Incite Magazine - September 2014

INCITE MAGAZINE

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1 ▪ SEPTEMBER 2014

STEPS

04 05 06 07 08 09

TIPS FOR A HEALTHY(ISH) SCHOOL YEAR Jaslyn English GETTING TO “HAPPILY EVER AFTER” Suzy Flader

CONCRETE POETRY Shruti Ramesh

COLONIALISM IN HIGHER EDUCATION Sally F. Musa

AVOIDING ADDICTION Jesse Wright

SALLY Rebecca Chang

10 11 12 13 14 15

ART: THE WANDERER Sabnam Mahmuda

A BEGINNER’S JOURNEY Victoria Haykin

HACKING LIFEHACKER Julie-Anne Mendoza

ART: SALT + TIMELINE Shreya Yugendranag

ART: WOLF FOOTPRINTS Raluca Topliceanu

THE USUAL STEPS Mary Kate MacDonald

EXECUTIVE EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Sam Godfrey Avery Lam CREATIVE DIRECTOR Sarah Mae Conrad CONTENT EDITORS Stephen Clare Devra Charney Jaslyn English Kayla Esser Julie-Anne Mendoza Imaiya Ravichandran Louell Taye ART EDITORS Lauren Gorfinkel Jason Lau Angela Ma Sabnam Mahmuda Raluca Topliceanu

CONTRIBUTORS Véronique Giguère, Lauren Gorfinkel, Avery Lam, Jason Lau, Sarah Mae Conrad, Sabnam Mahmuda, Raluca Topliceanu, Elaine Westenhoefer, Shreya Yugendranag

WRITERS Rebecca Chang, Stephen Clare, Sarah Mae Conrad, Jaslyn English, Suzy Flader, Aaron Grierson, Victoria Haykin, Sebastian Johnston-Lindsay, Jason Lau, Mary Kate MacDonald, Julie-Anne Mendoza, Sally F. Musa, Sarah O’Connor, Shruti Ramesh, Mackenzie Richardson, Kari Teicher, Raluca Topliceanu, Jesse Wright

LAYOUT Sarah Mae Conrad, Lauren Gorfinkel, Avery Lam, Jason Lau, Raluca Topliceanu, Elaine Westenhoefer

ARTWORK Kandice Buryta, Stephen Clare, Kate Dingwall, Cassandra Ferguson,

COVERS/TABLE OF CONTENTS Jason Lau

16 18 20 21 22 23

IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO Mackenzie Richardson & Julie-Anne Mendoza THE LAST TIME I HEARD YOUR VOICE Raluca Topliceanu

ANGRY HOUSEWIFE + KEITH Kari Teicher

ENCYCLOPAEDIA GALACTICA HOMINIS Aaron Grierson ART: WALKING DOWN A SHELL Raluca Topliceanu

TANGLED VERSES Sebastian Johnston-Lindsay

24 26 27 28 30 31

YOUR LIFE’S HIKE Jason Lau

ART: AWAY Kandice Buryta

THE IMPORTANCE OF IMPERMANENCE Sarah Mae Conrad

STORY OF MY LIFE Stephen Clare

PINKY SWEAR Sarah O’Connor

ART: UNTITLED Cassandra Ferguson

I

ncite Magazine is McMaster University’s student-run monthly publication with a wide range of content, from essay and research pieces to fiction and poetry. Every aspect of Incite’s production is carried out by student volunteers, from content to design to photography to layout. We invite anyone interested in writing or graphics to come to our planning meetings, where we will brainstorm article ideas together and you can sign up to contribute. All skill levels are welcome! We work to foster close relationships between our contributors and editors. This allows new contributors to collaborate with experienced writers to develop their skills in a friendly and positive environment. Email us at incite@mcmaster.ca to get involved.  issuu.com/incite-magazine facebook.com/incitemagazine @incitemagazine

TIPS FOR A HEALTHY(ISH) SCHOOL YEAR ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD

I

find that a new school year has an air akin to that of a January 1st; besides the similarity in hangovers and drunk people cheering, the first week of school gives off the powerful ‘you-can-do-anything’ vibe from which stems the best, and worst, of new year’s resolutions. Achieving better grades, meeting new people, and living a healthier lifestyle are all on my mind when September rolls around. Perhaps it is the intoxicating smell of Staples that does it, but attaining these goals seems inevitable through my robust, though possibly naïve, enthusiasm.

Healthy living seems to get placed on the back burner when the school mill starts turning again. With my nose to the grindstone, making good choices for my mental and physical well-being is difficult. On that note, the following is a healthy list of helpful ideas, nuanced by what I like to think is sage advice. Then again, it may all be crap, but at least it’ll get you thinking.

1. What to buy and where to buy it Produce can get expensive, but not if you know where to go. Lucky for us, just a short jaunt away from campus is Fiddes Wholesale Produce. Located a mere five-minute walk from Fortinos in a large warehouse, this place is a little slice of health nut heaven. Shipments come in on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and bring everything your little fruit-and-veg-loving heart could desire. From leafy greens like kale (the first and last time I’ll mention this health snob safe word, promise), to fruits, berries, spices, and almost everything in between, Fiddes has it all. Best part: I’ve never spent over 15 dollars for a cart packed with produce, including ever-expensive berries.

It is seriously cheap, and definitely worth a gander.

Our very own McMaster also provides several grocery services, including a foodbox service, where local produce is delivered to campus once a week. Located in our greenhouse is an herb garden where students can grab a handful of basil or a pinch of rosemary in exchange for a smile and a thank you. Student Services also provide shuttles to Fortinos, and Metro offers ten percent off to students on Tuesdays.

And there’s the Hamilton Farmer’s Market four days a week: Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Open early and until 6pm, it’s just a short bus ride downtown.

Easy to find fresh, cheap, local produce (as 4

Jaslyn English

well as delicious baked goods).

Since you now have cheap ways to get the food, make a list of healthy snacks, meals, and treats to grab on the go. For ideas, do what the good do when the good get lazy and Google it. Luckily for us, there are hundreds of bloggers out there who have already done everything you have ever thought of doing, and on top of that, have already written a how-to. Try www.realliferealityblog.com, for instance.

2. Exercise The big X. I could prattle on and on about the benefits of exercise; how it releases endorphins that make you happy, keeps your energy levels up, and burns calories from late night Pink’s splurges; but I think all of us have read enough peppy health magazines to get the picture. Plus, everything I regurgitate here would have already been read from those same health freaks enthusiasts, so I’ll just save the page space.

Need something interesting to keep you going? Hamilton is the waterfall capital of the world, and there are tons of hikes to try. Just explore something, anything, in this big city of ours, and walk there to do it. The rail trail, for instance, extends throughout Hamilton and beyond, giving you a walking tour of the city you’re calling home. Or head out towards the residences and take a walk (or run if you’re feeling ambitious) around Cootes. Allure Fitness in Westdale offers exercise classes like pole dancing, and the Pulse offers fitness classes like pilates and ballet, as well as intramurals. Grab some friends, sign up, and spend a semester getting hit in the face by dodgeballs. Now, doesn’t that sound fun?

3. Eating out Since you’re saving all your money by shopping at Fiddes, you might as well spend a little when going out with your friends for a bite to eat. Though I love Pink’s as much as the next person, expanding your culinary horizons can introduce you to healthy alternative choices. Quinoa salad at My Dog Joe or sandwiches at Brown Dog Coffee Shoppe can open up your taste buds without taking too much away from your pocket. Try sushi out at Kasa Sushi, or Bridges for some vegetarian cuisine. Be careful, however – not all vegetarian foods are healthy ones. Anything deep fried, for instance, can usually translate

Plan out some drunk food to come home to, it’s a lot harder to eat two boxes of half cooked Kraft Dinner if you don’t have any in the house. to ‘artery clogger’.

For healthy eating on campus, try a wrap at Williams, or make your own sandwich at La Piazza. Booster Juice may seem like a pricey option, but if you throw in some protein powder, that will see you through your afternoon study sessions until you’re ready to head home.

4. Recipes for eating in and going out Though now a cliché of our generation, Pinterest can be a useful resource for finding healthy recipes and more ideas. Be creative and keep it interesting. Being healthy doesn’t mean green salad 24/7 and drinking water until you’re full. Try a southwestern black bean quinoa salad or look up some of your own on women’s and men’s health websites. For study snacks, try the quinoa salad mentioned above or head to Bulk Barn and make your own trail mix.

Before you go out, look up the calorie content of your favourite drink. I know this is depressing, and we tend to have a laissez-faire attitude when it comes to frosh week, so here are a couple tips you can try and follow. Clear liquors are typically better for you; try white wine or ciders, and add some fruit if you want to spice it up (cut up strawberries in Somersby are particularly tasty!). Plan out some drunk food to come home to, it’s a lot harder to eat two boxes of half cooked Kraft Dinner if you don’t have any in the house. Grab a pita at Pita Pit (they’re open late!) instead of a hamburger, or have tortillas and hummus waiting instead of a couple bags of potato chips.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

GETTING TO “HAPPILY EVER AFTER” Suzy Flader

O

nce upon a time, three years ago to be exact, there lived a high-school girl in a far off city called Vancouver.

She studied hard, volunteered, and was a member of every school club. What was it for, you ask? Well, this girl, called Suzy, had a dream of becoming a doctor. Why a doctor? Because everyone knows that medicine is the only acceptable field for a successful student to practice in. So Suzy could not have been happier when she was accepted into the Arts & Science Program at McMaster, because she would be able to study the liberal arts subjects that she loved, and would also be able to fulfill the requirements needed to get into medical school. Plus, everyone knows that any successful high school student should be enrolled in some sort of science program at a prestigious university. Suzy was sure that she would avoid having to take over the family umbrella business, and would be able to pave her own individual career path. Summer wrapped up, and with that Suzy said goodbye to Vancouver and hello to Hamilton.

Ah, September of first year. Everything felt so new and exciting. Sure, Suzy was more challenged here than in high school, but she was confident that getting a high average would not be that big of a deal.

After all, most of the stuff being tested was review from last year. Then October came around, and with it arrived midterms. Okay, this whole university thing was becoming a little more intimidating. Before she knew it, her calendar page was flipped to November.

“Help, I’m drowning in all of this work,” cried Suzy from beneath her mountain of overdue books, empty coffee cups, and her whirring laptop. But things turned out alright, and Suzy finished her first term in an acceptable manner.

In second term, shit got real. Chemistry and calculus stopped being a review, and Suzy could not keep up in the same way she was able to a few months ago. Her grades and sanity were slipping simultaneously. At this rate, she would never become a doctor.

She would be forced to become a couponer, or a telemarketer, or worse yet: an umbrella maker! “Okay,” thought Suzy, “if I’m going to get into med school, I have to do organic chemistry over the summer.”

And that she did. Suzy gave up spending the summer with her family and friends in Vancouver, and instead memorized chemical reactions and turned white powders into other white powders. Sound fun? It wasn’t VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD

(not for her, at least). As it turns out, Suzy did not really enjoy any of her science courses.

But they were leading her towards a successful career, right? Her arts courses made her happy, but who gave a shit about that?

If she did not become a doctor, she would never have a good life, and so the struggle with the sciences had to be worth it!

“Hold on,” thought Suzy, “I think I may have been misled.” She had passed orgo.

Passed being the operative word. Sure, lots of successful doctors claim that they also found this course extremely difficult, but it was not just the course that was making Suzy uncomfortable with her strict mindset.

She began to think about her post-secondary experience so far, and about the things she would need to do in order to get into med school. Did she want to take biochemistry? No. Did she want to write the MCAT? No. Did she want to dissect bodies? No. Did she want to be sleep deprived for the rest of her life? No. Was she interested in scientific research? Not really. Was she just being lazy? NO! Was there a career out there much better suited to her needs that would also meet her acceptability criteria? MOST DEFINITELY YES! “I think I’ve just had an epiphany,” remarked Suzy, “and it’s going to make my university experience much more enjoyable and beneficial!”

Okay, so I am actually the Suzy described in the story above (shocking, I know).

I guess you might be wondering, how do I feel almost a year after making the decision that med school really isn’t for me? Well, I must say that I have not been this happy about my educational decisions for a while (last time being when I accepted my offer into Artsci), I can finally say that I am doing what I love, and that I am working towards a successful career that I will also enjoy seeing through. I do not regret taking all the science electives that I did, as I take pride in being a well-rounded student. However, I will be hanging up my lab coat for a while.

Fables often end with some sort of moral. Mine goes as follows: I realize that it is easy to fall into the ‘there is only one career’ trap. External influences can be hard to ignore, but it should ultimately be you that controls your life. If a decision feels wrong, it may truly be wrong. Always keep analyzing your situation and do not be afraid of change!

Oh, how I love a happy ending!

Lots of love, Suzy  5

– Shruti Ramesh

I did not know That giving shoes as a gift Meant the wishing of rough roads And uneven steps ahead Wishing the receiver to leave This I did not know But when I found out I left

CHINA

FRANCE French monarchs in Italian heels The noble shoe of choice Few things deemed less bourgeois (at the time) Than recreational discomfort In exchange for height And an image of opulence But political upheaval Expensive wars, dry harvests Even the noble start to avoid this image With the bourgeoisie rising Heels became shorter By the French Revolution’s end They hardly wore heels at all

Master Jinshen walks barefoot Twelve miles every day To people who’d gawk and scoff, he’d say Be careful Shoes are but one facet A part of material life And while they have their place This urge must be contained Properly maintained For when our lives are lived for material gains The life of our Mother [Nature]

THAILAND

wanes

UNITED STATES

JAPAN

Japanese rooftops The crowning glory of every home Heavy tiles into curved eaves Figured carvings embedded with ease Fluid design in heavy mass Constructions possessing the power To turn humble homes into castles divine Shoes are not worn inside They are left by the entryway Toes facing the door Replaced with uwabaki [slippers] A mark of leaving the public Entering a private realm Transcending

No Shoes.

No Service.

MAPS COURTESY OF ADDICTED04 (WIKIMEDIA) 6

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY RALUCA TOPLICEANU

COLONIALISM IN HIGHER EDUCATION Sally F. Musa

“[C

olonialism] turns to the past of the oppressed people, and distorts, disfigures, and destroys it. This work of devaluing pre-colonial history takes on a dialectical significance today.”

These words, written half a century ago by philosopher Frantz Fanon, are still relevant today. Colonialism is the vestige of European imperialism that imposes unbalanced power structures that favour colonists over other groups. As university students, our most common and intimate relationship with colonization is through our education.

University education, as well as ideas of what constitutes higher education, has become a gear in the machinations of colonial practices.

We regularly witness colonialism in the content of our courses, in the manner and setting in which courses are taught. At McMaster, a quick glance at the undergraduate calendar for programs like Art History, English or Sociology shows that only about 25% of those courses are concerned with non-European subjects. General or introductory courses are almost completely European in subject-matter. Areas of study including the Humanities, Social Sciences and Business are used to critically examine the human condition. Through the omission of non-European groups, realities of racialized and marginalized groups have been shelved. To decolonize education would be to redefine what it means to be a human.

The manner of discussion surrounding non-European people, ideas and history is problematic. The ‘objective’ discourse of these groups of people can reduce those very people to objects. Education systems place a specific group as dominant and norVOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

mative, and all other groups become just that – the ‘other’.

The setting in most university classes can arguably reaffirm the colonial foundations suspected of being taught. University classes are often structured to include a single teacher, with the complete lexicon of knowledge, surrounded by learners. The structure in itself reaffirms power hegemonies similar to that of a colonizing power towards a colony. The roles in the classroom are not interchangeable, and when a learner is unable to assume the role of a teacher, it reduces classroom experiences to a single narrative. This narrowed view can diminish a learner’s capacity for critical approaches to education.

The question remains: how do we decolonize education? To clarify, decolonization here does not refer to the integration of different communities, whether African, Asian, Indigenous, etc. The tolerance of colonized people within a colonial system appears as progress but is merely a step in a circular path. Rather, decolonization involves shifting from a culture of denial to the creation of space for new philosophies and systems of knowledge. This can alter cultural perception and power relations in material ways. In Canada, the call for Indigenous knowledge in education has been met with the establishment of Aboriginal Focus Schools. This school teaches skills and knowledge within the context of Aboriginal cultural values.

I’ve heard many people use the phras-

es “decolonize your mind” or “decolonize your thoughts” and although I agree with the sentiment, it is only the first step. Recognizing the structure and implications of colonization on our education is a massive hurdle, but it is not the end of the path. To once again quote Frantz Fanon, “No phraseology can be a substitute for reality.” Decolonization is not a metaphor used for social justice or awareness. It is a tangible goal.

Since colonialism is foundational in institutions of higher education, it will persist if met with indifference. Thus, decol-

To decolonize education would be to redefine what it means to be a human. onization needs to be engaged directly and consciously. To combat colonialism in higher education, the voices of all groups must be brought into the discussion of course curricula and instruction. McMaster currently has programming in Indigenous Studies, Jewish Studies, Asian Studies and most recently, African and African Diaspora Studies. Having personally witnessed the growth of the African and African Diaspora Studies Program, I have an appreciation for the deliberate establishment of cornerstone programs. These areas of study address the longstanding gaps within university programming. Educational reform can only be the result of analysis, problem solving, and discussion – so let’s continue the conversation.  7

ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL

AVOIDING ADDICTION Jesse Wright

W

eight Watchers, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Betty Ford Center, Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew: Western society has no shortage of addiction recovery programs. The real problem is the lack of preventative programs that check our addictive impulses before they get us into trouble. Instead of simply dealing with addiction when it occurs, we should focus on the deeper problem of basic social behaviour and our tendency to get hooked on substances that alter our perception of reality. Obviously the category of ‘substances’ covers a lot of ground, so let's focus on three major (not to mention legal) addictions: coffee, alcohol, and tobacco. Seven key practices of self-awareness can help us avoid addiction and save our lungs, our livers, and our bank accounts before fun becomes a frightful downfall: 1. Don’t start your day with it.

I would like to directly address the hypocrites who claim, “I’ll never do drugs!” as they sip their third double-double of the morning. In truth, caffeine is as much a drug as alcohol or tobacco, and millions of people are addicted to their morning brew. That being said, we have to understand that starting every day with a coffee (or three) conditions our bodies to beg for caffeine before we can properly function. A better idea would be to replace all those morning Timmies runs with exercise or by sleeping more the night before.

2. Avoid being alone.

Picture the classic scenario of an angel on the right shoulder and a devil on the left, but know that the angel’s voice of reason is harder to hear when we’re by ourselves.

Similarly, think of how difficult it was to do homework in high school without our moms and dads nagging us into action. Being alone makes it easier to lapse into bad habits because we have a hard time being our own voices of reason and criticism.

3. Don’t do it en masse.

Let’s call this one ‘everything in moderation’.

Drinking ten beers every night and smoking five cigarettes every hour reduces our ability to enjoy a puff during a break or a pint after work without jonesing for another dose.

Also, let’s be clear that we’re still talking about legal addictions. Certain substances like heroin and crystal methamphetamines are extremely dangerous to try even once, not to mention in moderation.

4. Avoid using it to handle stress.

We all lose loved ones, we all get bad grades, and we all deal with shit. What happens when we use substances like alcohol to deal with the tribulations of life is that we find ourselves unable to cope any other way. Like starting your days with coffee, using alcohol to survive every traumatic and troublesome event conditions your body to beg for a beer before you can move forward.

5. Budget.

Treat your coffees and cigarettes like you

would your rent or your groceries. Having a designated amount of money to spend makes wasting money on tobacco as inconceivable as missing a payment on your apartment: blow the budget and you’re dangerously close to living on the streets. It is again important to remember that we’re still on the subject of legal addictions, since budgeting something like heroin is dangerous, not to mention impossible.

6. Plan for the future.

This one falls under the category of ‘too much of a good thing’. A budget does little good if you drink seven coffees Sunday morning and spend the next six days sleeping until noon. Spread your intake over a week or a month, and adjust accordingly.

7. Don’t call it a ‘reward’.

If you come home from a day’s work and call a six-pack or a cigarette a ‘reward,’ then you get into the habit of ‘rewarding’ yourself every time you do something that should be done anyway, such as surviving a shift at work or writing a test for class.

Above all, the key to avoiding addiction is self-awareness. The problems begin when we let one cigarette become a pack a day; when we let a night of drinking become a lifetime of blurred memories; and when we let a coffee after an all-nighter become three double-doubles before noon. If we can catch ourselves before our self-awareness shrivels into denial, then we can enjoy life to the fullest without the complications of addiction. 8

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

Sally

Rebecca Chang

L

ast summer, I learned that regret is a bird. It draws the eye of even the greenest-horned ornithologists, the starry-eyed beginners with the cargo pants, the vests with pockets, the brand-new binoculars heavy around their necks. For the young ones, the sight of Regret is fresh – sharp with unfamiliarity.

They pursue it with cameras, or traps and nets for those so inclined, chasing it back to its source. Perhaps, if it can be caught, it can be vanquished. However, the intrepid explorers quickly lose sight of their quarry and find themselves in a territory they will come to know all too well. They have entered a land where the calls of the elusive bird – “I should have called him back after the concert,” and “I should have bet on the Yankees,” and

“Why did I bring a gun to the restaurant?” – echo in the emptiness. The bird is nowhere to be seen, but signs of its presence are everywhere.

More seasoned birders no longer start when the creature shows its plumage above the treeline. They have encountered it be-

her voice, calls out to me, and I run. Hands over my ears, like a child blocking out the truth, I run. I try my best not to listen. I sprint.

I soon outdistance her voice but it never brings any relief from the guilt. No matter how fast I run now, I can’t escape the fact that on May 23rd, 2013, I was not fast enough to reach her.

Standing, the top of her head didn’t even reach the top of the tire, until it started moving. I screamed, and a second later I turned away, sobbing. Dave ran over and shouted into the window in English-accented Spanish, and the van stopped. From the street, women wailed and men shouted. Together they pulled the shocked man out of the front seat, grabbing, shoving, and punching in order to get him out. Later, when we left the site of the accident, I could still hear a woman’s keening.

All that was left the following day was a small circle drawn in white chalk around a dark stain on the pavement.

Burned into my eyelids are images of the white van, her white hat, white clouds floating across the impossibly blue Peruvian sky. Ella está muerta, the police officer declared later that evening. The sun was dipping over the mountains as we walked back in silence. A new bird soared overhead.

I’ve been pursuing Regret at a dead run for a year now, and I am beginning to show signs of weariness. The vivid images that I recall so often are now beginning to fade. The voices are muted by the sounds of the forest. These quiet changes are terrifying, for time should not have the power to erase the gravity, the significance, the immense sadness of what transpired that day.

Last year, I felt that the world should have buckled and shaken everyone with its swell.

Perhaps now, I understand that ripples are temporal, extending and diminishing with time, felt most violently by those closest to the quake. Here I am, dear reader, trying to propagate the wave a little further through you. No, you were not there, but I’m telling you that her initials were B.Ch.A. She was two years old. We called her Sally.

I will never forget. And that bird, damned Regret, will never be caught. 

The bird is nowhere to be seen, but signs of its presence are everywhere. fore, and undoubtedly will again. Without haste, they trek towards where Regret was sighted until once more they are wandering in the land of whispers. By now, these veterans recognize every rock and tree, some of which seem to grow clearer with time, while others fade into the distant fog. Unlike their less experienced counterparts, hope of catching the mysterious bird no longer lights their eyes. They no longer try to tune out the voices, resigning themselves to listen to the mantras they have long since committed to memory. Feet guided by habit, they soon escape the wasteland, knowing that they will eventually return.

For me, it’s been just over a year now: a year of regular sightings, frequent forays deep into the echoes and murmurs. I am not sure if I would classify myself as an experienced bird-watcher yet, but I am certainly no longer a rookie. Sometimes, the cries of the bird are inescapable: There’s a girl on the road and you just watched her play, why did you hesitate, what would her parents say? Occasionally there is a blessed lull in the overlapping echoes, but then a young voice,

ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

9

The Wanderer

Sabnam Mahmuda

ARTWORK BY AVERY LAM

A BEGINNER’S JOURNEY Victoria Haykin

S

ome days it’s nearly impossible for me to take that first step out the door in the morning. So it might seem out of character that roughly six months ago when I should have been accepting offers of admission to prestigious PhD programs, I resolved instead to move to Europe for two years (at least).

Until last summer, when I moved out for the first time, I had always lived in the same house on the same street in a tiny suburb outside Hamilton proper. I completed my undergraduate degree at McMaster and even stayed on for my Master’s. But for some largely inexplicable reason, I always wanted to move somewhere far away from the only place I’ve ever really called home.

And I can’t even say I have a good excuse.

My immediate and extended family lives in the area, and I have a close group of friends many of whom I’ve known since childhood.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not under the illusion that my new life will be some amazing cinematic trip of self-discovery. (I really can’t stand it when people ask if my decision to move was motivated by some primal urge to go ‘find myself’.) I know it’ll be equal parts terrifying and thrilling, and that I’ll have even more of a reason to dread taking my first step out the door each day. But I also know that it’s going to be worth it.

When those closest to me first learned of my decision, they expressed a myriad of emotions. To be fair, I hadn’t really confided in many people that I was thinking of moving overseas, and whenever someone asked where I would be doing my doctorate VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

next year, I evaded the question. (N.B.: this is probably not the best way to go about planning a life-altering move.)

A lot of people were supportive. Others were upset and confused. After so many years cloistered in the ivory tower of academia, why had I decided to leave now?

How would I learn to survive in the outside world when my only potentially marketable skill involves the ability to write linguistic commentary on Greek and Latin love poetry? And obviously I use the term ‘marketable’ here loosely.

thing to which I am frightfully susceptible.

Sure I might not realize now the impact my move will have on future career prospects or personal relationships, but I know I’ll never regret this decision.

For the first time ever, I really, truly have no idea where I’ll be in the next five years or what I’ll be doing with my life. As a consummate over-planner, this is a frightening prospect. Already, I’ve begun considering viable alternatives to the PhD (think law school) in a desperate attempt to quell mounting anxieties. But I remain resolved to explore op-

Or I could lose my nerve and give in to societal and familial pressure, something to which I am frightfully susceptible.

After the initial shock and disbelief has worn off, I’m often asked: “Are you sure you really want to do this?” If I were to reply honestly, I’d probably say, “No, I’m not really sure.” I just want to throw myself out into the world without overthinking my strategy.

And I guess I woke up one day and realized I didn’t want to be a professor anymore. Or at least not right now. A shocking realization given the fact that I’ve wanted to do my PhD since I was in kindergarten. No joke.

I also feel like now is my chance. If I wait, another opportunity may never present itself. Or I could lose my nerve and give in to societal and familial pressure, some-

portunities that are, at this point, utterly and completely alien to me.

Despite all these relatively unfounded fears, facing a future unpredicted by childhood aspiration can also be exhilarating.

Slowly I’m acclimatizing myself to a life lived without routine and familiarity; a life unlimited by academic aspirations and largely unattainable personal goals. (Plus I’ll finally get to put all those high school and university language classes to good use.) And if a few years down the road I feel drawn to academia once again, I can re-enter the tower knowing that, at least for a little while, I took the time to heed the call of the unknown.  11

HACKING LIFEHACKER Julie-Anne Mendoza

W

e’ve all done it.

We’ve all come home from a long day feeling lonely, stressed, and wanting nothing more than to relax and unwind. We’ve all eased off our jeans, locked the door, and pulled out our laptops for a little bit of outside help. And in the age of the internet it’s not too hard, just a quick google and we’ve got what we need. It’s just a little bit unwinding, a little something we do for ourselves to decompress. It’s not a sin to give in to a little sensual self-indulgence. And who could blame us? In the moment it feels good, maybe even seems a little life-changing. And it’s not until later that we realize it was all pretty empty.

mistake that I’m disparaging these qualified and experienced writers for, and give you some examples of what exactly I mean by this.  Get More Sleep This one drives me nuts. Wouldn’t we all be getting more sleep if we could? Is anyone really happy to hear their alarm go off in the morning? And yet article after article has these exact words plastered in obnoxiously large letters.

I’m not arguing that we wouldn’t benefit from more sleep, but that you’re going to need to write down something other than “sleep more” in order to get it done.

I call it Bella Swan Syndrome: in trying to appeal to every single reader, these authors design advice – or in Stephanie Meyer’s case, an insipid female lead – that is too vague to really mean anything to anyone.

I’m talking about cheesy advice blogs.

They promise tips and tricks to give us more energy, boost our productivity, and strengthen our relationships. The bullet points in bold-face font give the impression that a few tweaks to our habits will change our lives for the better. And while some of these tips are useful, most are hackneyed platitudes that are going to do jack shit for your energy levels, productivity, and relationships.

You see, the problem with these sorts of blogposts is that they’re designed for a wide audience. I call it Bella Swan Syndrome: in trying to appeal to every single reader, these authors design advice – or in Stephanie Meyer’s case, an insipid female lead – that is too vague to really mean anything to anyone.

This doesn’t mean it has to be useless to you though. There is often truth behind the bold-face bullet point – you just need to add in what the author took out: you. I’m going to (hopefully) avoid making the same 12

In this case, my approach to getting more sleep was to figure out why I wasn’t already sleeping more. Falling asleep once the lights are out is my biggest problem, and a quick Google search suggested that exposure to blue light from electronic screens before bed might be the issue. Fifteen minutes later, I had downloaded a nifty app called f.lux that shifts my laptop display towards sepia tone hues after 10:00pm.

This probably isn’t the case for everyone, though. If shutting off distractions at bedtime is your issue, apps like SelfControl, which block access to a user-specified list of websites, might be useful. If you’re prone to losing track of time, a bed-time alarm on your phone might be the solution.  Communicate This one graces every single list I’ve read about anything that even remotely relates to interactions with other human beings. And in and of itself, it’s useless.

Because we all communicate, and when communication break downs do occur, the problem is usually more complex than just doing more of it.

Again, in order to make this pithy advice actually useful to you, you’re going to need to identify what exactly you need. If your group for a class project always seems disorganized, a more structured communication platform (like Trello or Asana) might be the solution. If you’re feeling like you don’t really know what’s happening in your long-distance partner’s life despite near-continuous texting, maybe the type of communication is the issue and your relationship would benefit from a Skype date or two.  Exercise We’ve all heard this. Whether we’re seeking to improve our mood, boost our energy levels, or increase our self-esteem, exercise is often touted as the answer to our problems. I don’t think that very many people would argue that exercise isn’t a good thing, it’s just that it’s pretty hard to actually get to the gym and do it.

So how do you turn a pithy phrase like “add some exercise into your daily routine” into an actual change? Figure out what works for you. I’m serious, sit down, hit up google to find a form of exercise you might like, and try it. If you hate it, try something else. What works for the author of the article may not work for you. If you find traditional exercise mind-numbing, find some alternative ones. Rollerblading to the grocery store is my current favourite.  Write a Thought-Provoking Conclusion This piece of advice often graces blog posts about writing good University-level essays. It’s also what I’m going to use to inelegantly segue into the end of this article.

What I’m getting at here is that the advice you’re reading on BuzzFeed and Lifehacker isn’t bad advice, it’s just more likely to help you if you do more than copy it down wordfor-word into your agenda. This kind of advice needs a bit of personalization to make it applicable to your life, and a bit of translation into actionable steps that you can actually implement into your life. And thus, we have reached the conclusion of yet another, cheesy advice article.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

8" Ă— 10" Ink on paper.

Timeline

24"x30" Oil pant, cloth, and salt.

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

Shreya Yugendranag

Salt

13

WOLF FOOTPRINTS

Raluca Topliceanu

14

ARTWORK BY KATE DINGWALL

THE USUAL STEPS Mary Kate MacDonald

T

here is nothing unusual about today. I wake up after hitting the snooze button three times, groggily get dressed, put my hair in a precariously messy bun, and regret not having breakfast as soon as I slam the door behind me.

It’s 6:51 as I leave my house and walk towards the bus stop. The sun has almost taken its place center stage in the sky, but not quite. The air is cold against my bare legs, second only to coffee at pulling me out of a sleepy daze.

After a couple minutes of waiting, I board the bus and take my regular seat because, after all, there is nothing unusual about today. The other passengers are all construction workers with dark tans, reflective vests, and steel-toed boots.

My muscles are losing their sluggish feel and my brain has stopped yawning when suddenly I hear the unmistakable click of a camera phone. I look up and see one of the men looking at me with a victorious grin that sends chills through my spine and makes me feel the need to hide behind the lapels of my jacket.

I have an idea why he took the picture, yet with the Internet full of porn sites that appeal to all sexual fantasies, it seems unnecessary to take advantage of unexpecting and unconsenting women, unless part of their objective is the misogynistic desire to instill fear. Maybe I am being presumptuous, but I have racked my brain and have failed to find a plausible ulterior motive for finding me worthy of a Kodak moment during my morning commute.

Surrounded by men all identical to this

one photographer, I feel helpless. Someone else must have heard and seen this interaction, yet no one moved and tried to intervene.

I think about defending myself, but from my crude estimations he is approximately 100 pounds heavier and six inches taller than me. So I just sit avoiding eye contact as my insides churn in disgust and fear. Waiting for my stop to come, I feel him scanning me up and down, never taking his eyes off me.

I want to vomit.

Finally, we reach my stop and I be-

from speaking up on my own behalf.

These blatant forms of sexual harassment are so common for countless women that they have become normalized. 87 percent of Canadian women say they have been sexually harassed. For many women, a day like the one I described is not unusual.

The objectifying nature of this behavior is rationalized by comments on the woman’s clothing and the male libido. Some people even try to turn the tables and say that catcalls are compliments. All of which are merely excuses that promote and encourage sexual-based harassment and violence.

The danger is that this behavior can escalate and lead to assault. 25 percent of Canadian women have been assaulted, and it is predicted that only six percent of attacks are reported to the police.

Furthermore, this violence is exacerbated when partnered with homophobia and transphobia. The sexual assault against these populations is rampant, yet frequently ignored and sometimes seen as acceptable or unchangeable.

I wish neither to portray all women as victims, nor all men (nor all construction workers) of actively promoting this behavior.

No single profession or gender can be given an all-encompassing label, be it positive or negative, to describe their collective behavior. Rather, I wish to shine light on the harassment and violence that is rarely seen or considered noteworthy because it is a consistent part of certain populations’ daily routines.

A walk to work should not be accompanied by sexual harassment. These days should be unusual. 

I feel him scanning me up and down, never taking his eyes off me. I want to vomit.

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

gin my walk to work. Along the way I pass through a construction site with workers all-too-similar to my bus paparazzo, except this time they have a different approach. As soon as my footsteps rustle the gravel near their work site I am bombarded by whistles and catcalls about every aspect of my body.

Nothing is unusual about today. I am outnumbered, weaker, and intimidated, so I turn up the volume on my iPod, put my head down, and try to march away as quickly as possible.

This is nothing unusual about today. In the weeks that persisted on my journey to work I heard catcalls more vulgar and starred in other photographs. No one ever said anything, and my fear continued to prevent me

15

M

y feet hurt. Not too much yet, but they hurt in a way that, in an hour, will make me wish I didn’t have feet to begin with. The pain of squeezing them into an old pair of worn down Eaton’s dress shoes was made even worse by the horrifically uncomfortable plastic chair I am sitting on. This is not how I imagined my first ballroom dance class. Then again, I didn’t really have a clear picture of what ballroom dancing would be like in the first place. Finally managing to get my feet inside the tight leather shoes, I look up at my partner sitting across from me. “Ready, Julie-Anne?” A quick nod tells me it’s time to begin.

I thought things had been hard when we were holding each other, but I was wrong.

Everything gets a lot more difficult once we start moving.

It begins badly, like a threelegged race with one person moving backwards. The one saving grace of the whole situation is my sheer inability to be wrong. You see, in ballroom dances, the man leads. The man always leads.

Any step I make, Julie-Anne has to follow, or it is her mistake. As patriarchal and chauvinistic as that may be, it is my free pass. I had never considered myself a particularly skilled dancer before, but suddenly it doesn’t matter. I just have to move, and let her follow.

Trying to keep up with the music is the next task in our Sisyphean effort to learn ballroom dancing. Our movements become a blur, our steps best guesses instead of precise placements. The sultry tango we were supposed to be performing is more of a wild calypso. Using wide smiles, we try to hide the fact that we have no idea what we’re doing. Honestly, the dance instructor doesn’t really seem to care how tumultuous our dance has become. This is our first practice.

On the drive home, I rub my sore feet through my socks. I turn to Julie-Anne and ask her how excited she is for the next lesson. Personally, I am ecstatic. These classes are going to be awesome, if a little painful. They’re worth it just to be unconditionally right for once. I could get used to this. 

Our movements become a blur, our steps best guesses instead of precise placements.

Upon entering the studio, a short, muscular, and uncomfortably attractive Cuban man greets us. Standing only 5'3", he has the presence of a 7' tall athlete, the kind of person who simply cannot be ignored. “Today is the tango,” he says, “a dance of passion and romance.”

Knowing next to nothing about either of those things, I immediately began to panic over the situation. Beginning with the basics, the instructor has the two of us practice our dance hold. A great way of getting to know someone is through dancing with them; the awkwardness of a tight dance hold is about as sexual as you can get with your clothes still on.

IT TAKES TO

TA

Mackenzie Richardson

ARTWORK BY ELAINE WESTENHOEFER 16

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

TWO NGO Julie-Anne Mendoza

M

y ballroom shoes are far from the glamorous stilettos I’m used to seeing on Dancing with the Stars. They’re the kind of shoe you’d expect a 13-year-old to be wearing – plain black satin, chunky two inch heel, bowshaped rhinestone and all.

They have an unnecessarily complicated ankle strap, and getting them on is made all the more difficult by the long practice skirt I’ve been instructed to wear. Mack is in plain black pants, a tucked in t-shirt, and regular old dress shoes, and I

can’t help but be jealous.

I’m trailing behind Mack as he walks into the studio, trying to discreetly untuck the wedgie my leotard is giving me. Our instructor is already waiting inside, all five feet three inches of him. He’s somehow intimidating anyways, and I have the distinct feeling that he could probably throw me over his shoulder without much difficulty. He’s saying something about the Tango, and all I’m thinking about is that my feet are already sore, and that I would very much prefer to be doing a nice and easy waltz. The dance hold he puts us into is uncomfortable; one of my shoulders is wrenched back, Mack has already managed to step on one of my feet, and I still haven’t managed to yank my leotard out of my butt. It’s awkward.

Before I know it I’m being taught a combination of steps and things are getting markedly worse. Handling the steps themselves isn’t too bad; it’s trying to follow

whatever wrong steps Mack is doing that makes it complicated. Because despite all the nonsense people like to say about ballroom dancing being an exercise in teamwork, that’s really not how it works. If you’re a girl, ballroom is about doing what your partner wants you to do.

If he’s doing the wrong steps, your job is to do them right along with him.

I was kind of hoping that not stepping on each other’s toes would be the main goal of our first lesson, but it turns out that doing it to music is also part of the plan.

Doing the steps quickly enough is one problem, and doing them on time with the music is a whole separate issue. Being constantly reminded that it is not my job to lead, regardless of whether or not my partner knew what he was doing is also an issue. I feel like a duck with two left feet, but our instructor looks mildly pleased, and Mack looks like the goddamned Cheshire cat. Probably because I keep being told that he’s right and I’m wrong, regardless of what the steps are supposed to be.

It seems like ages before we’re finally released, and

I was kind of hoping that not stepping on each other’s toes would be the main goal of our first lesson. my feet are throbbing. I can already feel blisters forming on my pinky toes, and all I want to do is curl up in the backseat and take a nap. Mack is practically vibrating with excitement in his seat, but the only thing I’m pleased about is finally being out of those shoes, and the prospect of changing out of this damn leotard. 

ARTWORK BY ELAINE WESTENHOEFER VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

17

THE LAST TIME I HEARD YOUR VOICE Raluca Topliceanu

“Y

our patient is in the second room down the hall, Doctor.”

“Is there anything I need to know before I go in?”

“Attempted drowning. Took three men to get the body out of the water. Something is not right with that one’s mind, that’s for sure. Also, you might want to dig up the records on Susan Leigh.”  “How are you today, Miss Leigh?”

His question echoed off the barren white walls. The lady seated behind the table appeared to fixate on a spot somewhere below his left eye, so that if it were not for her vacant expression, it would have been difficult to determine if she had acknowledged his words or not.

“Miss Leigh?”

There was a slight movement in her eyes as she caught his gaze.

“What is it, Doctor?” she asked, tilting her face. Threads of light from the window highlighted her angular jaw and high cheekbones.

Lone strands of hair fallen from her loose bun blazed gold.

“I asked, how you are today?”

A slight smile curled her lips. “Delightful, Doctor. I believe I’m cured.”

“Oh? I find that hard to believe. You’ve been refusing your medication and your face is pale.”

“The medication makes me nauseous. And how can you expect me to get any colour if you don’t let me go outside?”

“I can’t forget your last…‘incident’, if you can call it that. Imagine my surprise when one of the orderlies informed me that you had attempted to drown yourself in the lake behind the property—” She slammed her hands against the top of his desk, the vibrations running through his arms and along his vertebrae. He could not help but study her long fingers, spread wide, only inches from where his own were calmly resting, or notice her harsh breathing, or the slight crease forming from where her eyebrows pulled together.

“Attempted to drown myself?” she yelled, a snarl catching the end of her question. Her eyes glowered at him through thick lashes and strands of hair that hung over her forehead and swayed with the air flowing in and out of her mouth. “I am kept in a small room all alone, from when the sun rises to when it sets, with only the voices in my head to listen to. That day was the first time in weeks that I had been outside. I wanted to feel…”

The anger drained, as briskly as it had come, and she had a most curious look on her face, as if she had not expected such a reaction to overtake her. Her gaze shifted from his left eye to his right – as if she might see something different in each of them – as she slowly lowered herself back into the chair. “The water looked so inviting; the wind was making tiny ripples across the surface, distorting the reflections. I wondered how nice the water would feel, seeing that the sun was so warm. I didn’t consider—” “That you couldn’t swim.”

She offered a small smile. “Yes.” “Were any of the voices there at the time?”

“Other than the orderlies calling for help and yelling for me to get out of the water, I heard no—” “It was a man’s voice, wasn’t it?”

18

She tilted her head. “Pardon?”

“Just something I was looking into for my research. Can you identify the gender of the voice?”

A laugh escaped her lips. “You obviously don’t know how these things are done. You have something you want from me, and I have something I want from you. Shall we make a little trade?”

“I prefer not to be involved in these kinds of things with my patients. As your physician, I am in no position—” “But don’t you want to know? I can tell just by looking at you that you’re fascinated with the idea. Just think about it: a separate entity within you, implanting its own thoughts into your mind, its own ideology and beliefs. This being is very persuasive, and speaks more logically than any theoretician you have ever heard.” She paused. “You agree to this deal, I will tell you all you desire to know.”

He looked at her through wary eyes, but at last gave a reluctant nod. “What are your terms?”

“Treat me to a swim, Doctor?  He felt her small hand in his; leading him deeper into the water, out to the centre of the lake. The thin material of her gown flowed over his legs, caressed his forearms. Droplets of water splashed up onto his spectacles, giving him the vision of a spider with its multiple eyes. Part of him was asking himself how he could be so stupid, calling himself a fool and yelling that he should grab her and get out of the water immediately, but he had left that part back on the edge of the lake, too far away for reason to reach him. He felt oddly at peace, the excitement of whatever knowledge he might discover urging him to take one step forward, and then another.

“Do you hear the voice yet?” He could feel the water tickling his throat seductively.

“I can hear it. It sounds too far off; we need to move closer to it. Just a bit closer.” There was a subtle, sweet laugh to her voice.

A few more slow, fluid strides and he needed to hold his breath at times, flailing his legs to keep his head from being swallowed up by the water. The weight of his clothing tried to drag him down to the bottom, deeper into the cold. His extremities grew numb; his breath became forced through chattering teeth. It took a few moments to realize that her hand was no longer pressed against his.

His throat constricted, in the painful way it does when one tries to hold himself back from crying, as his mistake burned into his mind.

The thought of her still body, suspended under the water, and her lifeless eyes looking at him only drew the warmth from his body faster.

“Miss Leigh!” he called, choking as a wave of water rushed into his open mouth. The bitterness of the aquatic vegetation and traces of animal feces triggered his taste buds. He called her name until his throat burned. He drew in a deep breath and dove, seeing close to nothing in the faint moonlight that barely broke through the water’s distorted surface. After a while he became disoriented, and despite his lungs’ cry for air, continued deeper into the void.  “Sir, what is your name? Do you remember who you are?”

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

ARTWORK BY RALUCA TOPLICEANU

“Dr. William Lawrence - she’s still there, please. I can’t waste my time on this, she’s still out there.”

“Who is? Where?”

“I let go of her hand for a second, and she was gone. I called her name a thousand times but she didn’t reply—” “Who is this lady you are speaking about?”

“My patient! A Miss Susan Leigh.” “…I’m very sorry, sir, but—” “Oh God, she’s dead isn’t she? I should’ve known not to go through with her stupid deal! I knew she couldn’t swim—” “Sir, the lake was searched extensively and no body was recovered except yours—” “That can’t be, you didn’t look carefully enough. It’s a large lake; you could have easily missed her. My hands were getting numb, the water was getting in my eyes - I let go of her. I can’t believe I let go of her—” “I took the liberty of looking up the name Susan Leigh. There VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

were no records of such a woman ever visiting or living in this town, let alone being a patient of yours. And speaking of you, no medical license has ever been associated with your name.”

“That’s ridiculous! I run my practice in the big, 4-storey stone building next to that lake I was pulled out of – why are you making that face?”

“There is no building of that description near the lake, only several small homes scattered around the perimeter. I’m sorry to say, but you appear to be suffering from hallucinations that are commonly associated with mental illness. Some memories you have, some people you believe you have met, simply don’t exist. Oftentimes patients with your condition receive instructions from one of the imagined beings to conduct acts that may hurt themselves or others. The sooner you acknowledge this, the easier it will be for you to begin rehabilitation…”

The words slowly faded away. Soon the only voice he would hear would be hers.  19

 Angry Housewife Kari Teicher score the fat dry mustard stains your palms yellow yellow jaundice toes no salt no water no waste sear the flesh white dishes run red like wet paprika run thick like molasses blood knees and fingers unwashed a bed of friends, roots and starches no salt no water no waste hats and tails of string beans from the Chinese store clippings for the dog he spins over your feet, your jaundice toes scraping and slicing as he goes berries never washed no salt no water no waste dinner is raw dinner is late bleeding roast and soft turkey broccoli like butter dinner is served



 Keith Kari Teicher he walks quick bag of milk in one hand other hand swinging under the weight of his arm throwing it back not as a product of his stride but as if it was the only means of propelling him forward 

ARTWORK BY SABNAM MAHMUDA 20

ENCYCLOPAEDIA GALACTICA HOMINIS Aaron Grierson

ARTWORK BY VÉRONIQUE GIGUÈRE

T

he following is a translated and transcribed record of some of the first observations made by the Xantorians back when they first discovered humanity.

These are only fragments; however, given the language barrier and that our species communicate via different mediums, we are lucky to have come so far in such a short time.

Rotation of Xol 10,782:541 (local year 20121) Catalogue entry: System of Sol, 9 planets. Only one displays sentient life. Designation TerrariaX. Other parties have been tasked with observing the wide variety of flora and fauna on this planet. The diversity is quite uncommon amongst other planets we have discovered. We of SociaTeam39 have been tasked with one species in particular. This species considers itself the dominant force on the planet, and their constructs affirm such an assertion. Its members’ primary method of communication seems to be oral language, though they often gesture with tools. They are bipedal, and generate more waste than is natural for beings of their size. They inhabit structures and cover their bodies with many different materials. We must carefully begin observing the structure of their society.

Rotation of Xol 10,783:089 (local year 2012) Our initial notation of oral communication was somewhat misled. More often they prefer to communicate silently via handheld devices. Additionally many of their species suffer from severe ‘synthaesthesia’ or reliance on various fake applicators to their flesh, especially around their eyes, nose and mouth. This seems to stem from mating rituals, which are a vastly complicated dance with very few regular patterns. Our blending is meeting with moderate success; we may begin more specific inquiries.

Rotation of Xol 10,783:324 (local year 2013) This species, and especially its armed forces, wield weapons of various sizes, which some say are vaguely reminiscent of a phallus. Though the seed of these weapons is small, it excels in destruction of living tissues on this planet. This use of projectile

weapons at all indicates their mentality and fear regarding warfare.

Rotation of Xol 10,784:291 (local year 2013) Our initial integration teams have been very successful in blending with this species on TerrariaX. We are now in the early stages2 of physiological, and eventually psychological, examinations. However, many individuals have, upon introduction to us, expressed a sort of paranoia concerning probing of their anal cavities. As far as our studies show, this stems from antiquated, polarized views of the role of bodily penetration during sexual intercourse. It is of noteworthy contrast that many other members of all sexes readily prepare themselves for such intimacy, in spite of our omission of this rather dated method.

Rotation of Xol 10,784:468 (local year 2013) Despite a powerful brain for its size, this species shows an alarming tendency towards discrimination: from skin colour, to living space, to matters of the holy beyond.

While healthy discussion was expected, as is commonplace, they often break out in wars of civil violence over such minute differences.

This will be of great importance should they ever be considered for incorporation.

Rotation of Xol 10,784:602 (local year 2013) Not only does this species have an affinity for perpetrating war, it fetishizes recording and finding other ways (such as monuments) to boast of military accomplishment on an impressively meticulous level. There are historical records dating back thousands of generations. It will take some time to fully translate and synthesize this information.

Rotation of Xol 10,785:107 (local year 2013) We have bargained for some dead3.

Not only to be part of burial rituals, but also to acquire bodies for study. Their rituals, as with their taste in shelter, clothing and food, vary greatly, seemingly by geographic region or other familial customs. We only required a few bodies, but these were readily provided, and with smiles, even. It seems like this species worships the sciences.

Rotation of Xol 10,785:315 (local year 2013)

Names are an area of mutual confusion. Ours are near incommunicable. Theirs spawn from customs innumerable. Some from patrilineal or matrilineal lines, others from holy texts, and others still from ‘fads’, though the definition of this term is still lucid.

Rotation of Xol 10,785:479 (local year 2013) It is a curious thing – once communication opened up more broadly, as much as our cross-lingual capacities are still limited, we began receiving inquiries concerning a place called Roswell and little grey men. The best we can muster is that it has to do with half-century-old conspiracy theories about ‘alien’ invasions. It is a curious method of garnering favour.

Rotation of Xol 10,785:600 (local year 2013) Finally we come to the expected question of sharing technology. It is inevitable, but we have learned from past mistakes. They were very willing to barter but our suggested compromise of slow integration, beginning with education, was met with a disgruntled response.

Rotation of Xol 10,786:050 (local year 2014) Finally, overlapping culture! Our analysts have recently come across several films and pieces of literature that depict a variety of opinions on what they have come to call “other intelligent life ‘out there’.” The intrigue alone will make for hearty consumption and sharing.

Rotation of Xol 10,786:333 (local year 2014) A peace treaty signed with their old fashioned paper and old fashioned recording implements surrounded by armed ‘security’. Standard procedure or not, our dignitaries were not only offended, but made their displeasure clear. It is a wondrous thing, to watch a young species laugh haughtily in the collective face of strangers they know little of, and assume much about. Their brains may be large, but their politics appear rarely thought out critically, especially when they cannot sense the power surrounding them, capable of springing to life with the right spark. An ‘extraterrestrial’ war would not bode well for these people. 

1

2

3

We have yet to decipher their calendar system. It appears they do not divide years into months as we do.

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

It seems this is an examination journal, rather than a field journal as the previous entries have been.

It is unclear who or what team has made these last few entries.

21

Walking Down A Shell

Raluca Topliceanu

22

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

Tangled Verses Sebastian Johnston-Lindsay

 Sometimes on a Clear Day The room looks the same, but I have changed same calendar still showing the last month of a past year.

Shrivelled towels from forgotten nights lie in the black trash can.

A few hairs remain in the bathroom sink from an old roommate who skipped town back across the Atlantic.

Packed up and back to U.K. back to a life I’ll never know, and likely never understand.

He’s seen these same rooms, and he took them back with him to Britain And I’m still here.

Thinking about everything including madness and manic moments, from my teenaged years Now past too; as the calendar sticks still to the stubborn wall reminding me that there can be no fear of death as memory persists; and when it too ceases, so too will death as it makes love to life and loses itself; We’ll never be the wiser.

And sometimes on a clear day a cloud can make you cry.

As something which is beautiful might.

And the most beautiful things are usually the most simple to understand; not as simple but simply complex and imperfect.

The best poems are simple.

The best paintings people, and places too, are simple and perfect in themselves.

As they exist.

Just as the white walls of this room are simple; it’s always the people who make them complex and make you love the simple sciences of confusion. 

 Wet Toes if you’re in it for the money, you’ve never really been in it. and if you’ve seen it in the movies where everyone is in it for the money, then please, try and forget. because the pool is drying up fast.

A wet toe will go a long way. 

 Happiness Let us meet the new day and smile.

All these hours spent pretending that we are alive; nothing left to show but a few dollars never signs of a life worth living to so many eyes.

We know that we’re in it together And that this is what matters, really.

Commiseration is more important than happiness at times.

Because at such times it is the only things that can constitute Happiness. 

ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

23

YOUR LIFE’S HIKE Jason Lau

“W

ait – that’s Huayna Picchu?” I think as I point to the immediate peak behind the well-known scene of Machu Picchu, a 15th-century Inca site sitting atop a mountain ridge in the Cusco Region of Peru. In the summer of 2013, I traveled to Peru with National Geographic Student Expeditions. When we first arrived at Machu Picchu, I thought my dreams had been made. This was a place that I had fantasized about for months before I embarked on my trip, and now I was seeing it in person in all its glory. Little did I know, however, that there was more; that steep peak behind the famous Machu Picchu scene held a death-defying hiking trail that I was about to take on.

When it came time for us to decide whether or not we wanted to climb Huayna Picchu, we all hesitated. It was extremely early, and we were barely awake. We had the option of returning to Machu Picchu, which we had already explored, or take a rest somewhere else. Tempting – but that was not what we had travelled all the way to Peru to do.

I remember telling myself that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and it became clear that I had to venture outside of my comfort zone.

And so I did – but making the decision to go on the hike was probably the least difficult exercise of the day.

The hike at Huayna Picchu is called ‘death-defying’ for good reason. Only a small portion of the trail is guarded by safety rails; there are many points on the hike where a slip can send a hiker tumbling down the mountainside. This spectacular hike involved everything from climbing steep stone stairs and ladders to squeezing through tight caves, sliding around rocks, and even using steel cables. It took about four hours to complete the hike, and as exhausting as it was, I still consider it one of the most memorable experiences of my life – because I had made the decision to go for it with no regrets.

Along the way there will be highs and lows, safety and danger, great views and bad views.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY JASON LAU 24

As cheesy as it may sound, climbing a mountain is a lot like going through a new school year. Before you begin, you encounter hesitation, wondering if the things you plan to do are completely appropriate for you. But you’ll strike up the courage to take a dive into the unknown and embark on a new hike of your own, and along the way there will be highs and lows, safety and danger, great views and bad views.

Sometimes you’ll stick with the group that you were originally hiking with, and sometimes you’ll end up on your own for parts of the trail.

Sometimes you’ll find yourself ahead of the pack and other times you’ll fall way behind. You’ll also discover and explore mysterious places you’ve never seen before on your hike. And when the trail gets harder to climb, you may find yourself losing your footing as your legs give out and your energy drops. You may even consider quitting halfway and turning around – but that’s okay. It’s okay because you’ve already taken so many steps to get to where you stand today. You’ve overcome many obstacles and hardships to find yourself still pretty much alive and breathing. You’ve made it so far, so take a deep breath and don’t stop here – you’ve got mountains in front of you to climb.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

The Urubamba River flows through the mountain region where Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu are located.

Hiking up a mountain isn’t always about going up! Students make their way down a section of the trail, guarded only by some vegetation off the side of the mountain.

A silhouetted hiker looks off into the distance atop a platform on the trail.

A student uses the steel cable (a via ferrata) to support herself as she makes her way past a tricky portion of the hike consisting of jumbled rocks.

Inca-style ‘floating’ stairs were sometimes created by simply having longer rocks protrude out of a flat stone wall.

The stonework here is just a small glimpse of what the Incas created at Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu.

At one of the highest points of the hike, jagged boulders mimic the mountains surrounding Huayna Picchu.

A student makes her way down a path to descend the back of the mountain. At this point, only about a quarter of the hike had been completed.

The Temple of the Moon is what lay at the back of the mountain, halfway through the hike. What is believed to be an altar exists deep inside the temple, where visitors drop off money or small tokens in exchange for a prayer.

Long ladders made from tree limbs added to the challenging hike.

Kandice Buryta

Away

Third Year Combined Honours English and Multimedia

steps: BECAUSE SOMETIMES it takes a lot of strength to walk across a hallway, YOUR SOUL WANTS TO but your body lingers behind 26

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

THE IMPORTANCE OF IMPERMANENCE Sarah Mae Conrad

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don’t remember how old I was, but I suppose young enough to still carry coloured pencils to school. We were learning about Tibetan Buddhism and the creation of sand mandalas. Our teacher gave us each our own mandala colouring page and instructions to be as careful as possible to stay inside the lines. We coloured our pages dutifully, half-listening to our teacher speak about the process and symbolism of real sand mandalas.

Unfortunately, I was dreadfully unprepared for Part Two of the lesson.

“Is everyone finished colouring? Good.

Now pick up your mandala... and rip it up.

Not just in half – into pieces.”

I was horrified. I had just spent an hour colouring in every single miniscule section of the most complex colouring page I had ever seen, and now I was supposed to destroy it?

I really don’t remember tearing that paper up. I may have blocked the moment out due to the extreme trauma of having to rip up my own colouring page… but I’m more inclined to believe that I slipped my precious mandala between some books and secretly brought it home.

I’m sure my teacher would have been disappointed had he known how drastically I had missed the point of the lesson. I grumbled that he should have told us we were going to rip them up, so we knew not to put any work into it. Not to try. Not to care.

But now I see how that would not have conveyed the correct message.

Paint the house you’ll move out of in a few years; plant your feet in a city you know you’ll leave. Make friends with people you’ll never see again; fall for someone when you know it won’t last.

When Tibetan monks create sand mandalas, representations of the world in perfect and divine form, days – sometimes weeks – are committed to meticulously arranging millions of grains of coloured sand.

Yet, once a mandala has been completed and used for prayer, it is destroyed; the once intricately arranged grains of sand are simply swept away into the water. (Again, I was horrified. They just destroy weeks’ worth of work? Do they even take a picture first?!)

All I took away from class that day was that monks wasted a lot of time and effort for no reason. But in hindsight, I think what ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

I was meant to learn is a lesson that we spend our lives learning: nothing is permanent.

I think what took me so long to accept this fact (and maybe what stops a lot of us from accepting it) is that I was equating impermanence with unimportance. If it’s not going to last, why does it matter? Things don’t have to last forever to matter, to be enjoyed, or to make an impact. We shouldn’t let the acceptance of impermanence stop us from making an effort, and we certainly shouldn’t let it stop us from enjoying what we have while we have it.

Nobody tricks the monks into spending time and energy on their mandalas (as I felt my teacher had done to me); they know full well that they’re going to wash them away in the end. They put time and effort into mandalas because they are important – not because they’re going to be preserved.

Build a sand castle even though the tide will come in; make a snow fort even though it will melt. Paint the house you’ll move out of in a few years; plant your feet in a city you know you’ll leave. Make friends with people you’ll never see again; fall for someone when you know it won’t last. Impermanence isn’t a flaw; it’s a blessing. It forces us to get the most out of our lives.

I have always hated goodbyes more than anything, but lately I’ve found I can love them as well. Leaving places is my favourite and least favourite thing to do. I’ve come to realize that if you never leave where you are, you can’t go anywhere else.  27

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STEPHEN CLARE

STORY OF MY LIFE Stephen Clare

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remember sneaking into my Dad’s office when I was growing up, not to peek at his files or hunt for secrets, but to play with one of his most prized possessions: a big, heavy, phenomenally-detailed globe. I’d get it spinning real fast, then slam my finger down at a random spot and bring it to a sudden halt. Wherever I pointed, be it India, Brazil, or some forgotten archipelago in the middle of the Pacific, that was my fancied destination. Even as a kid, travel ignited my imagination.

It’s one of those funny little beliefs that most people seem to hold without ever having really been taught. To travel is to live.

Some endure months of dull work to afford just one or two weeks on an exotic Caribbean beach. Students famously reward themselves after graduation with a hedonistic month or two in Europe. Families make pilgrimages to Disneyland, seniors indulge in cruises, thrill seekers travel to Asia or Africa to climb mountains or leap from bridges.

For me, the power of travel is most palpable in literature, where it has inspired some of my favourite books – especially Jack Kerouac’s On The Road.

Having absorbed and adopted these lofty expectations, I set out on a three month backpacking trip this summer, determined to ‘experience different cultures’,

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‘challenge myself’, ‘discover new perspectives’, and accomplish other such ‘personal statement’-worthy goals. And it was having absorbed and adopted these lofty expectations that I found myself staring at Big Ben, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Reichstag, the volcanic cliffs of Santorini, and a dozen other postcard-worthy, infinitely-photographed, culturally-significant sites with a skeptical eyebrow raised and one thought foremost in my mind: so what?

I didn’t feel the sense of accomplishment, fulfilment, or inspiration that I craved.

I expected fireworks, tingles, sudden clarity.

I knew that Robert Louis Stevenson credited his adventures abroad as the inspiration for his writing, and said that “the great affair is to move.” Hemingway’s travels can rarely be separated from his work. Freud, Twain, and Flaubert all thought travelling was important – and of course Kerouac travelled: “No matter, the road is life.”

For me, though, there was just the molasses motion of a thousand other tourists shuffling by, the grating shouts of roadside vendors hawking their cheap plastic souvenirs, and the disinterested roar of busy city traffic cruising by. Whatever spark of emotion I felt upon first glimpsing, say, the sky-splitting towers of La Sagrada Familia was dulled by a mind-numbing four hour

wait in the entrance line. Photos of such landmarks were inevitably spoiled by the horde of other tourists crowding the frame, all snapping identical pictures (this effect was most pronounced at Pisa, where every day hundreds of people line up alongside each other, right arm raised, and take an endlessly amusing picture of themselves holding up the Tower. I wonder how many Facebook profiles currently feature that pose?)

I found that being a tourist, and especially a solo one, can be a deeply saddening experience. Though it does allow for grand misadventures, new friendships, beautiful scenery, and chances to get lost in contemplative self-reflection, these highlights are often short-lived and separated by long stretches of loneliness and boredom. I knew no-one for thousands of miles around, and was disconnected from the bustling crowds around me by language, culture, and that omnipresent wariness that falls between strangers. Plus, there’s a painful paradox at the heart of modern travel: by going somewhere as a tourist, we destroy the authenticity that drew us there in the first place.

I wondered what was wrong with me that I didn’t feel the madcap ecstasy of new experience expressed in On The Road (though admittedly I didn’t quite match Kerouac in his consumption of sex, drugs, and alcohol, so we may have approached our trips with somewhat different mindsets).

I had such a clear picture of what my trip should be and all that it should accomplish (wild adventures, breathtaking sights, beautiful people, possible self-actualization and elucidation of purpose in life) that any moment not spectacular and memorable and life-changing seemed wasted.

But looking back now, the same stories and authors that inspired me to travel should have warned me of the melancholic side-effects. Steinbeck wrote that “we find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.” And On The Road reads with an undercurrent of sadness, ending with Kerouac horribly ill, alone, and stranded 4000 kilometers from home.

Luckily, at the Freud Museum in Vienna, I stumbled across a prescient quote that turned around my whole trip. Writing to his wife while on holiday, Freud said: “Of course, travelling alone cancels out the enjoyment, while it is more conducive to study. The many beautiful things one sees may one day bear who knows what fruit….”

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

Already with time I can feel the bad days – the lonely days, the rainy days, the long bus trip days – fading. The more vivid memories are the good ones, and the funny ones, and the strange ones.

Like the hike up Montserrat, near Barcelona, where 1300 years ago hermit monks somehow constructed an enormous, beautiful monastery on the side of a kilometre high, craggy cliff. Or the Nazi brothel-turned-bar in Vienna, all black shadows and red velvet, where the bartender could point out the hidden compartments in the wall where valuables (likely stolen) used to be hidden. Or the train ride with that crazy guy from Brazil who was, for some unfathomable reason, collecting novelty plates on his trip, and was ditching non-essentials like spare T-shirts and socks so as to cram more dishes into his bulging backpack. Or letting handfuls of Martian red sand flow through my fingers on Santorini; or walking the overwhelming walls of DuVOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

brovnik; or scaling a lamppost to get a peek over the crowd at a five meter high, Surrealist, mermaid-themed float at a parade in Dublin; or, or, or…

So, so what? So there.

It was with time and reflection that my heroes found stories to tell within their experiences. In the thick of it, travelling can be an overwhelming collage of missed connections, too-short friendships, and unfamiliar environments. Often I was low on sleep, cash, and patience as backpacking proved difficult and expensive; this didn’t always leave me overly enthusiastic about spending yet another day wandering around an ancient European metropolis. Through the lens of time, though, I can see my trip as a journey rather than a succession of days.

I can see myself meeting a host of bizarre characters, colliding with them for a few days of lunacy, then parting forever. I can see a new continent being revealed in all its complexity, and me being struck by the

sheer volume of its humanity. I can see history being made real – standing on the Acropolis or in Pompeii and being able to feel the lives of those dead for millennia in a way no textbook can teach. I can see myself changing, growing more confident as the weeks pass and somehow, someway, I manage to catch trains and sleep safely and not starve to death, though sometimes that meant meals of bread and beer. I can see that while day by day nothing seemed to change, in the end everything was different.

What is a novel but a chance to escape? On The Road sticks with me because Kerouac’s world is fascinating and foreign, and I love being able to hop in and ride shotgun with him for a few hours. After travelling I’ve made my life bigger, more beautiful, and a lot weirder. Mine is now a world where Brazilian backpackers sacrifice socks for painted plates, and who knows what fruit that may bear?  29

PINKY PROMISE Sarah O’Connor

ARTWORK BY JASON LAU

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hadn’t meant to come into Witch Donnell’s house and certainly hadn’t meant to eat her food and drink her iced tea. But when your neighbour invites you over, especially when she’s an old lady, no amount of stranger danger tips can keep you from entering, even if she is a witch.

I was six then and scared out of my mind. My classmates told tons of stories about Old Witch Donnell and how she would turn any kid who came to her house into a scarecrow. I had all these stories in mind when I was invited over, even though I had only asked her for my soccer ball back.

Brandon and his stupid friends had taken it from me and drop kicked it into her backyard then forced me to go get it because “it was my ball” but Witch Donnell told me that they were just scared and the only reason she invited me inside was because she wanted to scare them more.

I’m glad she did though because otherwise we wouldn’t be such great friends.

I was scared and shaky all over when she invited me inside, I was convinced she was going to turn me into a scarecrow!

That’s what Brandon and his friends said and they kept telling me to say hi to Alexis.

Alexis was a girl in my class who used to bully me. A few months before I met Witch Donnell, Alexis was kidnapped. It was really weird because all the windows and doors were locked in the house and there were no clues for the police to find out who did it, they thought it was her parents, but Brandon said that Witch Donnell kidnapped her and made the girl her newest scarecrow.

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But she isn’t a scarecrow, I know that. She hinted it to me when I first visited but I was too young and stupid then to understand.

I’m older now, nearly eight, and she explained everything to me yesterday because we’re friends and that’s what friends do.

Anyway, when I was waiting for Witch Donnell to come back with my soccer ball, I was eating cookies and drinking iced tea (my mom says it’s rude to not eat something your host offers you, even though I thought I was going to be a scarecrow), I started looking around her dining room. I’ve seen the whole house now, but I hadn’t then because it’s rude to explore someone’s home if they aren’t showing you, according to my dad.

The house looked like an ordinary old lady house with pink carpet and a radio playing somewhere I couldn’t see. But there was something different about the house that I just can’t explain. It was almost like the house breathed. It was like a plant, something that quietly lived and breathed and existed but that nobody remembered. Witch Donnell told me it’s because she’s lived in the house so long that it’s sucked up some of her magic. She protects the house and the house protects her. They’re friends, like how we’re friends.

Witch Donnell finally came back with my soccer ball. She didn’t look like a witch, though she did have saggy skin and saltand-pepper hair. She stood nice and tall and she wasn’t hunch-backed or covered in warts and she wore denim overalls that were smeared with grass stains instead of

a cape.

I remember feeling scared and brave then and asked her, “Are you going to turn me into a scarecrow?”

And she laughed at me, laughed! And it made me feel all creepy crawly like when an ant crawls up your leg. She kneeled down and smiled, “No no. I only do that to bad kids.”

“Did you turn Alexis into a scarecrow?”

I asked because now that I wasn’t going to be a scarecrow, I was also being brave and curious.

“She was a very bad girl,” Witch Donnell said. “She would come to my house and take the petals off all my daisies. She destroyed them.” She went over to the fireplace and threw a ginormous log onto the fireplace. The log crackled, hissed, and almost seemed to scream when the fire ate it.

“No, I didn’t turn her into a scarecrow.”

And then we did a pinky swear, which I did on the playground tons of times with the other kids but Witch Donnell said it was an old tradition that was popular with Witches. It’s because I knew about the scarecrow kids and Alexis crackling in the fireplace but I didn’t know it then. Witch Donnell didn’t want me telling the stories to the kids at school. She said that if I break the pinky swear it means that she gets to cut off my pinky finger and keep it. But she also told me she knows I won’t tell because I’m a good girl and her friend and she’s going to teach me magic as long as I keep visiting, so I do.

And I can’t wait.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2014

Cassandra Ferguson

bronze, ceramic, steel rod, wool, yarn varying dimensions

“Untitled” (2014)

“organ body” installation series: four mobiles

The environment informs my work as I examine the relationships between human life and the natural world. For this body of work I was thinking about nature as a birthing force. Thinking about the way that a natural environment creates new life, adapting and changing to conform to a structure that has been set in place for it. Working in a non-representational manner has allowed me to open up a dialogue between the work and the viewer. My job is to initiate the conversation, and I hope from there each person has a unique experience and understanding of the work.  More of my work can be found at: http://cassandramarieferguson.wordpress.com/

VOLUME 17, ISSUE 1

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