Incite Magazine - September 2015

INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1 ▪ SEPTEMBER 2015

WAVES

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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 and artists 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

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GOODBYES, HELLOS, & THE EBB AND FLOW OF LIFE Aminata Mageraga

LASTING CONNECTIONS Linda Nguyen

PINK SANDALS Sarah O’Connor

OUT OF SIGHT Trisha Philpotts

WE ARE FRAGILE Ronald Leung

ADDING FUEL TO THE FIRE Elise Desjardins

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SOMETHING SILENT THIS WAY GOES Takhliq Amir

I AM YOU Kainat Amir

THE FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTER P. V. Maylott

SOUND BITES Alexandra Marcaccio

ART: BINARIES Diana Marginean, Mimi Deng, Lauren Gorfinkel, Kayla Da Silva THE COLOUR OF THE CONFLICT Sophia Topper INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

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HOW ARE YOU STILL HOLDING ON? Salma El-Zamel

NERVOUS CONDITIONS Abena Offeh-Gyimah

MUSE & HEALTH-RELATED BCI DEVELOPMENT Matthew Bassett

WORN OUT Samantha Bubnich

FLOOD THE FLUME Elina Filice

ART Tina Nham

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NEITHER HERE NOR THERE Sadiyah Jamal

CROSSING BORDERS Khatija Anjum

BIRTHPLACE: ARABIAN SEA Mayuri Deshmukh

THE UNWANTED CHANGE Caitlyn Buhay

STATIC AND SEA-FOAM Kyle MacDonald

BEFORE THE SUN RISES Sunny Yun

EXECUTIVE EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Sarah Mae Conrad Jaslyn English ART CURATORS Kayla Da Silva Lauren Gorfinkel Jason Lau Angela Ma CONTENT EDITORS Caitlyn Buhay Dalya Cohen Kayla Esser Gali Katznelson Nimra Khan

Madeleine McMillan Sarah O’Connor Sunny Yun Rachelle Zalter IN-HOUSE ARTISTS Kayla Da Silva Mimi Deng Lauren Gorfinkel Diana Marginean LAYOUT EDITORS Catherine Chambers Angela Ma Elaine Westenhoefer

CONTRIBUTORS WRITERS Kainat Amir, Takhliq Amir, Khatija Anjum, Matthew Bassett, Samantha Bubnich, Caitlyn Buhay, Mayuri Deshmukh, Elise Desjardins, Elina Filice, Sadiyah Jamal, Ronald Leung, Kyle MacDonald, Aminata Mageraga, Alexandra Marcaccio, P. V. Maylott, Linda Nguyen, Sarah O’Connor, Abena Offeh-Gyimah, Trisha Philpotts, Sophia Topper, Sunny Yun ARTWORK Sarah Mae Conrad, Kayla Da Silva, Mimi Deng, Mayuri Deshmukh, Elise VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

Desjardins, Jessica Escoto, Leah Flannigan, Julie Guevara, Lauren Gorfinkel, Sonnet Irwin, Nimra Khan, Jason Lau, Ellen Li, Diana Marginean, Sherri Murray, Patricia Nguyen, Tina Nham, Franco Simões, Jessica Trac, Elaine Westenhoefer LAYOUT Catherine Chambers, Sarah Mae Conrad, Julie Guevara, Jason Lau, Angela Ma, Elaine Westenhoefer COVERS/TABLE OF CONTENTS Sarah Mae Conrad & Jason Lau 3

GOODBYES, HELLOS, AND THE EBB AND FLOW OF LIFE Aminata Mageraga

“Goodbyes, they often come in waves.”

- Jarod Kintz Ficipsam sin nonsenest, ullent, net duciatur? Ur, corem faccus molorer.

ARTWORK BY FIRSTNAME LASTNAME

ARTWORK BY JESSICA ESCOTO

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t’s the start of a new school year and, for many of us, this means saying goodbye to our social lives, our homes, our families, and maybe even a few friends for the next eight months. These goodbyes are often hard to process, especially because they happen all at once. But are they truly goodbyes? If we know we will be returning to our families, our homes, and our friends once eight months have passed do they even count? What does goodbye even mean? A standard definition found online is: “[Goodbye is] used to express good wishes when parting or at the end of a conversation” (Oxford Online Dictionary). I don’t know about you, but I find this definition extremely unhelpful. I rarely say goodbye at the end of conversations. In fact, I usually don’t say anything at all. If I do, it is something along the lines of “see you later”, or a simple smile.

Admittedly, I am not a fan of goodbyes, as the idea of never seeing or talking to a person again doesn’t sit well with me, and I consider myself very fortunate that I have

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only experienced a handful of what I would call “true” goodbyes.

In my opinion, goodbyes are absolute, final. As opposed to a simple “bye,” which isn’t as definite, goodbyes are said in an “I will never see you again after this point in my life, so we should part ways” moment.

I would liken goodbyes to the end of a beloved book or book series. Knowing “The End” is definitively the end makes one nostalgic: it closes the door to learning new things about your favourite characters and closes the possibility of following their stories further as their life progresses. Letting go of the characters that have had profound impacts on the person you have become, the characters that hold a special place in your heart, is difficult to do.

The word goodbye is a great example of how words can have multiple meanings depending on their use in conversation. A word that is originally meant to “express good wishes at the end of a conversation” is used ironically, sarcastically, and some-

times, incorrectly. So going back to the above quote, “Goodbyes, they often come in waves”: does Kintz mean absolute goodbyes? Do absolute goodbyes even exist?

Clearly, “Byes, they often come in waves” does not have the same ring to it as the original quote, so even if Kintz had meant impermanent goodbyes, he phrased his sentiment in the best way.

This brings me to another point: can goodbyes be counteracted? I mean, yes, we are saying “bye” to quite a few things at the start of a new school year, but what about all of the things we are saying hello to? New friends, new experiences, and new memories. Do they cancel out all of the goodbyes we said at the start of the year? I would argue that they don’t because to say that they cancel each other out implies that hellos can replace goodbyes, and vice versa. In fact, at the end of the day, we need to realize that goodbyes and hellos, whether absolute or not, are a natural part of the ebb and flow of life.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

LASTING CONNECTIONS Linda Nguyen

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scurried to find a seat in class. I was already late. I looked across the vast, dark lecture hall, filled with students furiously typing away on their laptops and scrawling across papers. The prof was standing at the front of the room, with his shadow displayed on the blue screen with the embedded black text. I shuffled my way between rows, saying excuse me and receiving annoyed looks from every other person. I finally positioned myself in a seat. As I got myself settled, I noticed the girl sitting beside me. She looked familiar, I think she was in my English class this morning… I couldn’t be sure.

I took out my binder and searched for my pencil case, rummaging through my bag. I couldn’t find it. It’s just my luck, it must have fell out of my bag that morning.

I felt someone poke my shoulder. I looked over and she handed me a pen. “Thank you,” I whispered, feeling grateful at her gesture.  I closed the zipper on my suitcase. Just a few more things to pack up and then I’d be ready to leave when my parents arrived. I picked up the photograph on my bedside dresser. It was a picture of the two of us. I was always the serious one, but she always had a smile on her face. I shook my head, not believing that the past four years had flown by. It seemed like only yesterday that we were the naive young froshies.

Promise me that you’ll keep in touch?

Post on each other’s Facebook wall every week to keep us all updated. But slowly, those posts and letters became fewer and farther in between. The texts slowly dwindled down to obligatory texts for each holiday, which turned to once a year – and then silence. Life happened.

“You’re pretty quiet,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I thought about all those adventures we had. Staying up late watching movies. The countless conversations about stress, relationships, families, and even the future. The times when we complained whether school was worth the effort. Or even the times when we didn’t know whether we would land that golden opportunity or perfect job position. Whether we were crying in pain, laughing with joy, or celebrating success, we always had one another. We formed a lasting connection.

“You’re definitely lost in thought,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking. We’re not going to lose touch. Wherever you are, even if you’re busy and don’t have time, just shoot me a quick message.

Our friendship is more than just being at Mac, and you know it.”

I gave her a smile. “Okay.”

  “Promise me that you’ll keep in touch?” she said.

I was silent.

“No matter where you are, even if you’re halfway across the world.”

“You know how things happen and people change,” I said cautiously.

I had a sudden fear. These were the same promises that I made with my friends when we graduated from high school. Keep in touch.

Write letters and postcards. Remember to send texts every day.

I felt the quick vibration from my phone. My parents were here to pick me up.

So this was it. Goodbye to this place. Everything felt the same, but also different. So why did I feel like I still ended up at the beginning again. I opened the screen on my phone, which displayed a close-up of the two of us, and began to type a message. I smiled to myself – friendships may form unexpectedly, but they are timeless and boundless.  ARTWORK BY SHERRI MURRAY

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ARTWORK BY SONNET IRWIN

PINK SANDALS Sarah O’Connor

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t was the shouting that woke me the day the Morrison girl died.

The noise, paired with the gentle lapping of the lake, came from my backyard, to use the Morrison’s words for it. Curious, I walked outside, wrapping a thin housecoat around myself, for modesty.

Ben and Kate Morrison were standing on the sand clutching one another, encircled by five of our neighbours. They were from the city, and shortly after Emma’s body was found, they moved back there.

They often made themselves known for what they owned, which wasn’t much even by country standards. When they first moved in we had many tiffs about how I was to swim on my side of the lake and not theirs. They even threatened to put up a fence which Rick and I chuckled at on our beer nights. I mean, how can you fence off a lake that backs onto ten other houses?

They couldn’t properly admit that it was their fault that they lost Emma, they kept trying to pin it on someone else.

After overhearing many heated and panicked questions about kidnappers and pedophiles, my buddy Rick, who lived two doors down, explained the situation. When Kate had gone downstairs to get the morning paper, she had noticed the backdoor wide open, and her daughter Emma missing. She woke Ben, searched the house, called the police and then gathered the neighbours, one of whom had found one of Emma’s little pink sandals being carried away by the waves.

I knew it would take a while for the police to arrive, I mean they were also watching over the six towns that made up the county.

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I don’t know how long it was before I found her.

It wasn’t their fault; little girls didn’t disappear around here often, though the Morrisons would argue otherwise.

Rick organized a search party. He and I and another fellow were to go into the lake and see what we could find while the others stayed with the Morrisons on the beach, looking for Emma. The Morrisons didn’t see the point of us going out into the lake since they were sure that someone had broken into their home and taken Emma. Even after we found her they couldn’t properly admit that it was their fault that they lost Emma, they kept trying to pin it on someone else.

So we paddled out some ways on Rick’s boat, and looked for Emma in the tangled grass at the bottom of the lake. It was surprisingly shallow, but deep enough for a five-year-old to drown. Rick stayed in the boat, using his paddle to break through the plants while the other man and I waded through the weeds.

I don’t know how long it was before I found her, slippery and tangled up in the weeds, or how long I held her before Rick noticed. I remember being surprised by how heavy she was, knowing in some distant part of my brain that I should have called out to someone.

But all I could do was stare.

I thought of all the times I’d seen her playing outside, if you could even call it that. She’d attempt to skip rocks into the lake though Ben told her that wasn’t something little girls did. Then she’d just sit and draw in the sand singing little songs to herself as the water crawled up and soaked her. I’d heard many shouts from Kate about how she was ruining her new clothes, about how she needed to act more like a little girl.

And in my silence I remembered how she held my voice in her curled little hand as the other pink sandal slipped off her foot and floated away.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

ARTWORK BY FRANCO SIMÕES

OUT OF SIGHT Trisha Philpotts

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help Papa blow out the candles on his cake. It’s vanilla cream, the flavourless box kind you get at the grocery store and bake yourself, our favourite. I am running late for school, but mom lets me have a piece of cake with him before I have to leave. He smears icing on my cheek and calls me his little dove, the only name he has called me for sixteen years. Though it was his mother’s name, Papa told my mom that Catherine was too big of a name for a little girl, and so, little dove I became.

I fear that if I let his mind wander too far away he will get lost in distant memories.

Papa is here with me today and that is all that matters. I talk to him constantly about everything and nothing at all. I fear that if I let his mind wander too far away he will get lost in distant memories more dear to him than I am, and never find his way back to me.

Memories of Me-Maw June twirling about her fiery soul in that red dress he loved to see her wear. Jiving to old Buddy Holly records, the same records her daddy told her were the devil’s music, never once caring about scuffing the linoleum floors.

It’s been two years since Me-Maw June passed. I read somewhere that time heals all wounds. I also read somewhere that you shouldn’t believe everything you read. Everyone we lose takes a piece of us with them. The piece they put there when we weren’t even looking, and its presence is only made known by the inexplicable emptiness felt when that person is gone. After the dust settles and time is said to have healed the wounds you felt were forever gaping, you can try looking for even a sliver of that wholeness you once felt – but you’ll realize that it’s not there. We are born broken and the moments of temporary wholeness we feel are made up of borrowed fragments of our loved ones hearts.

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It’s hard to be around Papa now. Some days he’s fine, other days he doesn’t even know my name. “It’s me, your little Dove!” I will say, trying to bring him back down to me like a kite string with too much give. The only comfort I feel is in knowing that when he is not here with mom and me he is off in his head with Me-Maw. I envy him because he still gets to spend time with her, but some selfish part of me also resents her because she steals what little time I have left with him. The doctors say that Alzheimer’s is degenerative and it will eat away at him until there is nothing left. When he’s gone all I’ll have left of him are the memories we’ve made over the years. Papa was the only father I had when dad left, and it pains me to think that soon he won’t share any of these memories. Every night I ask God, or whoever is up there, to give him back his memory when he passes on. I don’t think I can bare it if he doesn’t remember his little dove when I get there too. I even make promises with God that I’ll be good to mom, and take out the trash, and pass my math test if He gives me a little more time with Papa. I know it probably doesn’t work like that, I don’t think religion is big on bribery, but it’s worth a shot.

When he’s gone all I’ll have left of him are the memories we’ve made over the years.

I finish my cake and take my and Papa’s plates to the sink.

“Thank you dove,” he says to me wiping crumbs from his mouth.

I pick up my knapsack and turn to leave, I am not ready to go but through the window I can see the school bus heading my way. I give him a big hug and he smiles at me in that innocent way he does.

“Bye, Papa. Happy Birthday” I call to him, as I head out the door.

“Bye, June-Bug” he calls after her, miles away from us again.  7

WE ARE ......

Ronald Leung

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or a second, the grey spring sky seemed a reflection of the bloody street; the clouds an echoing chamber of terror. The wind whispered past, its fingers tracing tears long dried.

But as the bus came roaring up with a cloud of exhaust, the past seemed to disappear under its spinning wheels. The door flipped open. The small lift started to descend.

“Morning, Orion!” Diana, the bus driver, was always a warm sight. Her attention always seemed slightly bewildering to Orion, as he never felt he deserved such enthusiasm from someone so attractive, especially considering the last two years. She had the toned, well-muscled form of a professional tennis player. Combined with a winning smile and sunny disposition, Diana was a favourite amongst patrons of this particular bus route.

Orion returned a slight smile and tried to roll past her without seeming too contrived or awkward. Taking the niche at the front reserved for him, he gazed out the window, worrying about the next three hours. Ms. Fletcher had pushed so hard for him to try water therapy. Smiling between embarrassingly-titled self-help pamphlets (“So you think you’ve ruined your life?...”), she had gently brushed aside Orion’s protestations as you would with an unreasonable toddler and, ignoring his look of growing horror, steadily forged onwards registering him online for the 5-week program. Grade 8 had brought about a large number of changes, his least favourite being Ms. Fletcher. At least his previous counselor, Ms. Ritz, had mostly left him alone while she warbled about her string of failed marriages.

This new level of engagement was slightly alarming for Orion, as if someone had suddenly shoved him into the deep end of a swimming pool.

The brown-stoned community centre rolled into view. Orion glanced at the building with a growing sense of apathy. There weren’t even any windows.

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

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FRAG I L E Politely declining the usual offers of help from Diana, he wheeled off the bus and into the lobby. Keeping a wobbly veneer of confidence, he ignored the receptionist’s attempts to catch his gaze.

He could find his own way around. And he didn’t care what they thought.

The change-room was, thankfully, devoid of life. Orion maneuvered into an empty stall and quickly changed into his swim trunks.

He even surprised himself on occasion at how quickly he changed, given his uncooperative legs.

Out on the pool deck, he froze. The loud yells and screams of children reverberated throughout the room. Each echo dragged memories of that fateful day forward: a loud explosion, mom vanishing in a flash of light, waking up on the ground, his bloody hand still warm with her touch. He could have sat there for ages, until a

cheerful teenager walked up to him.

The teenager turned out to be his swim instructor – his name was Nick or something – and Orion nodded along without really paying attention. Thankfully, Nick didn’t seem to care. For once, he let Nick slowly ease him into the water without fuss, Nick chattering as Orion floated on the water. Closing his eyes helped for a second, until that darkness became all too familiar. But he was tired of trying.

He’d kept up this charade of strength and self-sufficiency but now, unexpectedly, it was all falling apart. Orion still felt the shock waves of that day. They had already stolen his legs, his mom, and his dad’s sobriety. Now they reached for him.

At least the waves lapped up Orion’s tears quietly. He decided to give himself this reprieve. After all, he knew he would eventually emerge from the water, mask firmly in place, facing a new day. 

ARTWORK BY DIANA MARGINEAN

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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ADDING FUEL TO THE FIRE Elise Desjardins

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hen I was twelve, I convinced my aunt to give me a perm. Up until then, middle school had been a series of awkward and unfortunate events that I was determined to break, and I believed a new hairstyle would do the trick. The image of me with loose, flowing curls became inextricable from the idea of who I wanted to be in grade seven.

Perhaps I was inspired by my many pre-teen idols on the Disney and Family channels that had rocked wavy hair. I can’t remember the “aha!” moment when I knew getting a perm would be the solution to my middle school problems, but I hoped it would miraculously give me the self-confidence to forget about my acne and braces.

Sitting in the middle of their kitchen, I ignored my uncle’s arguments against my aunt giving me a perm: my mother would be furious (she was), it wouldn’t look exactly like I imagined (it didn’t), and it would be permanent (at the time, three months felt like forever). Even the strong smell of ammonium thioglycolate couldn’t deter me from going through with it. I sat patiently as the chemicals did their job, ready for my aunt to reveal my new hairstyle.

I was immediately horrified. My hair wasn’t beautifully curled, and it didn’t fall in loose waves. What had once been long, straight hair was now tightly wound ringlets that fell about two or three inches shorter

than before. I resembled Annie and Shirley Temple, only with slightly longer hair.

I shouldn’t even compare myself to them, because they definitely pulled the perm off better than I did. I could have been the post-

ARTWORK BY LEAH FLANNIGAN

damage, I got a haircut and persuaded my cousin to dye the rest of it dark red (maybe I did have a subconscious desire to look like Annie). Clearly, my middle school self didn’t make the best decisions in a state of emergency. Adding fuel to the fire seemed to be my coping mechanism back then.

Despite keeping my hair in a ponytail and wearing a lot of hats, middle school continued to be one awkward moment after the other. I wish I could say that I learned an important life lesson after getting that perm. Maybe something along the lines of “self-confidence comes from within” or “think for longer than a second before you commit to something that will last three months”. But sometimes you just make poor choices and have to live with them. When my hair finally grew out a few months later, it was no longer pin-straight but now had subtle waves. I wouldn’t say that it was worth it in the end, but it wasn’t so terrible after all.

It’s been ten years, but every now and then I think about getting a perm. I still wish I had loose, wavy curls instead of my pin-straight hair. Thankfully, I now own a curling iron, which should have been my first solution back when I was twelve. If only I could see those pictures again, maybe I wouldn’t be so tempted to give the perm another shot.

But I was smart enough to destroy any photographic evidence of that middle school catastrophe. 

I wish I could say that I learned an important life lesson after getting that perm.

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er child for “Perms Gone Wrong” or “How Not to Do Your Hair in the 80s”.

If only I had remembered the scene from Legally Blonde when Reese Witherspoon’s character mentions that perms won’t set if they get wet within the first 24 hours. I would have jumped in the shower in a heartbeat to undo the terrible hair crime that I had committed. Instead, to undo the

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

SOMETHING SILENT THIS WAY GOES Takhliq Amir

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omething was incredibly wrong, that much it knew. What was it, though? What monster was causing this painful twisting deep within its guts, tightening the hold on its lungs, rushing its heart? It stopped moving.

That’s when it heard the sound, or lack of.

Silence. Pitch-black, intensifying, soulless, utter silence. There was a stillness to the air last seen, well, never. This was wrong.

“Can somebody tell me what in the News World is going on?” the Robot yelled. “Why do I hear that?” Still, nobody answered.

Then, one scrawny Autobot stepped forward, hesitancy screaming through its rigid pose, uncertainty compounding its every tiny move. “Pardon me, sir, but we’ve only got rainbows and happiness. The World is calm.”

All at once, the air electrified, and it was as if sparks crackled and flew off the Robot. Spinning around swiftly in rage, it seemingly electrocuted and froze the young Autobot with its narrowed gaze.

“Calm? My, what a novel idea! Your naiveté astounds me, and I’d praise you if you weren’t so gullible. There is no calm in this World, my boy! Calm and happiness, they breed unrest. This may seem contradictory, yes, but it is no less true. These feelings, concepts, they’re unpredictable, worthy of suspicion. It is most often the calm that invites trouble, for its mere presence causes fear of the unknown. Because, after all, people need things to worry about. No, this won’t do. Pull up the list of Worthy Events.”

The guileless Autobot, now thoroughly disappointed, stepped back. Another Autobot, this one an opportunistic, artful lad with a bulky build and a square face, stepped forward, enthusiasm oozing from its every pore. “Well, sir, we’ve got the firefighter who protected that baby from falling to certain death. Oh, and the friendship between that hyena and fox. What about the missing man found after five years? Or ‐” he would have continued on, had the Robot not silenced him with one piercing look.

“Babies? A fox and a hyena? Preposterous! And a missing man? Was there some mystery behind it?

Did someone plan his murder because he was illicitly planning an attack against the Government?” When the Robot received no reply, he shook his head. “I am not running a charity here, people. The Puppets don’t want cuddles, they don’t want hugs and kisses. They don’t know what they want. But we do. Give them scandals, outrageous actions unimaginable to the common Puppet. Let’s roll that story we’ve been following about the Politician with that huge embezzlement history. No one cares

about saving puppies when they can have juicy gossip. No one cares about saving lives. Remember that. The Puppets need us.”  Meanwhile, another Robot entered the War/Peace Department, where, immediately, he was hit with the sound of stillness. No chatter escaped the Autobots, as each sat staring sullenly at his computer.

“What is the matter, everyone? This silence is suffocating. Your work here is not to keep quiet, but to stir the air, to create commotion, to make hearts bleed and bleeding hearts convulse. If I wanted silence, you would not be here. Show me the List,” the Robot exclaimed, aggravated.

An Autobot stepped forward, frowning, as he stated, “We’ve got War in Aridia, there’s been a Murder in Prisil, another Conflict in Curtzis, though this one seems to be dying down ... The autocratic leader’s been taken down by the people in Rore after a slight confrontation, however, though many civilians have been lost...”

“A confrontation? Innocent civilians? Find out the details, the order everything occurred, what did occur, find the civilians’ families,” the Robot commanded, “The Puppets need to know this, they need to know about the lives lost for the victory gained. Make them outraged for the innocent losses. Make this count for something.”

He strolled away, a jump in his every step. To think the Silence had them worried, he shook his head. The Puppets would feel.

There was going to be no more silence for a while now, and all was right with the World. 

ARTWORK BY JESSICA TRAC

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I AM YOU Kainat Amir

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am one and yet I am many. Who am I? I am the living embodiment of countless people, places and memories. I am a person.

We don’t really think about it, but we are what we do. We are who we’re with. We are where we live. All our bodies simultaneously pumping with blood and oxygen, enveloped by hair and skin, and yet those similarities are not what define us. We have names and a bloodline we share with a mother, a father, a sister, a brother. There are colours we prefer more than others, TV shows we

obsess over, and foods we love greatly. We have friends we share jokes with; those with whom we go on adventures, share gossip and watch movies. We are different colours and nationalities, shapes and sizes, hopes and dreams. It is so fascinating how our experiences make us who we really are, individually and together.

People, places, and memories are the tissues and cells of life. They bring colour and character to everything that surrounds us. We interact with our parents, our siblings, our friends, and our foes, often taking

for granted all that they teach us. Parents, with utmost selflessness, make sacrifices for us by giving up their dreams or changing their priorities. They support us and encourage us in making good decisions and becoming strong, independent individuals.

Our siblings are the first friends and enemies we encounter, the ones who will fight for us and with us. They help us to develop our perspectives and form individual personalities in a house of people with whom we share everything, right down to our DNA. The group of friends we have, for some

ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

People, places, and memories are the tissues and cells of life.

They bring colour and character to everything that surrounds us. small and others larger, is a circle of belonging in which trust and loyalty are highly valued. Together we make mistakes and learn from them, share our passions and interests,

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love what we love and hate what we hate together. We create memories of moments we spend at home or in school or on vacation with those around us. Time may pass and

things may change, but these memories stay the same forever. I am a person who is loved and who loves. I am one who finds solace in others, shares their pain, laughs and cries with them.

I feel jealous, I get motivated, I am inspired by the happiness and success I see in others around me. I have become who I am today through the experiences of life.

I am you.Â ď Ž

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THE FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTER P. V. Maylott

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rianne loved the briny reek of the Atlantic coast.

After so long in the city, it seemed impossible to find her on a dock, surrounded by tranquility. A fog rolled in, obscuring all but the monument, topped with a symbol of an eye, which emerged from the water at the center of the cove.

Not everyone would find neglected motels at the edge of saltwater coves appealing, but for Brianne, the solitude and nostalgia called to her. She recalled being wrapped in a blanket, waiting for her father’s lobster boat, and the new seashell he would bring her. A freak coastal storm took it all away. Death at sea is the cruellest, because survivors rarely receive closure.

“You’re going to catch your death,” Ronnie said as he approached with his coffee.

Brianne chuckled, “If anyone will, it’s you. I’m the fisherman’s daughter.”

“Remind me why this isn’t Florida?” Ronnie asked between sips.

Brianne leaned into Ronnie, “Because you love me, and because it was a deal?”

“You’re lucky that I love you, this place gives me the creeps.”

With mounting debt, they thought a honeymoon was impossible. But when the brochure for “Honeymoon Hollow” had offered transportation and a week’s stay for half of one mortgage payment, how could they refuse?

That night, Brianne slept in Ronnie’s arms to the sound of loons.

She awoke with a start. The room was filled with the smell of rotting fish. Her hand sought Ronnie, but found only a sticky wetness in the still warm depression beside her.

“Ronnie?” Brianne called.

Fog rolled into the open front door. Strange music came from the darkness beyond. Brianne turned on the lamp, exposing the glistening slime-covered bed and footprints which lead to the door.

Once outside, to her amazement Brianne found that the cove had been drained. In place of the water, shining in the moonlight was a drowned village. Shop windows glowed with eerie light that dimly lit the murky streets. Pale, seaweed-draped people lurched toward the source of the shrill flutes.

“What is this place?”

“What is this place?” Brianne asked a milky-eyed local. The man ignored her, dancing to the haunting tune.

She followed him to the town center where she discovered the townsfolk in revelry before a church made of dark stone. The moon shone through the symbol of an eye at its peak, Brianne recognized it as the monument that pierced the surface of the water.

“Let go of me!” Ronnie cried above the flutes.

“Ronnie!” Brianne pushed past the dancers to find that Ronnie was being tied to a post. Before she could help him, a strong hand grasped her shoulder and spun her around.

Brianne came face to face with her father. He was dressed the 14

In place of the water, shining in the moonlight was a drowned village.

ARTWORK BY NIMRA KHAN

same as when he last left her, ready for the sea. Shrimp struggled in his beard and a tiny crab crawled over his pale face.

“Daddy?” Brianne was convinced that she was dreaming. When she hugged him, he smelled of salt and home.

A voice rose from the crowd, “Mighty Ait’Ocsavon, please be acceptin’ this fer savin us years ago from them bastards what flooded our town...”

“Brianne,” her father said, his face full of fear, “it’s almost dawn, you ain’t dead, are you?” “...We beseech ye, come forth and claim yer offerin…”

“Brianne,” Ronnie screamed, “do something!”

Brianne stayed, clinging to her father, afraid that she’d wake and lose him again.

From the church erupted a cacophony of sucking mud and tumbling boulders. She turned to look. Out of the church had emerged a monstrosity so hideous that her mind reeled. A whale-sized creature of both octopus and lobster engulfed Ronnie along with the sacrificial pole, to the triumphant cheer of its revellers. Ronnie’s muffled screams were smothered by the cracking of timber and bone. As the creature ate, it turned human-like eyes upon Brianne, and then there was only darkness.

When she awoke, she lay wrapped in a blanket on the dock, surrounded once more by placid, lapping water. It was a dream, she thought. A fish splashed. When she looked toward the rings of disturbed water, there lay a beautiful seashell upon the dock.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

SOUND BITES Alexandra Marcaccio

“T

en! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Cinq!

Quatre! TROIS! DEUX! UN!” Just like that, an auditorium of about two hundred and fifty chattering students goes silent. There’s the occasional cough, the odd “Salut!”, but that’s about it. The people at the podium look at their crowd, slightly amused, and begin giving out instructions in rapid French. Most people stare back blankly. For you see, that countdown signaled a group-wide ban of any language other than French. And we were an audience of Anglophones.

This was my experience at the Université du Québec à Trois Rivières. The university is a participant in Explore – a program designed to improve the grammar, writing, and conversational French skills of its participants. To help with the immersion experience is a team of lovely animateurs who are responsible for extra-curricular activities: the nightly sports, the weekend trips to various cities, the Friday night soirées, and, of course, the distribution of the “carte rouges” that could potentially get you kicked out of the program for speaking anything other than French.

Fun, non?

After the animateur at the podium finished her speech, it was time to find our classes, each one distinguished by a letter, a level, and an animal. When I found mine, with its cute little picture of a “Quiscale” (translation: Grack-

le), it is safe to say that my ego inflated enough to fill the auditorium.

I was in intermediate/ advance. I thought that meant that speaking French at all times would be a breeze.

HA! That night, I was part of the silence. It felt as if every word of French I knew had magically poofed out of my head when the clock struck “un”. I convinced myself that I was merely out of practice, and that I would regain my skills in no time. Then days kept passing, and I still felt the same.

During this time, my mind would often wander in English. It was like a safe house; there was no fear of an animateur shouting “CARTE ROUGE” at me. I enjoyed the opportunity to ponder such serious matters as, “is ‘animateur’ even a word?” or, “what the hell is a grackle?”

When I actually conversed with people (which was rare), I became acutely aware of how often people mumble. I would ask my basic question in French (that likely took me a few minutes to form), and would get a response that sounded like, “mmmhmmm mm mmhmmhmm” to me. I often had to ask people to repeat themselves four or five times before I could make heads or tails of what they were saying. My speaking was

It felt as if every word of French I knew had magically poofed out of my head when the clock struck “un”. no better. Every time I opened my mouth, I felt as though someone had just stuffed a very large orange in there and expected me to speak. My accent sounded so bad it hurt even my own Anglophone ears. But I never gave up. I was determined to make it through.

My turning point came on a weekend trip to Quebec City. My friends and I had the misfortune of sitting beside one of the animateurs, meaning there was no chance that we could speak in English. All of a sudden, she struck up a conversation with us.

“Sure,” I thought, “We get the chatty one.”

Somehow, we managed to hold a twenty-minute conversation. It gave me confidence, and my skills returned. I finally began to improve. I was having fun, and the time flew by. Then, before I knew it, we were counting down to the lift of the English ban.

“Dix! Neuf! Huit! Sept! Six! Five! Four!

THREE! TWO! ONE!” 

ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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Diana Marginean | Breaking the Binary Positive Attitude | Lauren Gorfinkel

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

Why Choose | Mimi Deng

binaries Introducing our team of In-House Artists! This talented group of brand new Incite Magazine staff members created these works based on their interpretation of the word ‘binaries.’ More of their artwork we will feature over the course of the 2015-2016 school year.

Kayla Da Silva | Bound to Us VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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THE COLOUR OF THE CONFLICT Sophia Topper

E

astern Europe has been swept by waves of revolutions. The People Power Revolutions broke in the late 1980s and broke apart the Soviet Union.

Then, the Colour Revolutions crested in the early 2000s and flushed the region with pro-democratic protests. Most recently, the Maidan protests in 2014 were an echo of these waves and still may beget more uprisings.

The Colour Revolutions in Georgia, Ukraine, Kyrgyzstan and Belarus between 2003 and 2006 were characterized by nonviolence and followed disputed elections in the face of corrupt or authoritarian governments. The 2004 Orange Revolution in Ukraine followed Viktor Yanukovych’s election to president, which was allegedly fraudulent. Following a month of peaceful protests, there was a re-vote and Yanukoyych was ousted. While the West rejoiced, President Putin ominously remarked, “We see what tragic consequences the wave of

so-called Colour Revolutions led to… We should do everything necessary so that nothing similar ever happens in Russia.”

In 2011 and 2012, Russia was rocked by its largest protests since the 1990s, focused against Putin himself. Putin reacted by blaming organizers of the Orange Revolution in Ukraine for exporting their revolution, even accusing them of being paid by foreign powers. He declared “our people do not want the situation in Russia to develop like it was in Kyrgyzstan or not so long ago in Ukraine.” The Russian Ministry of Defence sponsored a conference in 2014 on Colour Revolutions and the threat they pose to international order. Sergei Shoigu, defence minister, declared them a new form of warfare perpetrated by the West to destabilize nations that threaten their hegemony. Western NGOs are seen as key actors, and a creator of the National Endowment for Democracy is often quoted saying, “A

lot of what we do today was done covertly 25 years ago by the CIA,” as if to prove the nefariousness of the West. No Western-backed NGOs were actually crucial in any of the Colour Revolutions, but painting expressions of the will of the people as Western sponsored coups allowed Putin to twist them to his own advantage.

The February 2014 Maidan protests were seen as a continuation of the Orange Revolution, and were against the same man, Viktor Yanukovych. But these protests were not met peacefully and the violence was shocking. Protests also spread to Russia, where activists chanted “Maidan” and mimicked Ukrainian tactics. War may have been the “everything necessary” that Putin had threatened, to stop spread of a new revolutionary wave in Russia. But how would war in Ukraine prevent protests in Russia?

Though—or perhaps because—it

...and we do not know what this new wave is building. drew rebuke from the West, the takeover of Crimea boosted Putin’s popularity and distracted Russians from their own protests.

It intimidated the West against fomenting revolution in Russia and scared others in the region from uprising, in order to prevent the wave from gathering momentum. The following insurrections in Eastern Ukraine made the new Ukrainian government look weak and prevented them from success.

The division of Ukraine after the popular protests harkens back to the effects of the People Power Revolutions and the resulting dissolution of the empire, which still stings many Russians. This warns those within Russia that any instability may permit groups like the Chechens to break away and further wound Russian pride.

The Orange Revolution may not have lived up to its aspirations, but it taught the people that they could change the government through peaceful protest. This mental revolution is what made the Maidan Protests possible. A mental revolution is much harder for Putin to suppress among his own people, and we do not know what new wave is building.  ARTWORK BY JASON LAU

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

HOW ARE YOU STILL HOLDING ON?

D

espair. It lies in the heart of that Syrian girl who clings to the last breath of her parents as she sits in destruction painted red. Sketched all over the reedy skin and bones of the young boy living in the impoverished outskirts of Congo. It is found where a homeless woman is left freezing on the cold streets of Toronto. Consuming an American man who is broken by the arrogance of some “law enforcer” who has the audacity to think that he is more “civilized” due to a conceived “privileged” colour of his skin. Despair is in the halls of schools where students are forced to question their identities by the piercing glares and stinging words of social norms and expectations. It surrounds graduates as they are slapped with their ever-growing debt in the market of unemployment. It exists as we chain the capabilities of the disabled when we should be switching mentalities from disable to enable.

It is everywhere. Despair welcomes you and the reasons vary. It never turns you away as it steadily overpowers you. It comes wave after wave. In a sequence of eloquent phases. In persuasive paces. Slowly and gradually the waves develop. Just like the waves of the ocean during a storm. They develop gently and then grow aggressively… immensely…uncontrollably. As the waves of the storm progress, the phases of your despondency steadily swallow you.

Salma El-Zamel

PHASE III:

PHASE IV:

SILENCE! A sudden state of blankness spreads. Haziness. Blurriness. Confusion.

Your emptiness leisurely drags you deeper and deeper into the ocean of your reveries as the waves continue to engulf you. Loneliness and fear then await you. Upon your arrival, fear scrutinizes you and shames you.

Loneliness then timidly greets you and shyly sits beside you. It pats you on the head and on your back, thinking that maybe this will ease your pain. You whimper. You are about to suffocate…

The wave grows...

HOPE! LOVE! STRENGTH! PERSISTENCE! LIVING! They shoot in, breaking the silence of your desolation. They remind you that your heart is not some lost treasure and your spirit is not some wrecked ruin. They scream how big you are! How important you are! Your despair becomes the necessary trail of your empowering journey. And here you are, a pearl carried to the shores by the same wave that swallowed you. This very same despair that weathered you becomes nothing but a part of you. A part that takes you to the other aesthetic side of your rebuilt illuminating self.

ARTWORK BY JASON LAU

PHASE I: A wave of sadness settles in pitifully. It slowly pulls you in an ocean of uncalled for negative thoughts. Your chest gets heavier the more you think, the more you breathe. A clamp abruptly clutches your emotions, your thoughts, and squeezes them tighter and tighter. The wave grows…

PHASE II: A strong wave of anger aggressively gushes in. You want to scream, shout, crash, smash anything. Others fall into deep silence. They question whether they should cry or scream.

It is the kind of silence that is filled with too much shock to form words or comprehend actions. The wave feeds. The wave swallows. The wave enjoys…

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

To anyone whose life is hurting I wish that you seek the beauty within you For you are here You are important You are the world in ecstatic motion 

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NERVOUS CONDITIONS Abena Offeh-Gyimah

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

I find myself constantly thinking: “What am I doing with my life?”

This question haunts me almost every day.

I

am writing this dispatch from a balcony on the ocean, soaking in the humid air on a much-needed vacation. I feel an urge to reflect on a feeling that has crept into my life this summer – a feeling that has wreaked havoc on my sense of serenity and purpose.

Often, a ball of frustration rolls in the pit of my stomach. Butterflies beat their wings in the walls of my belly wanting to escape.

This feeling intimidates me every time. I feel nervous, then cautious, sometimes scared, and as a natural reaction I lock the feeling away. I have yet to get a hold on this gut feeling.

This summer, while juggling graduate school and full time work as a program coordinator on a community farm, I find myself constantly thinking, “what am I doing with my life?” This question haunts me almost every day, and in tandem with this process of self-reflection, my nervous gut feeling is out of control. Decisions and choices seem hard to make. For instance, how do I chart a course of action that fosters the work I

do at the farm yet also keeps me on track in graduate school? A debate between my mind, heart, and gut often takes place - or maybe my gut is my second heart. During this summer I am finding little opportunity to engage with my passions - writing poetry and children’s stories, exploring new places, and just losing myself in an adventure novel.

I find myself longing to read The Count of Monte Cristo and The Book of Negroes (a fourth time around).

These difficult decisions have weighed on me all summer, and my gut speaks up each time, reminding me that it is not selfish to take a day off for self-care. But how can I!? The program I coordinate on the farm has 26 youth in total, and I have to deliver on commitments attached to program grants.

On the graduate school side of the ledger I still need to complete a pilot research project, which means I need to draft the letter of consent for participants, formulate my research questions, as well as submit an ethics application, and the list continues

endlessly (at least in my head it seems endless). An avalanche of commitments and responsibilities seems to be blocking me from poetry, The Count of Monte Cristo, life affirming exploration, and everything else that I love.

When I tried to shove this gut feeling somewhere outside my home, work, and school, it became even heavier and louder. I was plagued with a nervous condition.

I am where I want to be. My love for reading has brought me to graduate school and my interest in growing food has landed me in urban farming. So why is my gut telling me otherwise?

As I stand on this balcony overlooking the ocean, watching the water dance back and forth, touching the sky on one end and the sand on another, I remind myself that this is only a seven day trip. For now my gut is quiet, and my nerves are settled. For now I am calm, no longer dancing on the cusp of burnout and breakdown. But when I return, and my gut continues to speak, perhaps I should learn to listen... 

ARTWORK BY JULIE GUEVARA

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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MUSE AND HEALTH-RELATED BCI DEVELOPMENT

ARTWORK BY PATRICIA NGUYEN

A

s operators in the 21st century, we are accustomed to high velocity. All of us are modern track stars in our own right, sprinting from goal to goal, often without lifting our heads. Devising methods to manage the speed can be challenging, but one sure-fire, and drug-free, way of slowing your mind is through meditation: a millennia old method of achieving “peace of mind” – what a lovely term that is.

Recent advances in brain-computer-interfaces (BCI’s) and meditation science has created a wave of industry advancement.

One Canadian company is leading the way with Muse: the brain sensing headband.

Novice meditators experience difficulties at first because, with meditation, it’s hard to know if you’re doing it right, and it’s not easy to stay motivated. Muse remedies these two issues by providing real-time feedback on your “state of mind,” and a motivation22

al interface that uses challenges and positive reinforcement to help you establish a rewarding practice. The device connects via Bluetooth to any iOS or Android device, takes electroencephalography (EEG is a harmless way of measuring the activity of groups of brain cells) readings of different brainwaves, and operates with the Muse app. With earphones plugged in, the app runs you through a standard meditation exercise and gives you auditory feedback, weather sounds, that describe how you’re doing. When your mind begins to wander you will hear gusts of wind pick up, which signals you to return to a more focused state. When you’re calm and attending to your breathing, you’ll hear waves rolling and birds chirping. After the meditation session, the app gives you session-metrics so you can track your progress over time.

Matthew Bassett

gests the main mechanism behind these effects is that meditation increases positive affect and emotional awareness, resulting in more immune system antibodies and enhanced empathy. Universities including Western, Queen’s, and our home McMaster, have Muse headbands available in libraries (at Mac: Mills, Innis, & Thode) for students to use as a method of stress relief.

Student psychological health is a pressing issue, particularly across North America, and experts are looking at alternative therapies. Perhaps meditation could be a positive intervention for countless students, and a device like Muse that links modern technology with an age-old exercise offers an accessible and fun way of learning the practice.

In my own experience, I have found that combining meditation with other mindfulness-based activities has been effective in reducing stress and negative patterns of thinking. Tai Chi, focused breathing activities, Yoga, and musical improvisation are all activities that, for me, compliment the meditative mind-set. I’ve noticed immediate changes in my physiological stress response, emotional stability, motivation, and problem solving, and am better able to re-focus after a period of rumination. I encourage others to endorse practices rooted in mindfulness.

Health-centered BCI development is an emerging field, and Muse is being coined as the easiest way to learn.

Health-centered BCI development is an emerging field, and Muse is being coined as the easiest way to learn meditation.

Meditation has been shown to influence a number of bodily systems and is a proven treatment for depression, anxiety, insomnia, and chronic pain. Research sug-

Applications of biofeedback are becoming diverse and mainstream through the development of health-centered brain-computer-interfaces. In the coming years, I foresee BCIs being used to tackle a variety of illnesses, from obesity, to mood and attention disorders, and even cancer.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

 Worn Out Samantha Bubnich

at 4am i left your arms a home both limber and worn. you had worn me inside out, — but i still liked it. i let you drown my insides, leaving scents on my pillow i didn’t recognize. i could not longer be submerged. i could no longer burrow my soul carelessly into your cavities, leave hair in your bedsheets and i think i have taken one too many t-shirts. they are as worn and limber as home, your arms had left me long ago. i will never drown in your shirts again.



artwork by Ellen Li

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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 Flood the Flume Elina Filice We are lifted, lifted, pulled away Our bodies float on a jagged pill We crash together, like waves that spray Above the darkened room we sway Heightened by lights, rhythm, thrill We are lifted, lifted, pulled away Drifting closer, I look her way Caught in a current, we cant stay still We crash together, like waves that spray Limbs are light, limbs that weigh We swell, we surge at the riptide’s will We are lifted, lifted, pulled away Suspended under water, we will stray She’ll smile, she’ll pull me back, untill…

We crash together, like waves that spray Alone in the crowd, we splash and play Our private ocean, treading till we overfill We are lifted, lifted, pulled away Then crash together, like waves that spray 

artwork by Diana Marginean

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

Tina Nham

Hi! My name is Tina Nham and I’m obsessed with Lomography– the analog camera movement that advocates a “don’t think, just shoot” approach to photography. My favourite part of the process is waiting for my photos to develop. To misquote Forrest Gump, “Lomo is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get!” The colours are elaborate, saturation is dramatic, and the film grain truly brings out a distinctive dream-like, nostalgic quality to your images.

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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neither here nor there

Sadiyah Jamal

ARTWORK BY MIMI DENG

W

hen someone dies, a very thick and impermeable line is drawn which separates the Before from the After. The Before includes a part of you that took your grandmother for granted.

She may live on the other side of the world but she was always only a phone call away, right? Before You has exams coming up, so she can just call her in two weeks when they’re over. Before You doesn’t get it. She can’t hear After You yelling at her to just pick up the phone and call her, because even though Before You’s grandmother might not recognise her this time, at least Before You will get to hear her voice. After You wishes she could remember the last time they spoke.

Before You keeps telling your grandmother that she’ll visit, that she’ll try at the end of the summer, that she’ll tell her dad to look into flights. After You no longer has the luxury of time, and is simply awestruck

at the amount of guilt and regret the human body can contain. After You hates Before You. She wants to run back and tell her that there is no time, whatever you want to do you must do now. Her grandmother is becoming more ill by the day and she must visit her before… she must visit her, she must…

The After You feels older now. After You has learned that “it’s never too late” doesn’t always apply. Sometimes it is too late, and

that can’t be filled. It’s not quite a void because the permanence of it hasn’t hit you yet. But the blank space is not ready to be filled either.

The Before You thought that when she was faced with her “first death” she would completely lose it – she’d stop eating, stop sleeping, and never stop crying. But After You now knows that what happens instead is a few hours of complete disarray. Bursts of uncontrollable tears followed by complete indifference followed by more uncontrollable tears.

And then comes the calmness.

No pain, no regret, no sadness. Just calmness. A terrifying mix of quiet acceptance and quiet denial, one that After You cannot fight but must now accept as part of the After.

Before You was so ignorant, After You sees that now. Despite all the times she had the chance to learn gratitude, Before You didn’t, and now After You is struggling to master the skill. She tries to be thankful for the life she has. She appreciates those who love her, for they have a difficult job to do. She appreciates those who don’t too, because they are also good for her. After You says thank you every morning.

The Before You had innocently claimed that she would take care of her parents until they died. After You has decided something – she cannot make any promises because life has a nasty habit of getting in the way, but she will do her best. 

No pain, no regret, no sadness. Just calmness.

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After You has decided that the best way to deal with that is by shoving it into some corner of her mind with all her other bottled up feelings. After You will not indulge in sorrow, regret or guilt. She has done so before and it still pains her.

After You has learned that she can never really say how she will grieve until it happens. They’re there and then they’re gone, and After You is left with this blank space

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

 Crossing Borders Khatija Anjum Like waves crashing in and out at a shoreline, my travel plans begin unsure, merely scribbles of dreams and lonely deserts; until my spirit steps out of the paper-thin tickets and passports; until my body slips into the intense waters of far-off traditions; the need for adventure, a swimming sensation, overpowers the discomfort of potential drowning.

Air is infused with the depths of a foreign language, unfamiliar syntax, and sounds I cannot make even with effort; tangled winds carry scents of crisp mountain air, monsoon rains, and salty oceans in the distance, fragrances of incense and flowers, the sour and savoury aromatics of food; tastes of rich spices – dragon’s breath, with heat I have never experienced – and of treats that cultivate a whole different type of sweet tooth linger on my tongue; an unusual tune lives within these houses, where strange little feet perform a strange little dance, with remnants of something far beyond its universe, something of love and life;

artwork by Elise Desjardins

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

houses, built differently, as if the walls are leaning on a peculiar science I have yet to study, are home to art, bright and bold, its vibrancy is not of color, rather of its fresh and raw ideas, a humble mastery hidden between the artist and the craft.

Culture, like morning dew on the grass of an expansive field, covers every inch of exposed ground, subtle to each blade, birthed here, native to the feet that have roamed here, its offbeat nature only noticed by travellers, it sits on the surface yet is infused much deeper, its feet drag in the soil, in the humanity of the people.

Yet the community, through which the culture extends its accessories to me, is populated with humans, their smiles matching mine – raised cheeks, teeth and wrinkles around their eyes, their surprise, a mirror image of mine – raised eyebrows, dropped jaw and wide eyes, they are faces of familiarity.

As the dusky sky above follows me, I find traces of familiarity everywhere: the sun and the moon – carbon copies of the spherical structures they were when I left home.

My tapping feet and twiddling thumbs keep me company on cars, trains and airplanes, yet an overwhelming sense of reassurance trails closely behind as waves of home wash over me now across all borders; crossing borders.



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BIRTHPLACE: ARABIAN SEA

Mayuri Deshmukh

ARTWORK BY MAYURI DESHMUKH

I

never get tired of people asking: “You were born on a beach – is that even possible?”

The answer is yes. I was born in a hospital situated right on the sprawling beaches of Mumbai, India; and according to my Dad, the last Deshmukh to grow up by the seashore. My earliest memories of the big old blue were the waves softly caressing the honey-brown shore with a calm swooshing sound that has always made me fall asleep.

They say home is where your heart is; the ocean must have imprinted a permanent presence onto my heart at birth, because my heart lies deep within, sailing with the next tide. My relationship to the ocean is both nostalgic and ever changing. On one hand, it has looked the exact same in all the years I’ve grown up next to it. But then again, my memories of the ocean are from different moments of my life settled in a comfortably nostalgic niche – only resurfacing when needed most, much like a beluga whale. If there is one place I can go where I can feel my place in this world, it’s the beach. On the shore, it feels like I’m not afraid to be myself, and nobody can

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tell me how I should present myself to the world. The gently swirling waves remind me to feel free, like I felt when I swam in it for the very first time.

That moment held an incredible amount of meaning for me. I had just turned two, and my Dad had told me that the big blue expanse of water held nothing but wonder. I stood on the freshly moist sand and gazed at the perfectly moulded footprints I left behind, soon wading in touching everything I saw; the seaweed, coral, and regrettably, a jellyfish – the potato shaped scar on my right toe because of it, will always remain a hilarious memory. Plunging into the water with a fantastic belly flop, it was here where I first learned how to swim, testing my limits, telling myself to have a bit more courage because who knows what’s out there? The only way to know was to just keep swimming.

The ocean has always been my home, sanctuary and safe haven. When I’m by it I follow my heart making decisions that are truly honest to my conscience. It is after all, my birthplace, where I first learned how life

flows on and that even though the ups and downs can tug at some unknown parts of your soul, you can always re-surface and take a deep breath of air which I find, best reminds you of how incredible life can really feel.

I once heard a New Yorker say that “when a wave comes, go deep. There are three things you can do when life sends a wave at you. You can run from it, but then it’s going to catch up and knock you down.

You can also fall back on your ego and try to stand your ground, but then it’s still going to clobber you. Or you can use it as an opportunity to go deep, and transform yourself to match the circumstances. And that’s how you get through the wave.”

Conquering that unknown stretch of water seemed the most difficult that day, but if you just swim out beyond your comfort zone the gleaming ultramarine immersed around us will lead to a new adventure. As I look back upon this interesting anecdote, my Dad leans over my shoulder to ask: “does it really feel like an adventure honeybee? After all this time?” Always.  INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

THE UNWANTED CHANGE Caitlyn Buhay

F

riend or foe? That is a question to be pondered when thinking of change.

At many points we may usher change into our lives, welcoming it in to make a lasting home in a once uncertain way of living. We like the change that comes after shed pounds, adopted good habits, and renewed promises. These are comfortable alterations; subtle shifts helping us to renew ourselves enough to find new zeal in life. Yet change may also be an unwanted guest- bustling into our lives uninvited, under the charge of unavoidable and often unexpected circumstances. A lost job, a stolen car, or a deceased friend are all catalysts that can cause that large and burdensome change to thunder through our lives and wreak havoc on a seemingly happy state of being.

Sometimes we fear change. We may think a changed self means we are not the same person we once were, or worse: we have lost something vital about ourselves.

The way change has come in is disruptive- it has shaken our lives and knocked us from our happy shelf where we stowed ourselves so carefully. Perhaps now we feel as if our lives have been shattered into pieces. Like a dark wave on the horizon, it has come to knock us down- and it is the fear that we may never resurface that keeps us holding change at arm’s length as a thing to be avoided and barred out from our lives.

Yet change is a necessary thing. In whatever form it may come, we know it

has to happen. Why then are we so resistant to it when it comes at an inconvenient or unpleasant time? Maybe we should be embracing change, whether or not it comes as a friend or a foe. It may enter into our lives uninvited at times, but it usually comes with a purpose and a kind intention. It is with the unsought effort of change that we are able to evolve and grow in ourselves. We are faced with challenges and choices that may move us in one direction or another but will ultimately direct us to the life we are meant to lead. Although the way your life unfolds may not be the way you thought it would go, enjoy the journey and the constant force that pushes you onward to your end goal. If this disrupts our way of being, so be it. Let it come like a wave washing over us, but if we stand braced for its arrival – at least it won’t knock us down and carry us away entirely. 

It is with the unsought effort of change that we are able to evolve and grow in ourselves.

ARTWORK BY PATRICIA NGUYEN

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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STATIC AND SEA-FOAM:

OSCILLATORY THEMES IN MODERN MATHEMATICS Kyle MacDonald

D

evelopments in mathematics, as in any other cultural tradition, often pivot on particular images or motifs.

In the last three hundred years, the idea of the wave has proved central. To accurately discuss waves in a mathematical context, however, requires calculus – more precisely, differential equations and infinite series. I will not rush an introduction to these ideas: their beauty and power demand patience. I will attempt, instead, to give some insight into the mathematical theory of waves by contrasting it, culturally and philosophically, with the practices of physics and engineering – technical details be damned.

Scientists are concerned with waves because and insofar as they occur in the real world. A seismologist cares about waves of pressure in subterranean rocks, detectable as vibrations of the ground and implying the possibility of an earthquake. A physicist cares about the wave function that

describes how far from the nucleus of a hydrogen atom she is likely to find an electron.

These natural scientists care about understanding what the world is made of and how it works, through prediction and experiment.

Engineers seek not only to understand and to predict, but also to control. They design bridges that vibrate as little as possible, electronics that receive oscillating levels of electrical current, and aircraft wings that must handle the eddies and ripples of the atmosphere. These scientists, in all their diversity, care about waves as the shapes that describe the form or behaviour of particular physical systems.

Waves have also driven much of the progress in applied mathematics in the last two hundred years. Mathematicians, however, are not scientists, in the sense that our discoveries rely not on observed data but on logical arguments from formal definitions. Many mathematicians work with scientists on problems of scientific con-

cern, but our role is different. As applied mathematicians, we attempt to identify, implement, and, more often than not, invent effective ways to interpret the data that our scientist colleagues collect.

From the mathematician's point of view, a wave is a continuous pattern described by

If I may indulge a metaphor: scientists are sailors. a rule called the wave equation. This equation formalizes what we know intuitively about waves: their shapes look either like a trampoline bouncing or mountains moving past a window, depending on your point of view. Waves find their other key expression in Fourier analysis, which grew in the nineteenth century out of the amazing fact that almost any shape can be synthesized with a great number of simple wave shapes, specifically the fiddly little sines and cosines from eleventh-grade functions class.

The techniques of Fourier analysis, or harmonic analysis as its broader generalization is known, find widespread application in engineering, but also in pure mathematics.

Pure mathematicians study numbers, equations, and geometric objects independent of their scientific or industrial applications.

Many practically-minded people have asked whether such academics should turn their energies to more practical concerns. The answer is that the applied problems would soon be impossible rather than difficult.

Mathematics needs introspective abstraction and structure. Those who study waves for the sake of their intrinsic symmetries do so because centuries of similarly fascinated minds have found beautiful, valuable results where they have gone exploring.

If I may indulge a metaphor: scientists are sailors. They seek to travel to distant shores, whether for the sake of what they will find there or for the fascination of the intervening sea. Mathematicians are different: we build boats. If we are too eager to contemplate designs that will never prove seaworthy, it is because we do not see the water on which our creations must travel.

The seas of our imagining are under no obligation to exist. 

ARTWORK BY ELAINE WESTENHOEFER

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2015

BEFORE THE SUN RISES Sunny Yun

Welcome to the space between sleep and the morning drive.

It is waking up before the sky does, rumpled blue sheets, and feet pressed onto cold hardwood floors. Click. The yellow light of the lamp casts shadows across white walls, bringing forth dancing figures to accompany your first steps of the day. Tousled hair falls over your eyes as you turn on the water very slowly, trying your best not to disturb the hushed hour. Outside, the street lamps are still glowing.

The refrigerator hums a solo tune. Notice how the house takes on a peculiar form at this time; everything is still, soft - almost misty.

You breathe a little deeper, allow your eyes to close a little longer.

Slow and familiar are your movements, knowing that the flurry of obligations is on hold. Hands move as you set the kettle to boil; feet shuffle and you push the toaster spring down. The cars do not honk and the phone does not buzz. The air is cool, and the scent of damp grass drifts through the open window screen. Although alone at the kitchen table, you are far from lonely. Conscious thoughts relax just below the surface, untethered and not quite ready to swim over to the dock.

This is today, but this was also every early rise for an elementary school trip. Mornings like this always followed fitful nights filled with the giddy fizz of anticipation. That nervous energy would settle by the new day, having been replaced with a tranquil patience. Before the sun was up you would have promised dad that you would be good and hugged mom goodbye. What is different today is the number of fussing bodies, a couple of inches in height, and a mug in place of a juice box. But faithfully so, the mind rests in the morning calm.

You savour this worry-free moment in reality: a prized compensation for resisting the potent urge to slide back into dreams.

The simple surrounding objects have taken on a Vermeer quality, with yellow-browns casting you as a character in a sepia film. It is in this hospitable haze that a thought comes tiptoeing in, whispering of a colourful world waiting beyond the front door. It is tempting to answer, Just five more minutes. But then the dawn chorus arrives, singing, Go. You slip into your coat and bid the low light farewell. 

ARTWORK BY KAYLA DA SILVA

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 1

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