the continuist p r e s e n t s:
on t h i n k i n g
things
A note from the editors Highlighting specific processes of innocence and experience, “On Thinking Things� represents a structured account of thought. Its encyclopedic nature allows for a clinical reconstruction of something remembered or something important, lending the idea that these things that we are thinking are universal, and meant to be shared. Enjoy, you dizzy ravines. Everything we do, we do for you. Love always, The Editors of The Continuist February 2016
The Continuist is an online and print collective based out of Ryerson University. Our mission is to provide an outlet for artists to showcase their work, whether professional or amateur. This is a passion project, run by a grand bunch of students who are committed to making and sharing art. Interested in submitting? Send us your work to thecontinuist@gmail.com and check our online submissions at thecontinuist.wordpress.com.
on: pink
Cover :
& blue Anna Goodnews
on:
Still Lifes
Cameron MacDonald
on:
Tradition
My grandmother once whispered to me that her mind was growing holes Expanding in that it was consuming itself She once muttered that someone had missed out Missed out on marrying her youngest daughter That she would have made a lovely mother They missed out I sat there wondering If she was truly gone That her mind existed somewhere Connected between the burnt out lights I thought long and hard With my cohesive mind About what I valued more My morals Or the avoidance of shame The shame of not committing to matrimony As holy as her mind Daisy Barker
on:
Modern Living
Anna Goodnews
on:
Being aWriter
One day, you are invited to an old friend’s birthday party. You show up out of common courtesy because he wasn’t really your close friend in the first place, but you arrive anway to avoid hurting his feelings. You pour yourself a glass of punch. Sit down. You glance over at the food table; it ranges mostly from light finger food (examples: cheese, crackers, mini sandwiches, some weird spinach wraps). Next step: ignore anyone beside you. Avoid eye contact. Look down at the floor. Unfortunately, someone notices you. It’s a female figure, but don’t count your chances on scoring a date. She asks your name, you ask hers. Have some small conversation about the latest episode of that show everyone has been talking about. Then she asks what line of work you’re in. The one question that determines your great first impression. The crowd falls silent (but not really, since everyone’s still talking), all eyes are fixed on you (probably because of your outfit). Finally, you answer: writer. The woman raises an eyebrow, beckoning that philosophical question: is that your final answer? You reply yes. She then follows up by asking what you write. You take a pause, scrambling your brain for an answer. You say: “Fiction?” emphasized with a really big question mark at the end.
Let’s pause for a second and ask what a writer is exactly? Someone who can put words on a piece of paper? That guy you see sipping a latte at your neighborhood Starbucks or a near by indie coffee shop? Holding a pen and a jagged notebook more barren than an Arctic tundra? Or maybe even the woman next door, divorced, living on low pay, and a recurring alcoholic who constantly procrastinates until the upcoming deadline.
Stereotypes aside, a certain definition of the term has not yet been made and I myself have yet to find it in Webster’s dictionary. Because writing is strange. It is a process in which someone conveys that strangeness on a sheet of blank wood pulp. It is a collision of black and white: dark words inked by a pen or computer, forming lines upon lines of sentences and conflict paving over that endless white field. Of course after all of that, you realize those lines are just a dark stain of crap. Crap that has already been used in any TV show, film, book, and pop song you can think of. At the same time, your editor is telling you that “Shining Hearts of Glory” doesn’t make a good title and keeps sending you more edits and rewrite requests. And then you find yourself against a hard wall and that endless white field becomes your reality.
I’m not trying to be poetic here, but writing teachers and authors all preach the same damn message: to be a good writer, one has to read A LOT and write A LOT. Writers have also got to stick to strict punctuation and grammar in their sentences or play with their readers and write phrases that sense no make. To be creative is one thing. To write is a whole other problem. There is no instruction manual to help you. Combining those two terms would form what we call a “creative writer.” These are the people who are constantly daydreaming and making up fantasy worlds that come to life. These are also the people that procrastinate more than actually sitting down and touching a letter M on the keyboard. So the next time you attend a party, and the discussion turns to jobs, please politely reply: “I write.” Then leave to
get more cheese and crackers. You might leave your questioners with confused faces. To be honest, you really have no clue what being a “writer” or “creative writer” is all about. All you know is that you’ll have something to write down in your notepad and maybe make some time to dust off that English diploma. Because writers have to work that fine craft of secrecy. If a magician never reveals his tricks before the end of the act, then writers never reveal a plot until the whole story is finished. William Moo
on:
Modern Living
Anna Goodnews
on:
The North
i took this photo at the top of the place that bred me the place that rocked me in its arms and squeezed me hard in its hands until i was a circle the place that has us see integration and segregation through the same lens the place that had me undress myself at 14 the place that taught me i didn't have to the place that sent me off to marvel at grey rather than green the place that my heart will try to speak for i cannot capture its movement, the sparkle of its trees sometimes i can hardly remember but still i'll never lose the honey spruce taste it puts in my mouth Sydney McInnis
on:
Talking Dirty
I stumbled over saying how badly I wanted you to fuck me because I was still on the fence about it; and I don’t know how to talk dirty. I had trouble moaning about your c-word with the kind of ferocity you desired, because it was 3pm on a Wednesday and I don’t know how to talk dirty. I told you to fuck me like you’re not coming back and you told me that was too dark. I guess I still don’t know how to talk dirty. Jordan Donovan on:
Flirting
Kate Collins
on:
Other Things To Talk About
I am not sleeping, but resting in someone else’s clothes That aren’t dirty Meanwhile, black has been oozing from the holes of my skin like pestilence Balloons at children’s birthday parties popping, of my own accord, like I am picking wildflowers or something Meanwhile, the background dancers are immaculate Can’t you read my sestina and act like you get me? The weather has been lovely The way you want nothing to do with it You could at least pretend that Dickens exists because you want him to that I am so in love with someone else’s life That I am stage managing natural disasters in my own mind Somehow, that doesn’t really seem fair I love you I love you I love you Ice breakers at the taco stand, I have never laughed so hard in my life While watching yours unfold on a screen Meanwhile, the dramaturgy beckons and We drive on, listening to glazers From the AUX cord I am actually a new soul, not an old one Was that poem about me? I am okay, this day is just stubborn; It doesn’t seem to want to end.
Kristina Pantalone
on:
Close Quarters
Sebastian Back
on:
Recent Failure
Sebastian Back
on:
Letters
When I was in preschool, my teacher asked me what my favourite letter was. Without hesitation, and much thought, I said “F.” I mean, who doesn’t love that letter? It’s associated with the best things in life – fun, freedom, fucking. The lowercase “f” also has a nice curve to it. What’s not to love? Now that I’m an adult, maybe I’ll change my favourite letter. How about “S”? It’s even curvier than the lowercase “f” and remains curvy in the uppercase form. It still refers to fun things too – sweets, sleep, sex. Even better. When I was that innocent child, no thought went into my letter choice. As a little kid, I had not yet been exposed to a vast vocabulary, so I could not easily extract connotations from letters. Now, imagine being my teacher. When a kid tells you that their favourite letter is “F,” what’s the first thing that pops into your mind? No wonder she gave me an awkward smile. She wasn’t wrong. Now that I’m an adult, I must admit, “F” does stands for some pretty fabulous things. However, to complicate the matter, I’m a synesthetic. Specifically, the grapheme-colour one. This means that I associate letters and numbers with colours. Apparently, my brain didn’t bother to prune away some extra neurons when I was a kid. Now, I’m left with connections that most people have lost. I’m definitely not complaining. I’m actually pretty lucky. It helps a lot with memory. How do you know I’m not lying to you? Curious about the phenomenon, I’ve read quite a few scientific studies on synesthesia. Apparently, you can train peoples’ brains to associate letters and numbers with colours later in life as well. However, there is still a difference between real synesthetics and the control group, otherwise known as the “normal” population. Synesthetics will always see the same letters and numbers as the same colours. You can ask them a week later and both groups may give you the same answers. However, come back ten years later. Then you’ll see who the real synesthetics are. When I was young, I created a document of my synesthesia. I
wrote down each letter and number as well as the colour with which I associated it. I even wrote down the colour that I wish I saw when I looked at the numbers and colours. I saw the letter “K” as navy, but I wanted to see it as light yellow, or beige. Strangely, this ideal colour always was the inverse, or the negative, of the actual colour I saw. Now, a very unfortunate event occurred when I was young. On my ancient Windows 2000 computer, I had stored a vast amount of early childhood stories, poems, and other useful documents such as the synesthesia one. After years of computer virus buildup, it finally crashed. It should have been expected, but I was not prepared for its death. Fortunately database administrator father managed to figure out a way to save my files. However, he only thought to save the “My Computer” section, not the “My Documents” one. Thus, all of my youthful creativity in the form of computer-generated documents had disappeared. Also gone was my authentic proof that I’m a synesthetic. Although I personally know that I am not lying to you, ten years later, it would be nice to give you some evidence. Nevertheless, let me continue rambling on about my potentially non-existent synesthesia (at least in your eyes). Unfortunately, one cannot control the colours one sees for each letter and number. Thus, a lot of mine are quite boring or inconvenient. While the first few letters consist of nice, bold colours – “A” is bright red and “B” is smiley-face yellow – there is a huge portion of letters that look almost identical. For instance, “C,” “D,” and “F” all exist within the range of orange and brown. Since darkness, or shade, is the only distinguishing factor between orange and brown, it is easy to confuse where those letters fall within the spectrum. Usually, “D” is the most orange while “F” is the most brown. “C” usually falls somewhere in between the two. Now that you know my annoying conundrum with the letters “C,” “D,” and “F,” isn’t it surprising that I chose F as my favourite letter? I mean, why go for an uninteresting, less unique colour? I honestly do not know. In the moment, I vaguely remember thinking about going home and sitting on my brownish couch. The
thought of throwing off my schoolbag and shoes and plopping down in front of the TV with a mouthful of food seemed nice at the time. Or maybe I was thinking about the curved shape of an italicized lowercase “f,” which reminded me of the smooth carved wood panels on beautiful, expensive furniture. Both the wood and the shape represent that letter. Either way, I was thinking of furniture, which conveniently also begins with an “F.” As does the name of the preschool and the word “favourite.” Normal people think about the connotations behind the letter. I think of its denotation. No matter what, I can never imagine the symbol without making the colour association. Nevermind, I don’t want to change my favourite letter to “S.” That would alter so much. This entire story would be compromised. Furthermore, the associated colour is dark grey – the only colour more boring than brown. But enough about me – what’s your favourite letter?
Anna Kozak on:
Eleutheromania
Chelsea Nguyen
on:
STORYTELLERS
Chelsea Nguyen
He sits on the same stool every night A ritual of the setting of the sun Sitting in wait for his prey Like an aging spider in a frayed web Finding meaning and consolation In weaving his stories and retelling them to Strange faces hidden in smoke and drunken haze Night after night He feeds on their laughs and smiles between cigarettes He needs them like he needs that dark Whiskeys in front of him Without these he is nothing At the end of each night He sat staring in his empty glass Looking past his reflection Silently congratulating himself On a successful creation Stories tellers are powerful Painters of words But only so far as their audience Allows them to be m. k. watts
on:
AIRPORTS & DYING
The man in line Bald to the skin Shining under the yellow flickering fluorescents He lumbers through the crowd A bad leg or knee Speaking to all those that will listen He softly speaks to me of a friend of his He had gone to visit That had taken their life Never mentioning how it was done By knife or rope Or something more creative But that does not matter It’s the way he speak of it He does this without Anger or sadness Only a knowing One that comes with age and heartbreak Finding busy hands & minds His words fall on deaf ears He turns from the crowd with a satisfied Disappointment He speaks of death alone As we all will in time on:
MACHINES & MADNESS
The silent machines hum Against the sound of rusting metal We wander tirelessly In our cumbersome flesh With melding metal minds Outdated, irrelevant In this technologically Advanced civilization Replacing our blood with oil Minds racing with algorithms Of nothingness m. k. watts
on:
Cough Syrup
Along with your mind, you've gone astray, Down a shrouded road that can't be seen This is no longer child's play You crumble down from soft decay, A cloud of smoke, gray and green, Along with your mind, you've gone astray Rough around the edges, you're starting to fray, What fun it is to be young, This is no longer child's play Eyes go blank, they close halfway Your skin slick in a heavy sheen Along with your mind, you've gone astray. Reality will dwindle away until it's among the never been This is no longer child's play Focus gone, head in disarray, Sticky and dirty, you're never clean, Along with your mind, you've gone astray, This is no longer child's play. Erin Wilson on:
Procrastination
There is a point where procrastination becomes a way of life. When? I'll get to that. At first it feels like mere laziness or a lack of inspiration, interest, energy, urgency. Then the minutes pass. They turn into hours, which turn into days, which turn into weeks, months, years. Suddenly that important deadline passes silently. That friend you meant to talk to is now a stranger. That job reference you meant to contact no longer remembers you. So when is the point where procrastination becomes a way of life? I'll tell you later.
Geraldynn Lubrido
on:
Staying Inside the Lines
When we were young, our teachers gave us colouring pages and wax crayons. “Colour inside the lines,” they told us, and we didn’t understand why we should have to when we liked it our own way. We got older and the colouring pages became world maps and if we didn’t stay inside the lines, Africa would melt into Europe and bleed into the Atlantic Ocean so we learned and changed our ways and steadied our hands to keep the picture perfect. Now we are older still and when we are again given colouring pages and wax crayons, we colour inside the lines as second nature and if by chance the colour leaks out of where it should be, we are upset and feel that it ruins the picture. So do we feel that if we step out of where we are supposed to be according to society we will ruin the picture and make ourselves a laughingstock and so we stay inside the carefully drawn lines and forever wonder why we should have to when we would like to live our own way. Emily Duffy
on:
Forgiveness
Sebastian Back on:
REMEMBERING
I am still swallowing substance-laced truisms and washing them down with a tall glass of cold orange juice (add: ice cubes). Still wiping sweat from my forehead, bouncing my leg so vigorously that it scares my dog away. We are both left cowering in corners until I need something to hold onto. (My tongue is chalky and thick and all I keep picturing is your mouth on my mouth again and again) These memories of breakfast at midnight make me feel weighted. “Pancakes and bacon taste better with fresh juice�, past-you says in the dark. And they do. I remember we had breakfasts here. I remember that you were here. And these flashes of you seem like a damn drug trip to me.
Rebekah Veerasammy
on:
THE ENDING
Sometimes I find myself struggling to keep my ears above the salty swells. 5am: choking back sobs and wheezing for air, trying to silence the hiccupping sound of your laughter trapped in my head. There are echo-y nights in this white tiled bathroom. And I can’t stop hearing them. Constantly drowsy and paranoid. These two symptoms sit on top of each other making me nauseous. This 5-year ache; “must have been a doozy of a love affair,” my mother says. This bedside book hasn’t helped ease the pain. But it never claimed to. Pages of facts and diagrams, not one that I wouldn’t fold into a paper airplane and watch coast on the air into the morning. “Away from this sadness and away from me!” past-me shrieks at sleepy past-you. Repeating your sloshed night-before words, hurling accusations at you in bed. There are things I know. I know that there are planes and boats. I know that there are waves and storms, rocking and crashing through the sky and the sea. And there is a girl. Still, they are far from this bathroom. I know that time moves on, segmented and divided by days and then years. I know that we are so far from warm bathwater (droplets on my bare legs sticky syrup kisses water drains from the tub) For now these memories comfortably come and go through my front door, but this is not a frickin’ IHOP.
Rebekah Veerasammy
the continuist