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Letter From the Editors

Dear Readers, Each week we have met to worship our post-modern shaman, Eric McCormack, in preparation for our journey into the unknown. We have created this holy book with blood, sweat, and goattears in order to showcase the creative madness of the followers of the Continuist cult. An essential carbon footprint, this zine contributes to the immortal occult canon which has included The Necronomicon, The Tibetan Book of The Dead, and the Dan Brown oeuvre. So we thank you for your offerings disciples, and to those just joining our ritual for giving into our brainwashing techniques. Without you, we’re nothing but a bunch of over-the-hill, Woody Allen look alikes sitting in a sweat lodge smoking cheap cigarettes.With that said, we’d like to thank those shining gems who have helped to make this immaculate conception possible. Andrew Hunter, PFACS, the Faculty of Arts Student Experience Centre and all of the brothers lost in the struggle. You know what you did. This publication will be back next year, with a firey vengence, much like a post New Year’s Eve hang-over. If you can stand the heat, visit us at our online micro-nation: thecontinuist.wordpress.com Signed, your sacrificial lambs: The Continuist Editorial Team


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The Ritual of Social Evolution - Elyse Mayo ArtsStudies& Contemporary

Dear Apathetics, It’s the perfect time to get the fuck out of line. the baby boomers are dying, the dinosaurs are stupefied by all the what-cha’ma-call-its of technology, they are irrelevant Now. We are quickly becoming the majority. don’t you see? that This is the perfect time? the Future is begging Us to command It --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

US, The Students, The angry, young and beautiful, The ADHD-equipt-for-the-fast-paced-tomorrow, The always-suspended-and-expelled, not for being stupid but for being too smart, We are not ‘problem children,’ We are the solution. Now, to tear down what We hate and build something more up-to-date. We’ve got the chutzpah. We’re the second coming of the S.U.P.A. C.Y.C.le It’s tradition, THE RITUAL OF SOCIAL EVOLUTION, those old assholes didn’t inherit the earth, they’re borrowing it from Us! It’s not just a rebellious ‘phase,’ not just petty ‘teen angst’ that’s just what scared old paleolithic traditionalists and capitalists cling to, that we will shut up when we become more ‘mature.’ We know better, that they will be the ones who have to shut up when We rise up! -------------------------------------------------------------------------------seriously, what the hell are you doing walking around the mall, wearing brand name garbage (looking like a tool) sitting around in MacDonalds, Tim Hortons; retch. you really like feeding from a fetid pile of the late generation’s rotted table scraps? wearing their hand-me-down, retro hipster-esque, dunce hats; looking ironic/moronic -------------------------------------------------------------------------------DIY, learn to sew, to cook, to grow food, to make everything; to recycle, reduce, reuse; to program the computers, to invent the next-big-things, to take over the media, to write the history books, start your own political party, to strike fear into the black hearts of crusty old bureaucrats and politicians, a fear that might teach them to make love again, to love like We love, with passion and vigor, and no goddamn regrets whatever Your politics, get involved in politics. We are the majority; vote! protest! We need to not only push the envelopes, but set the mailboxes on fire. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------how often do You scream at the top of Your lungs? how often do You sing? how often do You dance, androgynous? how often do you feel bored? you should never, ever be bored because We are the hell forsaken avant-vanguard! We will take back the Earth and let it breathe and be beautiful again, We can make more time, by buying less shit; working less, living more; creating, inventing look at The Students in Europe right now, and don’t sit still just because it hasn’t gotten that bad in Canada, yet. Today Anarchy (look it up, anarchy does not just mean pig fights and destruction), Tomorrow We will make something brand New. neither left, nor right. something multi-dimensional, multi-cultural, alter-mondular, inter-stellar Let’s paint the town red, or rainbows!


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D a r y a

K h a m s e h

Film


4 Andrew Townsend

Media Production MA


1. Tanka – Strobes and Beats A Lothario Traverses a sea of flesh In dim-lit madness Seeking a flash of beauty Lips lock amidst strobes and beats

Nine Tankas - Shanto

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International Economics and Finance

2. Tanka – Lights like Fire Cast from world above To black underground, waiting For floating Charon. With fury, lights, like flames, spill The train is in the station

3. Tanka – Neon Permanent buildings House impermanent drifters Dreamless sleepers they 4. Tanka –Wither and Shed Wand’ring cold, chromatic streets A flower withers A kiss to memory cast All beauty must fade Trees shed leaves in fall. And a 5. Tanka – Ode to WKW Man learns to love and let go. White smoke coils upwards Flourescent suns light faces Slow motion hips sway 6. Tanka – Distillation Grieved glamorous visages Frosty air. Nostrils. Lightless. Golden fireflies hang. Steps. Salt grinds beneath. Crackling melody. Snowflakes. Breeze. Voices. Honks. Alive, warm. 7. Tanka – Sleep, Easy Motionless, lids shut, In space and time. Thoughts begin To run, untamed, free And arrange into new shapes Hues, sounds and signs. Dreams are born.

8. Tanka – Shame on Icarus Concrete, glass jungle Towers that shame Icarus Chatter is birdsong Lamp-posts are trees. Men are beasts, 9. Tanka – Life of Sparks That chase, hunt, die, kill and love. Ephemeral we Sparks – joys, aches, kisses, hopes, smiles Abruptly erased Lost in desks, cars, streets, crowds, shops Washed away like tears in rain Background photograph by Jacob Tompson


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T

Sacred – Abdulrehman Minhas International Economics and Finance

he darkness clouds my actions, as the shovel penetrates the dirt. I dig the sacred tomb of heart. In fitful rage I pressed it beneath the surface, for the dirt separated me from my beloved – my cosmic mate who lies buried beneath it. These actions are not befitting for a lover; but a petty grave robber. But depraved beings aren’t any better than the latter. They too only cherish dead pasts. As for me I am neither, but a guilty man unveiling a truth, which lies buried under. It is a still night, as though we were alone on an island of sweet bliss. We had been abandoned in the stars, far apart as eyes winding shut, between a blink and a stare. The moon, peaking through the veil of darkness, my only witness as its glow, present and languid. Eyeing the evil as it comes to fruition; voyeur of cold, cruel things. The night reminded me distinctly of her, the perfume from a distance, the cold vacuum created by the space between her hand and mine. Yet as I dig deeper the realization her warm touch is snuffed by cold decay. The ravenous monsters that feasted on her body, in the soil. Would they have been vicious as the people above it? They pluck the ripest of plums. I do not think of these things as I continue digging. My only thought of reuniting with her. But she has been through severe changes, would she even remember me? …of course she would; she loved me once before; she wouldn’t forget it. It is odd that the night is still. As my evil reveals itself; the universe does not condemn it. It should have called forth a dreadful tempest, full of bitter rage and spite. The wind howling as though escaping from Hades, the thunder hammering like a pronouncement of condemned man— the malice of my deed captured by atmosphere. But there is neither: just me, her and the mute night. The dirt is still wet from the evening dew. The sinking and lugging of feculent goes effortlessly, but the taste of wet soil is ineffable. The aroma although exotic to the living, must smell like sulphur to the dead. I continue digging away at the dirt, in hopes of reuniting with unrequited love. How desperately I needed to see her. It had been ten years since her death. Till now she was my obsession. I wanted to see her beautiful face again. Her true face that she hid from me so well. I wanted to confess something to her. I needed to tell her all; something I hid beneath the surface; those long years. I am going to hurt myself in her love, while I reveal my naked truth to her, she will be skinless too. No hidden truths, no painted veils, just naked children, formless, true selves exposed inside a grave. My clothes are infested with the mud. Corrupting my attire, my costume reflects my person. The dirt truly knows who I am. No woman-born, has realized that yet. I always knew that nature was a better judge of character. If my love was a saint, I will find none of her—the soil swallows them whole; but if she was a sinner—-I would find her more beautiful than ever.


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The shovel grates at something solid and hollow. Could it be her coffin? Firm and maintained underneath violent earth. I fall on my knees; clear the dirt from her containment, with my hands working simultaneously, against the grain of sand. I will be able to feel her presence again. I sing graces to God! In my own delusional delight. I work furtively as I hasten to awaken her from catatonia. The tears lingering in my eyes, all the time spent alone… her presence haunting me all those years. The space between the touch of her hand and mine, which seemed infinite, now so close. Then I opened her grave and how infinite that distance became. Life, our partition, as I saw her ugly and decayed face. The skin was hanging like leper, what remained of her was just bone; chewed malevolently. Her hair that once reflected light heavenly, lost colour and white. Her once beautiful rose red cheeks, no more; but haven for maggots. She became a world filled with obscene things. Nature truly did love her and made her a harem of filth. I had no doubt, she was a beautiful soul and I loved her once upon a dream. As I kneeled at her feet, looking at her, I could not hold the somnambulist tears, which broke through the realm of grief on to the plain of skin. I wept as I collapsed on the wet ground, the darkness didn’t smell of perfume. It smelled of emptiness and despair. No one was there to hold my hand, only nature to tell me that I was condemned to solitude. But now I made a brave face and I looked at her again.

I felt my face, construed to suppress tears. I looked down on her. I needed to tell the truth, bound by my sacred love. The truth, which haunted me. The truth that for the past ten years in all my years of solitude; when there was no one to console me. I threw out everything that reminded me of her. I made an empire of ether to disassociate myself from her. To forget her, to forget you my love. Because I could not continue living, knowing that we were in different worlds. Her voice still lingered through hallways, but time did allow me to forget you. I was able to convince myself, that you were gone all those years. Yes, I destroyed all memory of you, and I forgot; I forgot how you looked like. I tried reminding myself how you once danced in the moonlight. But I could not remember how you looked like! All those dreams that you appeared in were vivid and the actress who played you didn’t once remind me of you. I needed to open your tomb. I needed to desecrate your grave, to remember the owner. Whom I cherished once. The face that showed me possibilities; that seemed endless and I never thought possible, were gone. Never to look at me with longing eyes and thoughtful glances. Your offerings to mother Earth were the only remnant of memory. It was my only hope to remember you, but all it did was reopen those wounds again. I knelt to the ground, and I kissed her rotten hand. Taking long and ghastly stares at her, but what remained, didn’t stir any memories. It was not her and she was forever gone. I closed the coffin and I turned to leave. I threw the dirt back on her grave. Covering the sacred heart with mud, so the world does not see the truth. I lay down on the freshly laid dirt, with my love, so we could count the stars once again. But the stars had shut their eyes a long time ago and the night was still passive as ever.


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Rebecca Arts and


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Sands

Contemporary Studies


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Old Friends - Tom Dunbar

Arts & Contemporary Studies

When the cops come I will become hollow and when the waves crash my name will mean nothing and when I write out your name in a poem I keep it safe and real for hundreds of days and when my muscles turn grey my breath becomes feminine and when I dare you to you better follow suite and when each house is solid each car and baby. “Finger God Hair� illustration by Tom Dunbar


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Rituals in Travellers or Travellers in Rituals? Lea Puechel Psychology

What a coincidence: Little Magali was called out at the airport, she got lost and is looking for her parents. My name is also Magali, but I am not little any more. Though I wish I was, because I feel lost sitting here waiting for my flight to take off. Unlike little Magali, I am too old for my parents to help me find my way. In fact, I already live alone and I am supposed to go back to university to continue the semester. Today, my mind wants to reflect critically. I can’t help but wonder: University – is it custom, tradition, prescribed, the one and all? Is it my own chosen ritual? Lead by my curiosity, I looked up the meaning of “Ritual” two weeks ago. According to the English Oxford Dictionary, the old version of a ritual consists of “religious or solemn ceremony consisting of a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order.” I am reminiscing about words and meanings until I decide I am reminiscing too much. So I settle with the idea that in this age, a ritual can also consist of something small like a coffee in the morning, and that it has lost its religious background. In fact, rituals can be nice. They are organization and are a lead, something you find important in certain situations. So, I notice that my ritual at the airport seems to be: People-watching. A very funny comment of a friend comes to my mind: “A ritual is something that makes you feel secure. That also may make you look ridiculous, because your ritual is ….exactly ridiculous to others.” I notice that all travellers seem to have their own habits and it is true, they all seem weird in their own right. One woman is lying on the ground doing Yoga, another is sitting and drinking a coffee. Several business people are working on their laptops. A couple is leaning against each other. A group of young men is drinking beer and checking out the stewardesses. A bunch of individuals are already anxiously lined up, ready to get on the airplane. A young woman is cuddled into her blanket-like sweater. It looks peaceful in this waiting hall and all these rituals seem to have one thing in common: No talking seems to be involved. I am happy I do not have to talk today. Travelling can be exhausting. We do it so often, that there is nothing exiting about it any more. In fact, this quietness gives me time to digest all the andonce-again-good-byes. So, I am standing here waiting and being left alone wondering where all the other traveller’s rituals stem from? Are they afraid, are they trying to calm themselves down, are they shy, are they sick of small talk, are they simply happy to travel and are reminiscing? Then I notice two women talking and I catch myself smiling. They look so fresh and excited. Then I make a final decision for the day. I decide that I am young and that I am going to make my travelling exciting again and I start talking to my neighbour. Everyone has an interesting story about their ritual to tell.


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Knowledge is Water by Christopher Carriere Politics and Governance

I

asked what was wrong and Alex claimed to be upset for no reason. Then: “It runs in my family. My mother, my aunt, my grandfather, two of my uncles. They’ve, all been medicated.” “Well,” I said. “Welcome to the club.” “Aren’t you going to respond?” “I just did,” I said. “I said: Welcome to the club.” We did not say anything for a little while and there was the sound of passing cars sloshing through the soaking New Years Eve streets on their way to drown in drunken celebrations as we would later. “People that are medicated for depression are just terminally uncurious people who haven’t figured out what is making them unhappy, and don’t want to.” “Some people are too far gone. What if you were sixty or seventy? “Are you sixty or seventy?” Alex said nothing. “Nobody knows anything about how the human mind works,” I said. “The psychologists that sell those pills are profiting off of scientific mysticism.” “They seem to have it figured out,” Alex said. “In double-blind trials, antidepressants are about as effective as Smarties.” “You must have learned a different psychology.” “And academics would surely never lie about the efficacy of their own science.” “Fuck you.” Alex got up and went into the other room. I followed her after a minute. “The human mind is enormously complex,” I said. “Everything responds to everything else. Everything is interconnected. Society, the environment, your actions. Nobody knows if chemical imbalances are the cause or the result of depression.” “If they’re the cause, you take the pills. If they’re the result, you take the pills. You are one of those fucked-up philosophers who creates problems by abusing language.” “Are you going to take the pills?”


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“No.” Alex sat on my bed with a face knotted by murky emotion. Then: “Nobody knows anything about how the human mind works. If nobody knows anything, how come you know something?” “It was a poor choice of words.” “Everything is interconnected. You are such a fucking genius. If everything is interconnected, how can anybody possibly figure out what is making them unhappy?” “Each person has a responsibility to attempt to craft their own happiness through a process of trial and error.” “You don’t have a monopoly on logic. You’re a fucking mystic as well.” I thought: knowledge is water and I pour it indelicately. You know what you know because you have nearly been drowned in it. You carry it with you in a glass jar but that does not mean that you can transmit it into a different vessel without making a mess. Then: “Okay. Here.” I took a sheet of paper and a pen and drew something like this:

I said: “Everybody has a reservoir of happiness inside of them. Everything you do either adds to it or removes from it. Your diet; exercise habits; alcohol consumption; self-talk; doing creative things that give you a sense of accomplishment. You may not be able to pinpoint the exact thing that is withdrawing enough from your reservoir to make you unhappy; that’s fine. There will always be something wrong. As long as the water reaches a certain level you will be equipped to deal with whatever happens.” Alex nodded. “I already knew that, but that is a good way of putting it. It makes me feel better. Why couldn’t you say that in the first place?” I said that I did not know. I thought: I am learning very slowly how to be a human being.


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Memories Stephanie S.

Arts and Contemporary Studies

A place, Where a peaceful bliss takes hold And encompasses around me Never wanting it to let go of me. Never wanting to leave this place, this room, this moment in time And go back To the real world. Just to stay To think And remember the memories of him. His love, laughter and the joy he brought To me. Each object, That surrounds me, All have a memory A point in time, Attached, Etched in, Of a moment of time with him. This place, this room Reminds me of him. And if I leave, Never wanting to, To go back to the real world Knowing full well that he will never be there, Again.


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Shame – Daniel Mapa

Criminal Justice

At 11:11, I hear about the unlucky seven, Who were riding their Jeep in the war. They drove on a bomb, Four fresh out of prom, The sight of blood, guts, and gore I ignore. At 11:21, I hear about the father and son, Who disappeared on their trip to the lake. The reporter’s on screen, With the cop on the scene, But for them my heart fails to break. At 11:23, I see a ship flipped in the sea, Muck, oil, and ooze everywhere. The captain’s in shock, With his crew on the dock, Yet I just sit on and continue to stare. At 11:29, My mood starts to decline, As I see the score of the game. My favourite team, Lost its championship dream! Damn it – That’s what I call a shame.


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Starbuck


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Caitlin Traynor Arts and Contemporary Studies


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Jacob Thompson * Arts and Contemporary Studies


Happy Birthday, Pumpkin - Carly Lewis

L

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Journalism MA

aurel Lippman awoke to the impatient shriek of her rotary telephone. Wasting only a few seconds to wish she was dreaming, and then just a few more to regret ever buying it for ten dollars at a stoop sale, she surrendered to the screaming, plastic beast and got out of bed. The phone was old, outdated. Ironic. It sat on a wooden desk in the living room, atop a stack of old New Yorkers and beside the ashtray she hadn’t emptied in three weeks. Knowing the effort her fingers would have to make to dial a number prevented her from making phone calls she’d later wish she hadn’t made, and it was this that made her keep the phone instead of smashing it into pieces like she wanted to on this very morning. The chilly floor against the soles of her feet made her whole body shiver. She was awake now; she had surrendered. And the telephone still shrieked. There was only one person in the world who would dream of calling her so early in the morning, and today there was a reason. “Hello.” “Good morning!” “Morning, Dad”. “Do you want me to sing?” (Her birthday.) “It’s okay”. “Oh come on, let me sing. It’s your birthday! Let me sing.” “If you want to sing, you can sing.” “Should I sing?” (Every year he asked if he should sing.) “It’s up to you. You don’t have to sing”. “If you don’t want me to sing, I won’t sing.” (The guilt.) “Sure, Dad. Sing. I’d like that.” And so he sang. “Happy Birthday.” And repeat. “Happy Birthday.” One more time. Her father was not a horrible singer, he could carry a tune. And he was a charming man, one who could make up for having never kept a school photo of her in his office by singing “Happy Birthday” to her now, with the part where the name goes replaced by the word “Pumpkin”. Last year it was “Darling.” The year before that: “Sweetheart”. Her father was a doctor and spent his days poking around at ventricles and arteries like a kid in junior high biology class stabbing a pig’s heart with a pair of tweezers. A real blood and guts kind of guy. It was his job to rummage around inside the human body looking for signs of decay and disease, to make a map of an impossible maze and find cures for the incurable. The doctor (her father) had so many maps and routes to store in his memory that he could not, evidently, commit to just one term of endearment for his (only) daughter. Pumpkin. Darling. Sweetheart. Each year it was a different name, sang to her as if he’d


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sang it a thousand times before as she played in the leaves and swung on her swing and splashed about in a small plastic pool in her childhood backyard. (He had not.) (There was no pool. No leaves.) Doctor Lippman carried the last bar of the song a few seconds longer, to prolong his fatherly duties. While he stretched out the last “You”, she stared out her window and considered what was worse: the singing or the talking they would have to do when it ended. The people in her neighborhood walked down the street and disappeared into the subway beneath a crisp, ready, orange fall sky. A window was open and she could hear the sound of the leaves crackling and crunching beneath their feet. Life (the leaves) and death (the feet). Life would never be without death, this Laurel knew very well. Silence. The singing was over. “Thanks, Dad.” “You didn’t like it?” “I loved it.” (She didn’t.) “That’s my pumpkin. Did you get the card I sent you?” “I did, it came yesterday. Thank you.” “And the cheque?” “It came too. Inside the card. Didn’t you put it there?” “Of course I did! Well, Tatina. Tatina put it there.” Tatina. Tatina was her father’s assistant. In addition to mailing the annual birthday card, she also picked it out, signed her father’s name (in the fountain pen Laurel’s mother had given him when he graduated from medical school) and wrote the cheque. The year Laurel had turned seventeen and was living in residence at her university, Tatina, still polishing up her English at the time, mistakenly sent her five thousand dollars instead of five hundred. Rather than point out the error, Laurel cashed the cheque and considered it justice for the fact that her father had been sleeping with Tatina hardly a year after her mother - his wife - had died. The error was never discussed. “Did you get the other thing?” “It came too.” “It” was the birthday letter she received from her (dead) mother every year. Tatina sent this too, in a different envelope than the birthday cheque, to be tasteful. (It was addressed using the same fountain pen.) Her mother had depression and killed herself nine years ago. Her mother’s mother died the same way, and her mother’s mother’s mother probably would have too if not for becoming so ill first. It was two days before her sixteenth birthday when her mother killed herself and one day after that Laurel found out. She had spent her sweet sixteen staring at a cake she’d never eat with a nanny, a butler and a stuffy great-aunt who didn’t get the news and arrived to dinner anyway. No one told Laurel what was going on, but as she sat slouched at the head of her family’s long


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dining room table gazing out the Palladian windows at the dimming fall sky, she knew. Teenagers are an intuitive stock. What Laurel’s mother lacked in stability she made up for calculation, as Laurel would be reminded of every year on her birthday. Her mother had written no fewer than fifty letters for her to open in her forever absentia. Her wishes crisply instructed that a letter was to be mailed each year on Laurel’s birthday so that her life would not be without maternal guidance. The sophisticated parchment a thoughtful replacement for a now motherless existence, the letters were meant to offer omniscient advice and make her feel unconditionally cared for and loved. They felt more like a cannonball to the gut. A razor to the wrist. Her father thought about burning them in the fireplace to prevent turning every birthday into a purgatorial hell. But, not one to deny a woman her final wish, especially after he’d been sleeping with his assistant (and the neighbour, and the tennis instructor and the babysitter) for the past ten years, he complied and mailed - rather, had Tatina mail - the letters. Every year Laurel would begin her birthday with a phone call from her father who was alive, and a letter from her mother who wasn’t. And then she would call in sick to work, the one thing she kept for herself on a day that didn’t belonged to her anymore. She would sleep until nighttime, when darkness returned and she could no longer tell if the sky was orange or the leaves were dead or alive. In sleep she would dream up the courage to stay afloat on a dance floor while her friends, who had not known her when she was sixteen, would end up the ones really celebrating. The poor postman who dropped the letters in her mailbox had no idea he was delivering the words of a dead woman. When this year’s letter arrived the week before, Laurel slid it in the desk drawer where she kept bank statements and bills she’d slowly get around to paying. She wanted to see if she could trick herself into forgetting the ritual. (She couldn’t.) Despite her effort to bury it beneath paperwork and old receipts, Laurel knew exactly where the letter was. But she would not open it today. Old habits die hard, this one she had to kill. And she knew how the letter would go. “Keep your teeth clean, find a good husband. Wear a jacket, take folic acid when pregnant. Your blonde hair is so pretty. Don’t ever dye it.” Her hair had been black since she was nineteen, excluding the time she shaved it all off in the bathtub. And she swore she’d never get married. Or take folic acid. Or have children, not because she didn’t want a child but because she didn’t think she had it in her to break the tradition set out for her by her ancestors. But her teeth were clean. And later, there would be cake. “Thanks for calling, Dad.” “Happy Birthday, Pumpkin.” Laurel hung up the telephone and went back to bed.


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Politics and Governance


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High and Dry - Elaine Li

Arts and Contemporary Studies

C

elery for fourteen days, drop fourteen pounds. This happens every fourteenth week. It’s less noticeable that way. A test, a challenge, a ritual of sorts. Every fourteenth week, for fourteen days. I wish I had microscope eyes so I could see exactly what was going on. We’re learning it in class, but only about as much as we would from an episode of The Magic School Bus. It’s a plant, so it would have plant cells. Plant cells are square, filled mostly with water. Water fills everything up. If I fill myself with water, I won’t be hungry. If I fill myself with water, I won’t be hungry. I won’t be hungry. I will not be hungry. The only thing about celery is that it has negative calories. That and it fills you up because of water. I don’t remember where I heard that. But it tastes like shit. Bitter medicine. Covered in little green strings that I imagine stretching in my body as I swallow, mapping everything out in veins. “Why are you eating celery?” Michelle asks. “I thought you hated celery.” God, I hate celery. “I don’t know. Not anymore, I guess.” It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know me well enough to ask. “Apparently celery helps you lose weight.” “That’s what I’m trying to do.” I meant to say it without the edge on it, just as a casual fact. “I didn’t say you had to or anything,” she replies meekly. Like a mouse. Something small. I wish I was small. The battle with celery is over. Next comes dessert. A prize, won from the battle with breakfast. I peel the skin off. Then the roughage. This, I let myself eat. The tangerine I leave alone. Michelle the meddler meddles as usual. “Aren’t you going to eat that?” God, when did her voice get so damn high? “No. It’s sour. It’s gross.” “You didn’t even have any of it. How do you know it’s sour?” Damn it. I break off a piece of tangerine and bite into it. It’s not sour. It’s sweet, sickeningly so. Sugar is calories. I’m going to gag. I’m going to throw up. I’m going to die. I spit it out, along with an I told you so at Michelle, who doesn’t bother me again. I’m hungry. At the bottom of my lunch bag, there are ten ice cubes shaped like fish. Mom bought the tray two days ago. It’s very cute. If I fill myself with water, I won’t be hungry. I save them for dinner. Later, with the fourth fish in my mouth, I cry. Filled with too much water. Fish are leaking out of my eyes, I think. The fifth one melts in my hand, and when I swipe at my tears, I see salmon swimming upstream. The thought exhausts me. It’s always such a long way up, isn’t it?


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illustration by: Elana Delaney

beat – a poem by Tooth DeLuce

International Economics and Finance

(In those little spaces) (the pause between completing one task and beginning another in your busy day) (tiny gaps, no more than a second long) (hiccups of silence) (a thousand pieces of fragmented peace) (This is where life happens)


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Light Inside Out Andrea Auger Sociology

As I sit here and listen to the soft voice of harp and feel the deep tremble of songs bass, I begin to realize I LIVE IN A WORLD OF ROACHES AND RATS!! Funny enough she sings these lyrics harshly in harmony with the wind of the song. Repetitions of these lyrics continue, in her mind these lyrics are dug in stone. Too long in this cave with no roof she thinks. But if I fly, roaches will be too small to see and the rats too far to eat my last bits of substance. To the Sun I’ll go where all is light and warmth; may I wrap myself within your rays of life? I ask Sun…I know you Sun; you can’t hear me as yet because we all know light travels faster than sound but soon enough Sun. One thing’s for sure, Sun reads me and feels me. So I step one foot higher than my last foot’s step and I find her which is only I talking in third person, Tippy toed on the rail of the highest peak. Although it is not the highest peak I still find I looking miles down from this rigid balcony. One kind sir lets out a loud yet passive SCREAM as he catches his breath he says “beautiful Rapunzel let down your hair so I may finally reach love”. She as in I replies with “but the Sun is love kind sir may you open your arms and make your heart vulnerable to its rays and comforting warmth, Sun touches and sees you but voice of prayer take longer than light. Plus I’m trying to reach out there, where the roaches and rats may not test me any longer”. With these rickety wings I may fly higher than they, although all these stones seem quite heavy to carry. So now let I detach from gravity and glide where limits are only lines on paper. Remember the teachings kind sir? Remember grandmother willow told the story of how naked mole rat helped creator burry the knowledge deep in humans core? Metamorphosis of human to winged perfection is where the yellow brick road will lead to Sun, Remember grandmother willow.


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Arts and


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Contemporary Studies


My City, My City, I Miss You So is a selection of photos from a larger series entitled Bosnia: Frozen in Time. The images in My City, My City, I Miss You So, taken in December 2010 in Sarajevo, Bosnia, document a place in which time has stood more or less still and the damages of a traumatic, unforgettable past merge with stunning natural beauty.

My City, My City, I Miss You So - Nat Brunt Arts and Contemporary Studies 28


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My City, My City, I Miss You So - Nat Brunt

Arts and Contemporary Studies In 2010, buildings destroyed in the war of the 1990s remain unrepaired while inhabitants wait for government aid, graveyards blanket mountainsides, and a population remains mentally and physically wounded. My City, My City, I Miss You So documents a city of juxtaposition, where beauty and brief glimpses of modernity are pockmarked with the destruction, loss and pain of an inescapable past.


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Mitch Kacprzak Friend of the Continuist


Written Work by Tom Dunbar Arts and Contemporary Studies

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Mamma, they’re after me. I’m not answering the door. Mamma, they’re after my thoughts. I’m not going to answer the door. Mamma, they’ll stick me for my money. Can’t we hide out in the museum? Mamma, I can’t find that phone number So I’m not going to answer the phone. I’m not answering the phone. My ears are scared of the news they’re going to tell me. Mamma, they’ll stick me for my arteries. Can’t we hide out in the abandoned library? Mamma, they’re after me.

War. It was caused by a volcano

buried somewhere in the east All the turbans melted off and hardened at their feet everybody joined together and ate a peaceful feast The Kurds brought the cranberry sauce and the Palestinians cooked the meat.

The same letter every month Dear Louise,

I found your blue-green bracelet. It was in the bottom of my old piano that happened to explode one day last week during the last few pages of a Fats Waller tune. You don’t understand how choked up I was to see it again. I didn’t send it with this letter on account of it might get lost again. You broke my heart Louise and if you want the bracelet back you’ll have to come get it face to face. Do you remember, Louise, how we used to call in sick to work and spend the afternoon at the shore line. Whiskey hasn’t tasted so good. Since you left it’s become my best friend. Louise, if you come south for a bit would it be too much to ask if you could bring me some stones from your neighbourhood? I’ve found myself in petrology and grey is my new aftershave. Baby, you’ve been on my mind for thirteen years now. If you have any kids I hope they keep you busy from thinking about what I did to you, Louise. I’ve never truly apologized for it and I promise I will when the time is right. I’ve gone to mass every Sunday since it happened. The lord forgives and forgets, Louise, but there has always been a little devil in you. That’s what drew me to you. That and your high cut flower patterned dress you were wearing in that airport bar. I’m glad you never did get on that plane, Louise. The Yukon will always be there. What we had was short lived and messy. Have your scars healed from my teeth? Mine still throb every time I go to the annual fair in old McGuire’s field. Come home soon Louise. I can’t keep this cider warm forever. I’ve pulled out all the best blankets from my trunk. Ring the bell twice like you always do, Louise? I’ll see you soon.


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Ali Versluis

Arts and Contemporary Studies

The Continuist  

The Ritual - The Continuist's zine from 2010-2011