ISSUE #4 - TILT MAGAZINE

A fresh perspective The Arts and Lit Magazine of Riverdale CI MAY 2024 ISSUE NO 04 MAGAZINE TILT

Table of Contents President’s note A volcano hummingbird in Costa Rica Cloud City, Pink Bliss A Decision Film 3, Film 1 UNTITLED, UNTITLED Blueberries Are My Favourite Berry Empire Sandy, Lonely Rides Bleeder, Number 5 The privilege of a home G ST E, DT Lost Over Time Love Letter to The Little Box The Anchor Strings of solitude, chRONo 3 4 5 6 8 9 10 12 13 14 16 17 18 20 23

Welcome back to the Riverdale CI Arts and Lit Magazine! This year's issue is all about fresh perspectives, showcasing the amazing talent of students.

A Decision Anonymous

It is always easier said than done.

It's like sitting on the beach, waves washing over your feet, and everything is fine, nice actually.

Then the waves pick up but instead of getting up and taking a step back, you are washed out to the middle. The waves keep coming bigger and bigger and you know that if you can just hold on for one second more, one more wave, that the waves will let up eventually and that the shore is just right there.

But the waves keep coming and you get tired and you can barely stay afloat any longer. Floating is getting harder, and they pull you down like a sinking ship.

It's overwhelming and takes over your senses, and if you take a second to breathe water will take over and pull you under

But now that you are under it is nice and calming. You have time to think in the stillness, it's a nice break from the chaos above. and the sensation of falling has never seemed more welcoming, it is more like flying.

And now you have the time to breathe.

but you still can't. As you remember what it is like to breathe, you are given a choice.

The chaos above pushes and pulling you in every direction,

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or the everlasting still and calm.

People say it's an easy choice, that above you can keep going, and the waves will calm down. But they are standing on the beach. And when you were standing on the beach just seconds ago, you too thought it was an easy choice.

You have heard stories of the water, and the mark it leaves on people You think "I could take it" but now that you are here, you could never be farther from ok.

All the stories you have read, all the stories told to you, sitting safely on the beach you think that "it can't be that hard". But the stories are all true, and you may think that you have experienced it, but you were just in a kiddie pool.

How wrong you were.

It is tiring to stay afloat, and you get num really quickly. Num to the cold, nub to the world, numb to everything except the thing in your head, telling you to fight, to survive.

But you still need to answer the ever-looming question of "have you had enough?"

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Film 3 Film 1 Cooper Bugatto

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Cooper Bugatto

UNTITLED

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UNTITLED Cooper Bugatto Cooper Bugatto

Blueberries Are My Favourite Berry Anonymous

Whenever I eat blueberries I think of a dead man. Every summer at my cottage, my Opa would take my brother and I out on the lake and to an island barely larger than the boat itself Every time he would say the same thing, “Let’s see if the blueberries are here!”. And every time he sounded so excited, so enthusiastic over these tiny little berries which could be bought at the store for a mere $3. Every time we went, there would be no blueberries. While the blueberry bush itself stood tall, its slender branches adorned with delicate green leaves that would occasionally flutter in the breeze, there was not a single berry hanging from them. My Opa remained hopeful, and every year, the three of us would venture out to this island in search of the berries we so desperately wanted.

I was ten when we finally found ripe and unpicked blueberries on the island. The little clusters of plump blueberries clung to the branches of the bush like precious jewels, each one a tiny, deep indigo gem nestled among the verdant leaves. My Opa was ecstatic, I can still remember the grin across his face when he docked the boat. He was beaming with pride, he could finally show my brother and I the wonder of the berries on the island. He had ushered my brother and I over to the nearest bush, pointing out the blueberries that glistened in the sunlight with a symphony of purple and blue hues, as if speaking to us and saying, “Yes, come pick us.”. We carefully plucked each berry from the stem that connected it to the bush, all while listening to my Opa’s gentle prattling about the island. “Be careful not to go on that rock - it’s slippery! You’ll fall in the lake.” or, “I used to come here as a kid and pick berries off the same bush you are.” We stripped the bushes of each berry, making sure that there was not a single one left behind We were devoid of these berries for so many years, now it was our turn to take them.

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On the way back, my Opa told us that he would make the berries into jam, one that would last us months and taste heavenly. I can still remember tasting it for the first time, how it tasted like no other jam I had ever had before. I can remember how I closed my eyes and savoured the taste, how I had stuck a spoon in the jar just to eat a little more of it.

That was the first, and the last time I ever had that blueberry jam. My Opa died two years later. After that, we never went back to the island. That was something my Opa did with my brother and I, and it felt wrong to do it without him. Even eating blueberries from the grocery store proved to be difficult. Every time I would bite into the blueberries, the skin effortlessly giving way under my teeth.As the small burst of juice would flood my mouth with its sweet and tangy taste, I would think of my Opa. I would think of his laugh, how it was as warm as the sun itself, or think of his hugs and how safe I felt within his embrace. That was gone though. He was gone. The closest thing I had to him was blueberries.

Blueberries slowly became my favourite berry. No matter what age I was, they reminded me of my Opa. When I was little they reminded me of trips to that island, fresh lake water spraying in my face as my Opa drove the boat. Now they remind me of my love for my Opa. Even if he’s gone, he’s always with me in one way or another. I eat blueberries almost every day. It’s not just the taste that draws me to them, it’s the memories of my Opa that seem to burst open just as the flavours of the berries do. Blueberries were my Opa’s favourite berry, and now they’re mine. To me, it's his way of passing down a legacy to me I decided it would be my duty to go to that island every summer and see if the blueberries had sprouted. I’m waiting for the day they are so that I can relive another memory with my Opa by recreating his lovely blueberry jam.

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Lonely Rides Wendy Feng Empire Sandy Wendy Feng

Bleeder Anonymous

Bleeder

Wasting my blood

Tucking thin hair behind my ear

Bleeding into my cheeks

giving me Away

To Him

Wasted Blood

Number 5

Wendy Feng

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The privilege of a home Anonymous

I grew up in one place my whole life, completely comfortable yet, unaware of what it took to get to this point. I knew my family didn’t come from this place, the place I was familiar with, at least not all of my family. Growing up in one place is a privilege. You become familiar with the streets, the people walking those streets, the buildings, the houses, the neighborhoods you pass through. I knew my city like the back of my hand.

Toronto has been my home for 16 years. I’ve only known this one place as my home, I can definitely say it’s reflected on who I am as a person My neighborhood has always felt like home Leslieville has held me close since the day I was brought home from the hospital. My mom grew up in Oshawa, a city very close to Toronto In a way she always admired it from afar, not that far though considering Oshawa is like it’s next door neighbor It’s no surprise a city like Toronto with all its bright lights, noise, bustle, and excitement would pull someone like my mom in My dad on the other hand is a whole other story He was born in Kuwait, absolutely nowhere near Toronto. Canada became his home when he was only 7 So although he wasn’t born here, it’s been what he calls home for the greater part of his life.

My grandmother and my great grandmother were alive for the majority of my life. I saw them regularly and I loved to be in their presence I was left with a necklace that was my grandma’s and I wear it constantly. With them now gone, I question if I asked enough questions But what could I have asked?

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I know I wasn’t old enough to know about the struggles of coming from Palestine, I didn’t know really anything about the fact my great grandma and my grandma were there when it was time to flee. I didn’t know they had to get on a boat and abandon everything they’d ever known before, packing their entire lives into one suitcase. Which is why as I watch people in Gaza pack up their lives into one suitcase and run for their lives, I sit back and feel the pain of my family. It doesn’t matter whether the news covers these issues or not, it doesn’t mean they aren’t real. I see it, I hear about it, and I feel it. That’s why when I think about Toronto, I think about how I’ve never felt unsafe here. I never felt worried I might have to get up and leave everything. I can’t even begin to understand how unfair it is that any of this is happening. I am unexplainably grateful to be able to call Toronto my home. But when I start to feel grateful I also start to feel guilty. I get to feel safe and live my life regularly while all these people, my people, are either forced to run for their lives or just die in their homes because they don’t want to repeat what happened in’ 48. They don’t want to leave just because they were told to.

Next year, my family is selling the house I’ve lived in since the day I was born. This year is the last year I spent in the home that raised me. I don’t think I’ve fully come to terms with it yet, because I haven’t really started feeling sad yet. I will still be in Toronto, I’ll still be in the city I'm familiar with. It hurts me to know that Palestinians living in Gaza can never say the same. I will continue to wear my grandma's necklace and take her with me everywhere I go. I will continue to use my voice and advocate for what I believe in. And I will continue to let Toronto keep teaching me new things about myself everyday I spend in it.

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G ST E Wendy Feng DT Wendy Feng

Lost Over Time Anonymous

A constant hum,

Always there, always present, A never-ending loop of thoughts.

Always carrying a backpack, Filled with memories, And no matter where I go, It's constantly weighing me down.

Sometimes it's a sweet melody, A gentle reminder of the joy we shared,

I distract myself, but no matter how hard I try, You're always there, lingering in the back of my mind.

I wonder if you ever think of me, If I'm just a passing thought in your busy day, Or, if you're carrying around your backpack,

But that’s the way it is.

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Love Letter to The Little Box

Lilah Benson

To childhood memory box,

Memories last and live as long as you choose to dust off the boxes they are kept in and not let them get lost in the storm of life. Without childhood memories you feel a sense of loss throughout your older years. I find myself reminiscing on special memories but some stand out greater than others, some hold onto you and you keep pieces of those times close to you. Many of my memories are tied to places, people and experiences but my favorites are tied to one object that brings me more than one happy memory.

A white and black box with the detail of little music notes sits in our hands as we walk through our path of endless treasures to be found. We walk jumping on rocks avoiding the splash from the winding river below with golden fish swimming in the crystal waters. We see a white castle with a golden tower casting shadows onto the mountains and trees ahead. A shining light catches our eye as we see a medallion sitting on the ground with the initials L and S, Lilah and Semira, it was made for us we thought. Our box fills as we wonder about this kingdom, diamonds, gold and everything we ever dreamed all gathered in our possession. Chirping birds and magical creatures wander by as we stop to admire our findings. The box creates a world of our wildest dreams. We thought we would have these adventures forever, and we do but it's just different.

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As we walk, we wind our way back home and we giggle with excitement to lay out everything we found. We open the gate, walk through the field, up the grand steps, open the castle door, run through the corridor and up that stairs and into my room. We try to contain our excitement as we open the box and lay out its contents. We gleem seeing our treasures, but then the door creaks open and the castle jester enters the room. He laughs at our findings, and begins looking through it. “Why are you guys playing with rocks and garbage?” he says. We frown as this is no garbage, it’s treasure. “Its not garbage, you’re just jealous.” we exclaim. “No that's a rock and that's a bottlecap?” he says through laughter. “That's not a bottlecap it's a medallion, and those aren't rocks, they are diamonds and gold” we say proudly. He laughs, exiting the room.

As a kid your imagination was something that could take you from a car to a carriage, or a playground to a kingdom. It was something that could turn the ordinary into something extraordinary. When we walk through what was once a forest leading to a castle, now we see an alleyway leading home. We kick rocks on the ground as they are just rocks and we don’t give a second glance to the old bottle cap falling deeper into the dirt. When we get to my house, we see my backyard and steps that lead to my house. Inside there is no jester but just a brother watching TV. I lost that youthful sense of imagination but when I clean my closet and come across a white and black box with the detail of little music notes a smile comes to my face as I remember what once was. I want to thank the box and everything inside for the memories it holds and I hope to dust it off every chance I get.

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The Anchor Elena Reko

I remember everything. I remember sitting in the shade of a sprawling fruit tree, biting into a freshly-picked apple with a satisfying crunch. I remember dipping my hand into the rippling current of our crystal-clear river and feeling the cool water gently glide around my fingertips. I remember the wind coursing through my hair as I ran through the field chock full of loud wildflowers. But above all, I remember the moment I first saw a drifting trash bag intrude upon the tranquil flow of our river, forever condemning my perfect childhood memories to the past and introducing me to a new reality.

Throughout my childhood I eagerly awaited my summers where I would spend two months of pure bliss at our family farm that doubled as a nature getaway in Montenegro. I wish I could say the land remained untouched, that the grass remained as green as before and that the water remained as clear as I remember, but over time the changes became undeniable. Where once my bare feet eagerly scraped the rocks on my way to swim in the river, they now hesitated with each step, unwilling to see the intensely polluted river unfit to swim in. I used to await watching the stars at night hoping to see what had always appeared as diamonds scattered across the sky. I now counted myself lucky if I saw a mere handful of stars fighting to be seen through the smog. I used to bathe in the brilliant light of the clear blue sky, but over time I watched as it began to darken, smothered by a haze of industrial fumes and vehicle exhaust.

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I would wake up searching for the vibrant hues of the sunrise only to find them faded and obscured by the blanket of pollution. I tried to ignore these changes, refusing to accept the foreign sky, the coloured river, and the muted sunrise but to no avail. I couldn’t ignore the effect the changes of the land had created on not simply our enjoyment but our liveability. We could no longer run water through the house as it was deemed unsafe and we could no longer grow crops as the air quality began to diminish, forcing me to look the changes in the eye for the first time.

We no longer visited the farm, as it had simply become too painful, this lack of connection between me and Montenegro created distance between me and my extended family. I began noticing after leaving the farm that, where my fingers once shook in anticipation to call home and talk to my relatives, I now sighed at the thought of being burdened with calling the people I once considered home. Slowly I stopped calling all together, forgetting about the farm, forgetting about my family, and forgetting that piece of my identity I once held so dearly. I noticed that my mom had abruptly stopped calling as well, no longer interested in what was going on at home, or too scared to face the reality of it. The root of my identity was anchored in that farm in Montenegro and without it I felt lost. I felt as though my identity was becoming polluted with resentment and fear like the river I once held so dear. I began to accept that with the land changing that piece of my identity had changed forever, never to return as it was.

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The farm started as a fantasy world that I was lucky enough to indulge in every year. For so long I believed the farm was the sole thing anchoring me to my identity. When it was tarnished by the reality of industry in the modern world. I believed this marked the loss of my truest self. Yet it is only now that I have come to understand that while the land was a significant part of my life, it did not solely define who I am. Although the connection between me and the land has changed, I am still here, wise with the memories and lessons it imparted. And while I feel myself rekindling the essence of my identity without the land, the connection I feel to it is undeniably significant. As I look to the future I see my spirit following that anchor back to the land, accepting the lessons that it has to offer both sweet and bitter. Through this journey, I emerge stronger and wiser than before, acknowledging that while a part of me may have been lost, it has been found anew, forever ingrained in my evolving identity.

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Strings

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of solitude Wendy Feng chRONo Wendy Feng

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