The Zine Issue 02

Growing up

A magazine

Spring 2019

Attempt number two

i

ii

Image: Martin Castro

The Zine Team The Zine Editorial Joel Robertson-Taylor Martin Castro Cat Friesen

Production and Design Joel Robertson-Taylor

Design Assistant Mikaela Collins

The Zine Submission Judges Joel Robertson-Taylor Martin Castro Cat Friesen Mikaela Collins

Cover Art: Joel Robertson-Taylor Cover Type Mark: Joel Robertson-Taylor

Image: Martin Castro

iii

Contents Poetry | Jesse Boyes REVISIONS

1

21

Essay | Joel Robertson-Taylor Addressing the Coast

Photography | Luke Pardy 02/11/19

5

23

Visual Art | Madeline Hildebrandt 231, 479, & 871

Photography | Luke Pardy Jay, summer '18

6

27

Visual Art | Allie Risley Pas de Trois

Poetry | Chloe Redlin Ode to the BGG

7

28

Poetry | Steven Sprott City Spaces

Poetry | Laurel Logan balsamic peach and chicken stir-fry with orange blossom and rosemary

8

29

Poetry | Cat Friesen From the window seat on third street

30

Photography | Isabella Dagnino cross the breeze

31

Poetry | Marlowe Ferris The Three Seas

33

Visual Art | Cassie de Jong Structural Defects

35

Poetry | Martin Castro maracas

37

Poetry | Laurel Logan Lord, a Land

Poetry | Scott McQuarrie A Place You Know Photo Essay | Mitch Huttema artificial light Poetry | Darien Johnsen mother.

Essay | Chloe Redlin To Mimic a Sea Turtle Poetry | Alex Rake landscaper's prayer NON-FICTION CONTEST WINNER Chloe Redlin | To Mimic a Sea Turtle

iv

9 11 16 17 20

POETRY CONTEST WINNERS

VISUAL ARTS CONTEST WINNER

Laurel Logan | balsamic Madeline Hildebrandt | 871 peach and chicken stir-fry with orange blossom and rosemary PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST WINNER Alex Rake | landscaper's Luke Pardy | 02/11/19 prayer Photo: Renée Campbell

Contributors Alex Rake is a University of year student at the University the Fraser Valey alumni, once a writer and editor for The Cascade and Louden Singletree.

Aside from poetry, he writes plays, stories, and music, fronting folk-punk band "Alex Rake and the Leaves." He lives in the foggy parts of Mission with another artist and a couple of ferrets.

Allie Risley is a student of

UFV's BFA program, pursuing her career in the arts. The mediums she works in are Print and Encaustic. She has had several pieces purchased by UFV as well as a show in the S’eliyemetaxwtexw Gallery.

Cassie de Jong is an artist re-

siding in Abbotsford. Her practice uses themes of symbolism and iconography within a variety of mediums. Through the use of various repetitive patterns and simple shapes, she explores how creativity and expression can affect the human mind.

Cat Friesen is a writer and ed-

itor based in the Fraser Valley.

When she’s not writing, she can be found singing to her plants, baking various breads, or lost in the forest.

of the Fraser Valley studying Global Development and Sociology. She has been writing stories and poems as a form of survival since age seven.

Isabella Dagnino is a 2nd year

BFA student who is minoring in Art history. Her art practice consists of strictly analog format with very little digital manipulation. Most recently her work was featured in the S’eliyemetaxwtexw art gallery.

Jesse Boyes is a UFV student

and journalist interested in the study of ethnobotany, and the wide-ranging interrelationships between plants and humans.

Joel Robertson-Taylor is a guy who has had enough.

Laurel Logan is a poet who

studies English and Biology at the University of the Fraser Valley. She spends her mornings in class, her afternoons napping, and her evenings teaching children how to read and write. In her free time, she likes to hang out with friends and family, practice yoga, watch movies, drink coffee, and play video games.

Chloe Redlin is currently study- Luke Pardy is currently studying creative writing at the University of the Fraser Valley. She enjoys delving into the multiple disciplines of writing, especially journalism, poetry, and creative fiction. She has a deep love for the fantasy genre and aspires to have her own series published one day.

ing Visual Arts at the University of the Fraser Valley with a focus in photography. He is the recipient of the Chilliwack School District’s Fine Arts scholarship (2013). Most recently his work was seen in the exhibition All Things in Sight at the S’eliyemetaxwtexw Art Gallery.

Darien Johnsen is a fourth-

Madeline Hildebrandt

Photo: Renée Campbell

was

born and raised in the Fraser Valley. She is graduating in April 2019 from the Bachelor of Fine Arts program with a major in Visual Arts. Her studio practice has mainly focused on painting and drawing.

Martin Castro is a poet, writ-

er, and editor living in the Fraser Valley. His forthcoming micro-chapbook 4 poems will be out in April.

A life-long Fraser Valley local, Marlowe Ferris has a love for the countryside that manifests in all of his work. He keeps himself as busy as he can, balancing artistic expression with work and university life. Marlowe can be seen playing guitar and singing at a number of poetry events in the area.

Mitch Huttema is a visual artist and filmmaker living in Mission, BC. He is interested in working out themes of memory, consciousness, and human experience, focusing on using metaphorical plot and abstract visuals to tell a story that makes viewers feel less alone.

Scott McQuarrie is a mature

(in age, not in behavior) student with a new-found passion for writing. For years he thought he was a natural born jerk: withdrawn, easily annoyed, and quite selfish. Turns out he was just passionless. How enlightening.

Steven Sprott is a writer, vio-

lin aficionado, and lover of rhubarb. He drinks Bosnian coffee and once tried to learn to play the flugelhorn.

v

REVISIONS

by Jesse Boyes Days lived in a university daze on a buzzing campus in the valley discovering the best way to phrase lessons, from a vegetative alley articulating silence and the stillness in all things or at least evidencing felt boundlessness this is not a place for dying!

I imagine them to exclaim and go on: we haven’t collected here to listen to dumb green things diving into a flowing lexicon we all notice a giant leprechaun though I know a bard has yet to make me yawn some see only a lyre, missing out disregarding a detailed route voice, and pen: a craftsman's utensils we draw small harps, with unsharpened pencils hawaii day three, a cascade of pupils focus on breathing, realize scruples

1

within the machine and yet, not a pawn I see an architect sit on a lawn It is not dying!

Slow....dissolving‌suspicion, of Horton, who heard a Who who was not dumb, but spoke more quietly as it takes one to know one who strives toward the sun minding the way: beginning considered to be unnecessary maybe already fully potentially a builder... and what are they, lengthy zen koans?

Understanding the value of Aesop’s fables and claiming no mastery of a toolkit confidence and fraternal siblinghood, admittedly unduly appealing refusing accusations of integrity indeed being a mere mirage among fellow men; I have witnessed with my own the hearts others. Both in time, and inside of right now The Kybalion is on it's way to me this, just after carving October squash Thoth so enthralling, the suchness of such timeliness of arrival An idealist way to correspond Is worthy and capable of arriving In the light of being To live in the woods I feel like I know what it means In among the pines, so green air that freshens up the senses a break from all who babble on 2

Showing empty hands to carnival Moloch like Allen Ginsberg's ear piercing howl showing declension of financial concern, overridden by the dynamism of creativity showing compassion and generosity that create no depletion what's given is received, multiplying unified totality Speak it into being!

Join the ones once called cuckoo making art: the one gentle persuasion Atom bombs, novelty theory, television and cybernetics!

The CIA and lysergic acid! Soon computers will be 3D printed... but we're cutting down our friends!

Towering, peaceful, reliable, reliable.

Fingertips on supposedly smart phones swiping geography and the vastness of collected information what will be done with this immense power?

What if silicon valley was made out of sand?

The shapes of change: Dwell not, my friends, on arrival the path is a circumbendibus be present for the archaic revival, knowing flowering is hourless active aikido, the path shows itself we see old men walking with canes finished laboring to fix their reign young minds quick and bodies able, each playing part, in an impromptu fable.

3

REVISIONS: Subliminal metaphors layers of mind a bic lighter, an onomatopoeia I'm lovin' the da da da da da ultra peaceful, on a peace love bus, going around pranking, merrily, all through the times a chief, a silent watcher not after all so mad... time is echoed then imagined in colorful and cavernous minds creating, consuming, a decorated concrete world where seemingly familiar things we've never seen are the still heard impact of distant rhymes

4

"02/11/19" 10x10 Film Photography Luke Pardy

5

"Jay, summer ‘18" 10x10 Film Photography Luke Pardy

6

Ode to the BGG

by Chloe Redlin

7

Dear Big Gulp Guy, every day at work I can’t help but wonder what’s hidden behind your subtle smirk.

Like a majestic king you watch over your domain with Your 711 goblet; are you secretly insane?

As I exit from the lunch door I feel your beady eyes watching me sitting one hairy leg crossed over the other burning under your unrelenting scrutiny.

You have no expression so I often wonder what you think, great philosopher.

As you sip your chilly ice drink the brilliant daytime lights glisten on your balding scalp.

I wonder if you’re unmoving on purpose or if you really need some help.

I’m onlyW working part time and don’t have a degree but I honestly can’t help but wonder how you sit for eight hours without needing to pee.

It wouldn’t be ridiculous to assume that you were an alien observer Using Big Gulp Guy as your nom de plume, patiently planning on how to take over.

I’m not too sure if you’re nice or mean but BGG to be honest you’re one of the most intriguing dudes that I’ve ever seen.

Sincerely, the stranger that you stare at.

balsamic peach and chicken stir-fry with orange blossom and rosemary

by Laurel Logan

ready to give it my all I wind up to punch the wall with my oven-mitt but stop myself just before it hits as my pan-fry turns into black bits on the stove and sweat runs down my face the memories of our time together melt like butter on a hot plate seep out of my mind spit into this meal and I wonder how this task turned into such an ordeal then all at once my skin is pared my organs peeled my heart pitted like a peach thrown into the garburator where it's ground up sliced up and chewed up leaving the rest of my body poached in a pot my pancreas parboiled and I think to myself this was not part of the plan.

8

A Place You Know

by Scott McQuarrie There is a place I know.

Perhaps you know it, too.

Beside a red and silver ‘Canoe’.

Kitty corner to Ethical Fair Trade Organic, where I can taste good doing good.

There’s something about this place, this space.

Four feet of thick glass separates me from the bustle below.

Here, amid the hum and murmur, my mind just works.

The music: live, muted by the glass and bouncing off the high walls, someone is singing out her dreams, on Tuesdays at least.

It’s mixed with a background soundtrack drifting out of the failed gastro-venture beside me.

I like it here in the middle, in the muddle.

Between success and ‘learning opportunity’.

9

I’m a part of it here, part of those below and those beside.

Those working, dreaming, searching, finding.

The doers—the journalists, the broadcasters.

The workers—study, caffeinate, repeat.

I like it here, where I can look down upon futures much brighter than the tasteful spot and wall lights.

Much brighter than my own …perhaps.

I like it here, where multi-hued flags and people mix.

The doers, the dreamers, the workers, the procrastinators.

Those who know their path and those who hope to find their own secluded trail, winding ever on to A Place, you know.

10

artifical light:

basking in the glow of a hard day's work

by Mitch Huttema

In the early 1800's Eli Whitney first invented gin and since then, historians have argued gin was one of the greatest inventions of the industrial revolution. Gin allowed the workers a respite from their toilsome labour and no doubt lubricated many of the conversations that developed the ideas and structures we now credit as the most notable successes of the industrial revolution.

In a speech from 2008, Clay Sharky noted that TV, like gin, could be the social lubricant and respite that has enabled such progress in the current society we all live in.

11

12

13

No doubt there's precedent for this; how many conversations have been started over the water cooler about last night's game and/ or the lastest original series to be released.

We all know it's necessary to lube the social wheel before it spins nicely. But is it really those standing around the water coolers of the world that are the ones making change?

Everyday Netflix's 117.58 subscribers watch an average of 140 million hours of content.

According to a Nielsen poll, the average North American household watches nearly 8 hours of television a day on average. Maybe not everyone watches 8 hours of TV a day, but how many of us definitely watch TV to "relax" after a long day?

Gin may have been a briliant invention and may have eventually led to innovation and success, but before that came about, gin absolutely wrecked society. It wasn't until people were lying around in the gutters from hangovers that society picked itself up, and built the societies and institutions we now praise the industrial revolution for. So, if TV really is the gin of our modern day, do we count the casualties of its reign in the same way?

14

15

mother.

by Darien Johnsen

our mother is on fire and we are pouring oil over her wounds telling her to lick them clean. i weep with her. our provinces burn while our prime minister laughs and flashes a grin dazzled. rose-coloured glasses like Nirvana tint smog pink skies and blue dye number six will fix our ocean selfies. climate change is just so negative. like a windchime my cries comes off as music. we are human burdens after all.

16

To Mimic A Sea Turtle

by Chloe Redlin

I

feel ridiculous and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m going to die. It’s a beautiful, sunny day on the island of Maui, and for the first time in my life I’m trying my hand at surfing.

We arrived in Kahului Airport earlier in the week and were greeted and laid with a necklace of real flowers– the bright fuschia, lingering perfume, and moist air freshened my travel dusty senses; after which my family took the slow drive across the ‘neck’ of Maui to where we would bunk at my aunt’s condo in Kihei.

“Alright brodas’ and sistas’ now let’s do it all together.” Says Al, my brawny instructor. He fits the Hawaiian surfer stereotype perfectly – long hair tied back in dreadlocks, deeply tanned skin with an arm covered in tattoos. He makes our little group of six lie on the crunchy grass next to our boards and practice kicks with our legs and forward strokes with our arms. I’m positive we all look like a bunch of fish out of water.

“Alright very good my little sea

17

turtles. Now we are going to carry the boards to the water. Grab a partner and each of you take an end.”

I make eye contact with my older brother Jordan two surfers to my right. He walks over and picks up the front tip of my long blue board; I take the back of his.

“Ready to go?” He questions impatiently. He must have noticed my hesitant steps because he turns to glance over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine.” He raises his voice to compete with the crashing waves below us.

At this moment I’m seriously doubting his words. About two years ago, my family took a vacation to the Caribbean and since then, the ocean and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms.

It had been my first time experiencing waves that were taller than me, and I was very excited. Foolishly, I ran right into the crash zone, just in time to be pummelled to the sea floor.

I cringe remembering the terror of being tossed and thrown like a rag doll, until finally the

ocean spat me out on the beach. I kept finding sand in my hair for weeks after that. At this moment I wasn’t too keen to return for a second round.

That said, the view in Kihei is nothing but amazing. The scorching afternoon sun makes the crystal water shimmer like mermaid scales. From my perch on the cliff I watch a bizarre of fish go on with daily existence in the coral reef—darting and dodging through miniature tunnels and caves—before they disappear in the foam of the waves surging against the ragged, lava-rock cliffside.

I have discovered, despite the heavy burden of western culture, that Hawai’i still holds onto its natural core, its rustic heart.

It reminds me of Mayumi Oda’s description of Harry Roberts, a great teacher and friend, in her piece I Opened the Gate Laughing. Oda describes Harry’s special way of observing nature and tells us that, “...we should open our eyes and believe what we see, being simply and deeply observant.”

During our morning walk through the market on the way to Al’s surf shack, I noted that nothing displays this better than the word aloha. The average tourist understands the meaning to be a simple ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’; but when the locals speak aloha the word carries a deep root of peace, compassion, and love with it. Everybody was ohana; everybody was family.

Even the hen and her chicks we spotted pecking at a coconut— left out by a kind vendor—were treated with respect.

It’s easy to see how somebody could feel connected to Maui.

The warm breeze that tussles my salt-stricken hair is comforting, like a guiding hand on my shoulder.

verybody is in the water except me. Walking down the last few steps of the staircase carved into the cliff, I place my board in the waves, and after an awkward struggle, I manage to really make sure the Velcro safety band is secured to my ankle.

“Everybody follow me. Walk your boards out. Don’t climb on or you’ll get water in your face.”

Warns Al, chuckling at what I assume to be a past memory.

I follow behind Jordan and give a little hop every time a wave comes by in order to clear it.

On one such hop I become very aware of a thin spot in my left rental shoe when I land painfully on the sharp coral bed.

I hurry up, trying not to fall behind Al. If I have any chance of being rescued from a shark attack, he would be the one I put my money on. Now level to Jordan, I lean over closer to him.

“The ocean doesn’t like me!”

My last word comes out as a gur-

E

gle when I forget to hop.

“Yeah whatever, don’t be an idiot. Come on, it's our turn,” sneers Jordan. What would I do without the gift of brotherly love?

Al had been lining the others up, feet to the waves, and was sending people off one at a time with no more instruction than to “stand up.” He laughed from deep within his chest each time a student managed to succeed.

“Alright sister hop aboard!” Al smiles at me under his sunglasses.

I do as I’m told. My forearms rub uncomfortably against the grip on the board.

“When you feel the wave lift you, stop paddling and stand up.

It would be a good idea to jump off before you hit the rocks.”

The turtle is supposed to symbolize good luck, endurance and long life.

As legend goes, turtles are excellent navigators and helped to guide the first Polynesian settlers’ home.

I nod and begin to rapidly paddle. If I wasn’t going to trust in myself, I figure it was worth it to trust in Al. He knows the ocean,

and I know him. I hope that makes me a friend of a friend in the eyes of the ocean god Kanaloa. A giant force surges beneath me and, stomach tight, I clumsily stand straight up. It’s a miracle in its own right, but I’m surfing! I hold still for a few seconds, marvelling at the speed in which the ocean propels me forward. Al hollers encouragement behind me.

Searching the small cliffside, I spot my parents and with a raised arm shout, “Cowabun– ” My words are cut short as I lose my balance and topple headfirst into the water.

Instinctively, I open my eyes, and realize by the wicked sting of salt that I’m not home swimming in a British Columbian lake. Nature in Hawai’i could rival that of Canada in terms of surprises.

At one point during the trip, we decided to see if we could “survive” the road to Hāna—a winding, gruelling drive around the rustic back of Maui that takes three hours and passes over 59 bridges and around 620 curves.

Halfway through, about the time we were all beginning to get carsick, we stopped to visit the Hāna Lava Tubes. A guide sitting in a small hut rented us some torches, and we descended the small steps into the darkness below. Large cobwebs with bright spiders, the venomous looking kind, were scattered around the mouth of the cave. I tried not to imagine backing into one of them in the darkness. Nonetheless, the caves were beautiful.

The gentle plink of water falling off the rocks glistened like the tears of a goddess.

I read once on a plaque that

18

Queen Ka’ahumanu had been born in a cave near Hāna. I wondered if it was similar to this one.

Coming out the mouth of the cave must have been like a second birth. Perhaps that is what gave her the strength to break a major kapu (law) and change Hawaiian society in terms of women’s rights forever. I admired her for this and tried not to fear the dark. It didn’t last long. We passed a sign that read: Attention, 20 inch flatworms may rappel from ceiling. If you see one, please do not step on it as they are endangered.

We left quickly after that. On our way to the car, we stopped to admire a grove of rainbow eucalyptus trees growing on the side of the road. The bark peeled in a plethora of colours from pinks to reds, greens, and blues. It was something straight out of Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka.

It amazed me that such a small island could keep so many secret wonders.

U

nder the water, when my eyes adjust, air bubbles fly from my lungs. A turtle stares back at me; it’s an ancient stare, one of curiosity and strength. I had never seen a sea turtle up close before until now. Its skin is a mosaic of deep greens with slight hues of purple around its eyes. I freeze. Whether from fear or awe or both, I’m not too sure.

The turtle is supposed to symbolize good luck, endurance and long life. As legend goes, turtles are excellent navigators and helped to guide the first Polynesian settlers’ home.

It’s quiet under the water, and I feel my body relax into holding the remaining breath I have.

The slow brushes of the turtle’s fins in the current have a calming rhythm. Time itself seems to move with their motion. I’m not sure how long I’ve been under. As the turtle spins to leave, its shell brushes past my thigh.

Touching a turtle is a crime on the island, sometimes enforced

by severe fines because they are highly protected. That said, from what I read, or hoped, they are understanding of accidents. I realize that my lungs are on fire.

I come up sputtering, but unharmed. Bracing my arms on the board I can’t help the smile that creeps upon my face. The turtle drifts away unnoticed, disappearing into a black shadow in between the waves. Goodbye beautiful honu.

I giggle loudly as my brother bails next to me.

“Jordan! I did it! I guess the ocean is a pretty friendly place!”

I shout to him.

“You were the only one who didn’t know!” He replies, voice thick with sarcasm, but with a hint of pride that only ohana could pick up on. 7

Photos: Chloe Redlin

19

landscaper’s prayer

by Alex Rake as we comb the plastic grass that tangles in the wind we pray the hospital will like the job we’ve done with their lawn we pray the patients will not report our practices of haste we pray the patients will not heal who were witness to our shortcuts and may our shortcomings grow long and may the hospital hire us again to comb the plastic grass when it tangles in the wind

20

Addressing the Coast

by Joel Robertson-Taylor

S

uddenly present as I stand impressing on me a sense of in the chaos of the ocean's near-futility against the oceanic temperament, I’m here to ways, I wouldn't have recognized be acquainted with the moment. either the tension of resisting the It’s something us busy mainland- pull of the coast or the superers don’t often think about, let natural force that lives here. I’m alone recognize as a practice that thankful for it, and for the resineeds to be practiced. Waist deep dents who share their home. As I in Cox Bay—I understand. am for the dungeness crab whose For a moment, I meat is sweet and let the early spring I know this pleasing; as I am morning sun warm for pink salmmy neck, survey- region by the on roasted over a ing watercolour driftwood fire, seawater colours and moniker soned with butter, clouds—passing Clayoquot garlic, and pepper, without haste, like garnished with sea ocean thoughts— Sound and as asparagus. All are and myself, touchresidents—some a symbol of ing against it with with a longer hersensations of the west coast itage than others. wind and sun.

What an honour to There’s no one else resilience. be considered one around and I get of them. to enjoy the peace of it. I get to What a gift it is that this ansmile at a far off breaching whale cient forest still stands. I know blow. They breach for the sun- this region by the moniker Clayorise, too. quot Sound and as a symbol of This is what I now know: it's a west coast resilience. In the riptide of the spirit that pulls us 1990s, 859 people were arrested, to the far west coast. I wouldn't charged with criminal contempt, have recognized it so acutely if it tried, and convicted in the B.C. hadn't been made so clear. That Supreme Court. The largest act admission is a biologically in- of civil disobedience in Canadian grained reading of the surf, I be- history. lieve. That’s what the coast does Back home, a controversy defor me, a visitor to the Esowista fines itself as environmental proPeninsula. tection versus economic growth.

The ocean leads by example, I It has worn itself through and it can see. If it weren't for the Cox keeps beating the same beat, reBay riptide, coaxing me toward verberating the same duality of the rocky shore to the north, one or the other. Embracing the

21

energy at the edge of the earth one thinks, “Why can’t we have both?” But even controversy has its economic engine.

I wonder if as many tar sand products would be approved for shipment if nationally we began to recognize the earth’s capacity to sustain growth as an economic model of its own, one that requires investment in the form of restraint. Hedging the earth means slowing down this suicidal race for heaven—to Babel by bitumen—termed “progress.”

The Wilderness Committee created a series of maps that track the route of the proposed and existing Trans Mountain pipeline and associated oil tanker traffic.

Photos: Joel Robertson-Taylor

It tracks the pipeline itself from Edmonton to Vancouver, the tanker route within the Salish Sea, and up the coast of Vancouver Island before tankers cross to Asia, as well as down stateside toward California. It’s a Cascadia conversation, even a global one.

Why is it framed as B.C. versus?

I wonder if more time was spent outside of urban environments, within predominantly organic ones, would there be a shift in the conversations about human influence? Perhaps a shift toward deep ecology, where we’d see ourselves as part of a complex ecosystem, and part of a bigger system beyond that. How does one come to know these things?

“We must apprentice ourselves to nature, learn its patterns, its strategies, its limits,” Rex Weyler writes in his essay “Nature’s Apprentice: A Meta-narrative for Aging Empires.”

I learnt this in Cox Bay as an apprentice. Out here, where the conversation hasn’t been scripted by politicians, corporations, and journalists, well meaning but narrowly focused, natural strategies of growth are held in balance with the input and output of a system more complex than we really know.

O

nce again armed with shells in my pocket and sand in my hair, I leave the seaside reluctant-

ly but do so knowing I'll be back soon. I have to be; there's more beach to comb, waves to catch, sand with which to fill my ears.

For days, lying in bed, I feel the toss and pull of the waves.

Leaving the coast, I still feel it. Returning to waking life, I feel it. My mind wanders to the beach where I know I’ll again be steadied, where there’s good health, where one doesn’t think about environmentalism because there’s no separation between sustainability and growth.

It’s good to get to know the home, the ecosystem, I live within. e

"231" (2019) Dimensions: 8x10 inches Medium: Acryla Gouache on Panel

23

Madeline Hildebrandt

"479" (2019) Dimensions: 11x14 inches Medium: Acryla Gouache on Panel Madeline Hildebrandt

24

"871" (2019) Dimensions: 12x24 inches Medium: Acryla Gouache on Panel

25

Madeline Hildebrandt

26

"Pas de Trois" Print Media: Collograph 16x20 Stonehenge Paper

27

Allie Risley

City Spaces

by Steven Sprott

Moving through spaces, through pressurized doors into a new hall alone with little streams of water-fountain water.

Here too, echoing voices from some expanding room beside and the boom of pop music beating on the walls, on my mind, People move as shadows of mechanisms, predictable, and I glance sharply when I pass them alongside.

Back outdoors, stark girl with her phone between her and the sun and a wave trail of perfume cinching my lungs.

28

From the window seat on third street

by Cat Friesen From the window seat on third street Clouds, turbid and incensed, pitch about the moon like waves around a dock, lap at it lick it up cause the birch skeletons to bow to the sycamore until the wind ceases as suddenly as it came.

In the new still of the night the alley behind the building bathed in bilious streetlamp glow glitters with fresh snow bits of broken bottle string of Mardi Gras beads a doll’s glassy head.

Listen: hear the soft steps of night creatures as they caper through shadows.

Listen: hear their sorrowful howls as they search for what’s missing.

The clouds have withdrawn; snow soaks up moonlight, gleams with fresh vigor, snuffs out all light.

29

"cross the breeze" Silver Gelatin Print 11x17 Isabella Dagnino

30

The Three Seas

by Marlowe Ferris

At once I beheld three seas: Silver, Glass, and Gold.

One beneath another, glistening, shifting, cold.

The middle sea was glazen: storming, roaring, wild.

It lay between the others, and I below, beguiled.

The bottom sea was golden: swaying, swishing, deep.

Its waves rolled on, above me.

I closed my eyes, to sleep.

The top was swirling silver; smooth as woven felt.

It shifted, darkened, and then began to melt.

The middle layer: skewered, by shining, splintered shards.

As Time swam beside me, and mumbled her regards.

31

The sinking slivers plummeted, through the depths of glass.

Again Time addressed me: this moment was to pass.

The Silver struck the golden sea: a great splashing hiss!

My eyes darted open, as I felt Silver's kiss.

Time had grown impatient.

She yelled with all her breath. “Son, come in, out of the rain!

You're going to catch your death.�

I rose up from the ocean floor, and breached the golden wheat.

Mom was standing at the door, rainboots on her feet.

32

"Structural Defects" October 2018 Ink pen on Stonehenge Dimensions: x5 pieces at 18x24 inches each Cassie de Jong

33

Artist Statement: This exercise on Stonehenge paper acted a meditative exercise, which aided in my own recent personal battles with mental health. The act of endlessly scrawling an expanse of tiny circles, surrounding a map of abstract geometric shapes, turned out to be a monotonous process that allowed me periods of time in which I could lose myself and drown out any and all negative emotion. Each drawing took nearly six hours to complete, which added up to a total of roughly 30 hours drawing. Repetitive patterns are something I have often used to help deal with issues of anxiety and depression in my personal life. This has since

been translated into the basis for my artistic practice. Drawing doodle-like patterns, such as the ones presented in my work, is a simple enough task that it becomes an easily accessible coping mechanism for people dealing with anxiety and depression. This is likely why art therapy and adult colouring books have become so popular in recent years. In my research I have referred to research examining brain and activity and behavioral patterns in relation to various art therapy practices. These practices have traditionally helped clients move from intensely-structured pastimes to more unstructured activities of self-expression. These observations became a driving force behind the intent of the project. I devised an alternative hanging method for the artworks which allowed shadows from their geometric cut-outs to cast themselves on the wall. The addition of the cut-out sections and the resulting shadows act as a metaphor for the hollow feeling described by many sufferers of depression or anxiety, and it’s lasting effects. These gaping holes in the overall structure of the series inspired the title, Structural Defects.

34

maracas

by Martin Castro

the sea should arrive any day now all brown foam in wrinkled and ill-fitting suit dumping luggage on doorstep and surely the mountains are feeling it too subsidized murders of crows go on cigarette runs for mid-level nightclub promoters glide over flatland Detroit full of cars once again shared overflow parking for Illinois & Ontario. the mountains aint got long the desert encroached on by too much blue the forests melted away on sunday

35

made every cave uninhabitable flooded them all up maracas dot the countryside like eyelids & tremble in revolt i know that they know i am thinking of u they shake the sound of marbles rolling hardwood and the light flies fast red over mountains mid-july monsoons gag the burning atlantic some celestial hand holds a red-hot philly-sized branding iron to the cheek of California and in the stars every last mother weeps.

36

Lord, a Land

by Laurel Logan Lord, an aura — a nebula. A lunar allure blurred our blue land.

Our land earns, yearns, burns.

Our allure: a ballad.

Our aura: an ally.

Lord, an orb — neon and royal, rare, ruby, rad, and loyal.

37