra JANE EDMISTON
There is a rhythm of the night It haunts the shadows It dances amongst moonbeams It wakens dreams Enlightens the forgotten A tune so often ignored A trickling sound entrances those In moonlight's grasp The drumbeat Raindrops on the empty street The woodwinds The whistle of the breeze The trumpeting lonely footsteps Of a weary soul Long ensconced in dreams And matters ethereal A whisper breaks As the dawn silences the moon's orchestra Till the darkness begins its next verse
FIGURE 8 JUDY BARAZI
I. The Day the Music Died You’re so vain, you know that? You’re so vain you probably think I’m writing this about you. You’re wrong. I actually haven’t been able to write anything about you. I am used to writing songs, it’s the only way I am able to get my feelings out, The only way I keep my balance. But you were the song I could never write. You made me lose my balance, I understood that part. But why did you have to ruin my favorite songs? You were there in every chorus, in every verse. The only way I could stop thinking about it is if I wrote about it But suddenly I could not make words rhyme. I could not write songs, I could not write one single sentence. You took away all the melodies, all the harmony. You killed the music in me The day you came was the day the music died.
II. Rebirth It was a long time coming, 2 years in fact. But I was finally able to write songs about everything. It was a cold winter day, and as usual I thought about the winter that we spent together. I made my brain turn away from the idea of you and then I heard something I haven’t heard in a while. I heard music. I heard lyrics. I wrote about that pink rose you gave me and how I dried it in a book and put it on a page of a chapter that was called “Just the Beginning.” It was funny how I was putting a dead flower next to a chapter that had “beginning” in its title. I threw the rose in the trash after I was done with the song. I wrote about the purple necklace you gave me for my birthday, it was the most beautiful shade of purple that I had ever seen, a perfect combination of red and blue. I wore that necklace everywhere. That did not stop me from taking it off my neck and throwing it away as well. I even wrote about the horrible times, and the good ones as well. Usually, they would both give me a lump in my throat, this time they didn’t. In fact, my vocal strings were singing all those different notes, singing words in perfect and complete harmony. I felt alive, reborn, like a phoenix. I felt perfect balance.
APOCALYPSE KEY WORDS: SUBLIME DREAM END DOOM DYSTOPIC DEATH
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( In the storm she felt whole. With the rain she became one. Under the umbrella a safe house to her misery no more she poured her heart. )
The pitter-patt of the rain beats in time to the thick timbre of the thunder as it echoes endlessly miles and miles. Overhead the maestro lifts his wand; the leaden clouds motif and the drone of the rainstick prolonged. Drops of diamonds from the celestial skies of Heaven briskly dance the dance of a pluviophile.
( Rain like traces of tears soundlessly seep into the earth unnoticed. In the storm she felt whole. With the rain she became one. )
Pluviophileâ€™s Dance CYNTHIA YEH
The Sky At Night, Over Rome
There is not enough wine in the world to make you tell the truth but the sea could have me forgive anything: (lighthouse rounds, blocked suddenly for fog) It is one cold evening (stars, stars) I am not a saint, but I am one of these – merciless, embittered, lying in the Catacombs; here, there: Christians who left nothing, and annoyed Christ With ceaseless “good night, good riddance” – what is that? Se non l’amore, allora, che cosa? (If it’s not love, then what?) I want to go somewhere I need not wear shoes, but I hate being treated as a guest. I hate being told not to make a mess. I’ve stepped into a black hole – or else exited chrysalis. Exited eternity. How like me to do this. How like me to look into the ocean and see only the lighthouse, round and round; the sliver of the moon, coming and going, coming and going, merciless, embittered (stars, stars) How like me to reach toward the Magdalena, her tears translucent, and see only the pallor of my own arm. I plead often with fate to soften, to touch me gently, but she refuses. She is not afraid of sharks, and she does not feel the cold. You’ll drown me if you keep that up, your hands on my neck, and why wouldn’t you? Is it so important? Won’t you wear a scarf? Snakes live here and they want to show the world their teeth. Snakes live here and they want to put my shame on a stick. There are things I want to whisper; there are things I won’t say at all. Not even faintly – will you drive yourself home? Is it so important?
Se non l’amore, allora, che cosa?
It must be the hottest, driest desert. We don’t have to speak it, but don’t pretend you don’t know. The door is not shut, but surely not wide enough for the snakes to slither in. But enter they will. Now, pick up your glass; let’s try again. Won’t you wear a scarf?
Perfect Fit MADELINE MCINNIS Hands entwined. Sizes make it hard to hold. I think I squeeze too much, Her arms too small to swing. Hands entwined. Still despite, I feel at home. Together, so in love. So complimentary. Hands entwined. Sizes make it hard to hold, But her smile is so bright. We are the perfect fit.
Peace/Pieces MANREET LACHHAR
There is always something new for you to look at. There is the couple that comes in every Tuesday and sits at the table in the back corner. It’s the one relatively hidden from the rest of the shop, but you see it perfectly from your spot behind the counter. They always walk in with one of them holding sheet music. He always order the same thing – a large coffee with two milks and one sugar – while she gets creative and orders something new every time. When they sit down, they take a few sips of their own drinks and then of each other’s. They speak in half-sentences, the one picking up where the other left off. There is always, always laughter, sprinkled throughout their brokenbut-not-broken conversations. But it is not just the sound of the laughter that makes it memorable – it is the sight of it. It manifests in different ways, but you know the signs. Crinkled eyes, smiles trying to be concealed but failing. The joy that is alights in every part of their bodies without really even trying to. You think that might be more beautiful than the music they work on. One day, there are three girls who sit at the front of the shop. They are not loud, but they clearly enjoy each other’s company. One gets a red velvet cupcake, one orders a latte, and the last buys the chocolate loaf and some milk. The one with the loaf drops her sweater and curses, making the others laugh. Latte girl responds in kind, cursing her back good-naturedly. Red-velvet-cupcake laughs harder, and then gets a mischievous look in her eyes. She says something you can’t hear, but causes the others to go into quiet hysterics. They talk for hours and hours, leaving just before closing, and that’s only because you told them that it was fifteen minutes until you did. Otherwise, you’re sure they would’ve talked through the night, just in that spot. There’s something warm about them as they talk, something gentle and kind. In their light moments there are giggles that brighten up that dark storefront. In their more serious moments, they hold each other’s hands. Their whispered words are inaudible but you can feel their tenderness, even from the distance, and it makes you calmer. After that they, they come in every other Thursday. They add to your tapestry and you’re glad of it.
The boy who sits at the table with an outlet always orders the sweetest drink on the menu. His laptop is always open and papers are scattered all over the table. You guess it’s a good thing that no one joins him, because they would have no space to do anything. He always has feet up on the opposite chair. You’ve tried to change that one because it’s broken, but no one uses it but him and he refuses to let it go. His headphones are always in his ears and whenever he’s not writing one of his endless notes, he is drumming with his pencil. He always looks tired and a little sad. He is not peaceful, but strangely, somehow, he is. He always smiles when you hand him his drink and gives you a hearty “thank you,” despite the muted light in his eyes. When he reaches a lyric he particularly likes, his pencil-drumming intensifies and he mouths the words distractedly but forcefully. He sometimes falls asleep at the table, but doesn’t cause any sort of real trouble. You realize it’s hard for him, but he’s trying. You’re glad he’s trying. You always have questions. There is always some indie rock track playing in the background. You wonder if that’s what the couple composes. Do they write love songs? Ballads about heartbreak? Jazz music? Do they write about each other, or about other people? Is it as striking as they are? The girls add people to their group, and also lose them. Sometimes even one of the original three is absent. Is it a scheduling thing? Or are some of them not welcome? What lets them bring in other people? Are they going to stay together? Or is everything about them an ever-rotating cycle? The boy bangs his foot on the table again. Does he do it when he seems to get an idea? Does it happen when he understands a concept he’s been struggling with? Or is a moment of frustration, a slight reprieve from it? Is he even a student? If not, what is the cause of his well of constant muted despair? You may not have the answers, but all these moments weave together and combine to make sweet melodies of a forever-ongoing picture. These are all the little pieces that make up your days, and you cherish them.
Anxiety Tick, tick, tick the metronome counts down and thoughts tickle tap on the back of your mind. A constant worry your finger will slip your notes will come out flat.
You live lines without rest fingers striking keys building to crescendo a rapid rhythm played with tired hands and tired minds that canâ€™t escape the tick tick tick. At softer times, when rhythm slows, the harmony deceivesâ€” the finger slips the thoughts still tap staccato raps on tired minds Tick, tick, tick
Miserable Nights JOVANA DJERMANOVIC Must I always be in agony? Must I never see the light? Must I constantly be in pieces With you never in my sight? Must I seldom be in harmony? Must I never feel quite right? Must I always get these strange ideas When your eyes are burning bright? May you never endure this insanity. May you eternally be the flame I ignite. May you only remain in the creases Of my darkest and most miserable nights.
31 31 ADINA TURKONJE
In the Midst of Everything CHARIS HESKETH
What is peace? What is harmony? It is not what I see in today’s society We have leaders building walls between nations Telling women how their bodies should be operated People banning one another because of religion Saying people can’t use a certain bathrooms All in the name of “protection” There is no balance between good and evil Or sad and gleeful That coexistence is a dream still in the making That people are still begging Begging for the right to be equal While others see their begging as an upheaval There are people trying to tell their version of my story And still when they get it wrong they are showered with glory Though, I sit here with hope in my heart and a fire in my soul That this story of the world will not be told As a tale where people cry and hate But love and appreciate The fight is not done yet And all I’m doing is taking one step I pray the same prayer my ancestors had for me That one day we will live in peace and harmony
Memories in B minor REBECCA FLETCHER
There is music I’ve left behind. I hear it in the rigid ebony and ivory my fingers have forgotten how to play. If I press one, the sound is wrong – distant and futile. I miss this music, but I have no wish to return to metronome-ruled hours of fumbled scales and hands that fall out of rhythm with one another. That little girl is tired of following rules. She wants to move, to pick up her music and fly far away.
There is music I’ve left behind. I hear it in the trembling solo of La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin my hands could never manage. These stiff joints love to dance across the strings in a reel, not sing in a melancholic ballad. They never learned to mourn. I hear that little girl’s music in the innocence of an open E string. She wants her music to resound, but hasn’t found the will to try yet.
There is music I’ve left behind. It’s found in church basements, backstage corners, and empty bus stops. I hear it in the airy hiss of an unsupported voice that really should know better. It carries traces and echoes that one day may form the harmonies and countermelodies of the symphony in my mind. I can return to that girl, and carry her music forward. Because it still rests within me.
There is music I’ve yet to find.
Play on until I do.
The Resolution KIMBERLY CHUNG
I saw them gather in the center of the city. Coming together in sorrow, Suffocating the city with countless tears and helpless prayer. Their tormented cries caught the attention of those passing by, And reached homes of families Grateful for not losing each other. My God, why are there people suffering because they believe in you? Suddenly I saw them gather in hope, When love became the decisive resolution. It was said generously to treat the fragmented souls. It was shown profoundly when the parents embraced their children. They emerged from the chaos into healing, Like vast flowers growing gracefully. In harmony, their love flourished the city, Strengthening its compassionate roots, Affecting those passing by to comfort the afflicted, And diminishing the overwhelming hate That almost tore them apart. My God, why are there people suffering because they believe in you? Because those who caused the suffering are unwilling to forgive, unwilling to love.
A Duet of Time and Sweets AMANDA SCHEIFELE
The Time Keeperâ€™s daughter has a sweet tooth and the Time Keeper hates black licorice. Her dress is a bowlful of candies, the lollipops tinkle brightly. Feel the sour candy sand, smell the grape juice breath, taste the chocolate syrup lips, and hear the peanut brittle shoes. The cotton candy hugs her cheek and whispers in sticky pink breath as it curves to her jawline. The Time Keeper hates black licorice â€“ Did you know, if you eat too many dark jujubes, the clock might tick four times less? Her dress begins to melt so she lets it drip off her shoulders in a stringy trail. She will not care and she will not notice the arms that follow her, fingering the thick syrup. As the last drop falls from her Crayola peach hip, she finally looks around and twirls higher and higher until she is tangled and hidden in the glass that covers faces and the hands that tick and the Time Keeper chuckles. The daughter of Time was made of numbers and gears. But she always wore sweets.
Hiphop EAKAMJIT GILL
It was more than just rapping It was the voice of the streets, Allowed those that came from nothing To stand on their feet, Used to get all the heads bopping To your unique beats, But now your quality is dropping, Soon you’ll be six feet deep. You spoke of crime, poverty And racial profiling, Now it’s all me me me And everybody’s lying, They’re all a bunch of druggies Promoting violence, Where there was once positivity Has been replaced by silence. Rap has an essence Of rhythmic creativity, A simple message, Displayed so vividly, Your mind is vessel And within it is poetry, Heart makes it special Not its value in money. It brings me to tears When I hear kids say, Pac was not the greatest MC to ever slay, A mic with his tight rhymes And words that to this day, Bring hope in hard times Hip-hop is here to stay.
39 CARINA RAMPELT