k magazine F17

KALEIDOSCOPE

Issue 10

KALEIDOSCOPE

FALL 2017

Editors-In-Chief: Carolina Benitez & Michelle Ouellet

Carolina Benitez relies heavily upon coffee to be a normal functioning person.

Michelle Ouellet aspires to one day communicate effectively with the humans.

Social Convenor: Nicole Johnston

Nicole Johnston loves the outdoors and caring for horses.

Secretary: Nicole Steeves

Nicole Steeves is wishing for the sun to come back.

Treasurer: Morgan Rees

Morgan Rees is considering a bold footwear choice.

CASU Representative: Brianna King

Brianna King is always ready for Starbucks and a nap.

Editorial Board

Literature: Caitlin Chisling, Amy van der Merwe, Evengeline Mann, Madeleine Lychek

Visual Arts: Jenna Kondo, Addison Lemmon, Ethan White and Mary Sin Fai Lan

Layout & Design: Richelle Forsey and Emily Lalonde

Richelle Forsey is contemplating.

Emily Lalonde needs tea to function.

Front & Back Cover Art: Screenshot painting by Steph Ferris

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KALEIDOSCOPE • Issue10

CONTENTS

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A Letter From the Editors

Abby Noakowski Domestic

Richelle Forsey Aftermath

Amy van der Merwe conversation from the closet

Quratulain Dar Salt

Michael Herbert img6872-2

Makenzie Zatychies Printemps in Portugal

Emma Branton Bad Photo 4 of 5

Ivana Vrljic I’m sorry Salma

Madigan Cotterill, Distorted

Alexa Vermey Mariah

Sarah Cassidy For Constance

Marina Doukas Droplets

Lucas Salameh A destination

Madigan Cotterill 1am

Lavinia Lindsay Lucky You

Felicity Jones Monday Casual

Quratulain Dar The Bus

Abby Nowakowski Public Private Places

Emmali Branton How to Never Hurt

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Issue 10 • KALEIDOSCOPE

A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Welcome to issue 10 of Kaleidoscope! Assembling this edition has been quite the undertaking

and we want to extend many thanks to everyone helped us out even when

the road was rocky. This would not have been possible without our executive and editorial

teams. Special shout-out to Morgan who answered our every little needy query.

Thanks to everyone who submitted work, clearly demonstrating the creative arts are

alive and well in the Guelph student community. Hopefully we have done justice to

continuing the spirit of this unique publication, and above all we hope you enjoy.

Co-Editors-in-Chief, Carolina Benitez & Michelle Ouellet

ABOUT KALEIDOSCOPE

Kaleidoscope is an accredited club under the College of Arts Student Union and it is

devoted to celebrating the creative efforts of the undergraduate population at the

University of Guelph. This publication would not have been possible without the

generous contributions of the College of Arts Student Union.

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Domestic, Abby Nowakowsky

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Aftermath, Richelle Forsey

conversation from the closet

by Amy van der Merwe

yesterday my boss told me

she didn’t understand “those homosexuals”.

i couldn’t breathe. each carbon gasp

was evidence:

anything i say or do can be used against me

in a court of law.

i have gay friends she says.

but i’m an italian.

that’s what we’re like, we’re traditional.

i wanted to scream

that’s not how it works,

to tell her that the bite marks on my tongue

aren’t traditional, they’re pyrite and quartz,

circumstantial treasures—

what is tradition,

anyways, except the lack of a moral backbone?

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Salt

by Quratulain Dar

Giving birth to grief –

Taking it from where it has incubated inside of you

And p u s h i n g it

Out

Into the world,

Where it garners creased brows and pitying smiles –

Blurring your face,

Burning your eyes –

Seems to take more strength than fits in your

Feeble frame.

You are

weak

And your tear-children

Laugh as they

Fall,

Leaving you nothing

But salt on your lips.

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img6872-2, Michael Herbert

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Printemps in Portugal

by Makenzie Zatychies

Corinne stepped into the cool sunshine of a new city. She stumbled when her feet met

the cobblestone street. Two old women passed speaking rapid Portuguese. It sounding like

when her grandmother would gossip to friends in French, so she caught one or two words. She

continued on, looking for a place to settle and busk. Neck flushed, she tightened her grip on the

case in hand. The smell of the nearby sea was comforting, though unfamiliar.

It was her first day in Lisbon and determination drove each step. Her black jeans and

stripped wool sweater were simple, but drew questioning looks from under the coats of bundled

locals. For a Canadian in February, the thirteen-degree weather was like a tropic vacation.

She wandered into the mouth of an inclining pedestrian street, lined with endless shopkeepers

preparing for the day. Tucking into the stoop of a closed business, she set down her worn-leather

case. With a grin, she let the crumbling stone’s shadow consume her.

Kneeling, her expert hands worked to remove the instrument. The zipper unclasping the

case echoed in the small space. Her nose wrinkled at the mixture of alley cats and baking bread.

She beamed lifting the lid, and revealing a raven mandolin. Her fingers delicately closed around

the instrument’s cold neck and pulled it from its enclosure. She nestled it in her lap, she assumed

a meditative state. One hand at its base, the other moved to the eight silver pegs and set about

tuning. She was meticulous in plucking each individual string and manipulating their vibrations.

Her fingers picked either E-string, guiding them to harmony.

Face glistening, she emerged from the alcove. By small shoves of her foot, she positioned

the open case before a ceramic tile wall. She tossed a few copper coins and golden Euros in the

bottom of the cast. The last of her money, it needed to be doubled to stay in the hostel another

night. Each task, done with the mandolin in hand, caused people to slow, observing the assurance

in her every movement. Her final step was placing a small white sign in the shiny velour

lining: Crossing the Continent: The Musical Edition. Stop for a listen, leave what you will.

Her body straightened, and she inhaled the salted air before playing the first chord. She

tightened her lips and the first note pierced through the calls of vendors and the hum of chatter.

Each finger moved to position, and her melody followed. The first few words trembled, but poise

settled into her pitch.

Mais dans mon coeur je m’en vais composer

L’hymne au printemps pour celle qui m’a quitté.

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People came out of a bakery across the way through the second verse, and swayed.

Her rhythm fell into perfect four-four beats, and her wrist flicked sharply across the eight

strings. The French seemed unexpected, but fitting; removed yet romantic.

Quand mon amie viendra par la rivière

Au mois de mai, après le dur hiver

Je sortirai, bras nus, dans la lumière

Et lui dirai le salut de la terre.*

The final notes lingered in the air, echoing between the leaning buildings then

disappeared. The applause lasted as long as the final verse. The encouragement and coins

catching the sun as they clattered to the case fed her wanderlust. She beamed from the

assurance that her room and board was falling into the scarlet lining.

*Translation:

But in my heart I am going to compose

The hymn in spring for the one who left me.

When my friend comes by the river

In May, after the hard winter

I shall go out, with my arms bare, into the light

And tell him the salvation of the earth.

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Bad Photo 4 of 5, Emma Branton

I’m Sorry Salma

by Ivana Vrljic

no little girl, those aren’t firecrackers

those are the consequences of the attackers

the sinners who have robbed you of your laughter

the parasites feeding off disaster

“Let’s pray for them Mother, pray to the man upstairs

they are hurting and need love and care.”

“My Dear, they are the ones who have taken our man in vain

they are not one of us, they cause nothing but pain

they are illiterate and have created a division

resulting in worldwide suspicion of our religion

do you remember my sweet one,

‘Let There Be No Compulsion In Religion’?”

“Yes Mother, is that not intuition?”

I’m sorry Salma

I’m sorry that the sounds of drones

continue to stain every wall in your home

I’m sorry Salma

I’m sorry your brother didn’t blow out his first candle

and became a victim instead of these vandals

I’m sorry Salma

I’m sorry your playground consists of dust and debris

forcing you to flee your own country helplessly

the earth’s innocence was an invitation

to abolish every human’s consideration

power and violence providing immunization

to the insomniac heart’s desolation

the little girl stares into the night sky’s constellation

praying that

these atrocities

are nothing but hallucinations.

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Distorted Acquainted With the Unwelcomed, Madigan Cotterill

Mariah

by Alexa Vermey

I looked into the barrel of the gun which he held square to my face. He fiddled with the

trigger melodically, with the simple clicking of metal touching metal he created a waltz

beat. His eyes danced with fear, and power. They leaped over my body collecting each

memory of the bumps and curves that defined my skin. We began to step the three

steps and we danced across my bedroom. The dim lighting turned to shades of

magenta and turquoise and we danced and we danced till we couldn’t feel our feet

anymore and his gun disappeared. He turned to me and he said “Mariah, let us lay here

until the world stops turning and I can finally catch my breath”. So we laid down and

counted the stars that aligned into constellations on the celling and our hearts beat

in the 3, 3, 2, rhythm of the tango. Although we laid still on the thick carpet our minds

twisted and turned to the Spanish beat. The thick wool of the carpet grew and began

to consume us, and as we slid deeper and deeper into the carpet we outstretched our

hands to catch the other from drowning in the forest of fibrous wool. Together our

hands slid together, two heartbeats in the 3, 3, 2 rhythm pushed against one another.

The Magenta and Turquoise glare began to dim and I felt myself slowly slipping into

unconsciousness, right before the fight to keep my eyes open was lost he turned to me

and whispered “Mariah, its times like these were your beauty astounds me, your hand

in mine, I feel invincible” and I turned away and whispered “You terrify me”. I lay awake

staring at the constellations on the celling as my heart beat slowed to the six elongated

beats of the foxtrot, his eyes closed with ending movements of the dance we had

crafted. As we rose to take our bow the stars that that had collected in constellations

across my ceiling exploded into rays of brilliant white light and we were showered with

the sparks, they filled the room with their luminescence. As the crowd rose to applaud,

our eyes fell heavy, skin met skin and the crowd went silent and the world dark.

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For Constance

by Sarah Cassidy

Planets were captured in her chest, searching for her lungs, recovery

Injections of lost follicles, wrist limp, hung, recovery.

I know these toxins brought you malignant fear,

Constellations tucked under your sandpaper tongue, recovery

Limbs branching out towards chemicals and affection,

There were no options we had 3 days, you are so high-strung, recovery

Inhabitants have ransacked your body and taken your cells hostage

You became consumed by the songs they sung, recovery

You remind me of a constant movement like moon dust and paved gravel,

Lymph nodes providing residence, expanded and clung to glands, recovery

This metastasized solar system began to shift, rotate towards your consciousness,

Provided hope drenched in resentment, oh how it stung, recovery

Waves of nausea, my palms are lined with apologizes and nothings

There are so many words I can not form, I feel so useless and young, recovery

Results are often given with palms soaked in gasoline,

Ignition is still possible, constance you are still among the ill, recovery.

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Droplets, Marina Doukas

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A Destination

Lucas Salameh

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A trail of light carves through the night sky,

And then it is gone,

A journey of lifetimes,

Beginning when all things began,

A rock preserved in its youth,

Drifts through time and space,

Sightless it moves by the pull of the gap,

Searching for a destination,

Any spot outside the emptiness,

Beyond the bounds of nothing,

Moving towards but never closer,

To these distant points of worth and purpose,

Thrown forth by anonymous hands,

Born unable to stop,

As it glides and rolls through the universe,

Travelling forever,

Sensing the warmth of its possibilities,

Feeling their light,

Unopposed,

Only distance,

Only time,

Unweather, untouched,

Since the chisel cut the cord,

A single purity alone in a land,

Filled with others to the edge of eternity,

All searching, all wandering,

To find that which makes them whole,

The substance in the void,

The rarity of their destined location,

Held only by the miracles of chance,

As forever they fly through the endless night,

Time has no meaning to a traveller such as this,

Seconds,

Minutes,

Years,

Millenia,

All blending together with the fluidity of space,

Happening simultaneously,

And not at all,

The journey then becomes like the land it spans,

Infinite,

Expanding,

But completed before even realizing it began,

The last few steps now lay before it,

As it approaches the weight of a greater self,

Unaware of how long it stood,

Like one’s child its growth went unnoticed,

Until it had become too big to hold,

This large blue sphere,

Waiting in perfect stillness,

Bursting with warmth,

Overflowing with life,

Unaged in its immortal travel,

This young rick is embraced for the first time,

Finally, its journey ends,

At this perfect destination,

Having only ever felt the cold of space,

It begins to feel the heat,

An immaculate compilation of revelation and

experience,

Picking up speed,

It races towards its breathing dream,

That has solidified into something beyond itself,

Feeling smaller and smaller as it appears to grow,

Falling to it,

Letting go,

Igniting, blooming, exploding with life,

Now a flaming ecstasy,

Burning with joy,

Burning with meaning,

It has arrived,

And for the briefest of moments,

A trail of light carves through the night sky,

And then it is gone.

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1am, Madigan Cotteril

Lucky You

by Lavinia Lindsay

“Is that really a hickey?”

“It’s a burn from my straightener. I was running late.”

James wanted to believe her so he did. It was him who suggested they meet today. He

changed the subject.

“How was you week? Are you adjusting well?” On Facebook, he saw that she had

spent the last month of summer with girls and guys he’d never seen, holding beer she’d never

drunk and wearing clothes she’d never worn. He didn’t want to hear anything about it. She

told him her week was fine and she was adjusting fine. Her house still had mold in the basement,

but other than that everything was fine. The waitress brought over their waters and

menus, which were small and single sided. They both always ordered chicken, but they both

sat quiet and read the other options.

“To be honest, I might drop out” she said. She was stirring the ice in her water with the

straw. “Like, you and I used to study really well together, but things are different now. And before

you, I never really liked school. I think I just want to travel.” Emma would always say reckless

things like this. Like she was finally going to get that tattoo, or finally pierce her nipple, or

finally drink an entire bottle of wine by herself. She wanted James to elope with her last year,

but like the nipple she never pierced, it was only half true.

“You say that every year,” he said into the menu.

“Yeah, well this is the year. My year. And why not? I’m free. You know those stupid

sayings about birds learning to use their wings? Well I finally feel like I can use mine. Like, I can

finally fly. No offence.” He heard bird sayings because her sister got really high at a music festival

last summer and called Emma to tell her she should unclip her wings and fly away to her

destiny. Emma hung up and complained about how stupid the bird metaphor was and how

she wished her sister were only her half sister or something.

“You never struck me as a bird type,” he said.

“To be fair I never struck you as much of anything.” She was smearing the condensation

from her glass around her palms and looking at him. That wasn’t true, but he didn’t know

what to say. She did strike him as something. He just never knew what. The waitress came back

and they ordered their chicken. She asked for the salad, he got the vegetables. She reached

out her finger and let an orange ladybug hike across her knuckle. James always thought the

orange ones bite. Then he thought how gross it was that a bug made it inside.

“Have you been to your counselor?” He asked.

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“I don’t really want to talk about that stuff.” The ladybug flew off her wrist towards the

hanging light above their table. Ladybugs were her mom’s favourite bug. Emma thought it

was weird that her mom had a favourite bug.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Do I look okay?” She straightened her shoulders and looked right at him. She cut her

bangs again which was cute, but she had deep purple rings under her eyes he’d only really

seen when she was sick. She had a lot of red marks on her nose and chin from picking pimples

that weren’t really there. He could smell that she put on extra perfume. An ugly busgirl came

to refill their waters, and James smiled at her as though she was pretty.

“I get it James. You think I’m unstable,” she said. He took too long to tell her she looked

okay.

“That’s not it,” he said. But he wasn’t sure if he meant it.

“You’re going to go report to your friends and your family that I derailed again and

that I’m crazy and that breaking up with me over the phone was totally justified because I’m

just a crazy crazy slut.”

The mother of a nearby table turned to see who just shouted slut in the restaurant. James

hated when Emma called herself crazy.

“Emma.”

“You’re glad I cheated, aren’t you? You’ve spent two years looking for a real enough

reason leave. You left me in the rain then called me a bitch for coming back wet. You know I

did it just to spite you? You know I hope it hurts. I hope your family hates me.”

“Em.”

“You better get tested because he didn’t use a fucking condom.” She sipped the last of

her water through the ice and sat back with her arms crossed. The mother and the father were

looking now, while their daughter twisted spaghetti with her fingers in a highchair. James

took his first sip of water.

“Fucking say something.” She pushed the words at him across the table.

“Are you still on your meds?”

Emma blinked fast, and without looking down she clenched her hands together in her

lap.

“Please make it painless.”

Monday Casual, Felicity Jones

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The Bus

by Quratulain Dar

Melding into a mass of –

Passengers all waiting for a destination, some destination

The road has dissolved into a stretch of yawning blackness,

And yet I am here, fluorescent lights have made me real

Realer than I could have imagined,

Speed and position cannot be known with certainty simultaneously

And I know that I am travelling at approximately 76.89 km/h

Give or take the lag on my mental processors, give or take

The words that elude me

Give or take

The old man that smells like weed, which I have to admit is somewhere between

Skunk

And

Piss

Give or take

The crying fat man,

Shouldn’t you be jolly?

Give or take

The man muttering to himself, repeating conversations, repeating the ways life has failed him,

Who turns to you, and his beady eyes are enough to drive you mad

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Give or take

The girl with blue hair who thinks you’ve been staring at her for an hour

Maybe you have

In this place,

This moving prison,

This place of reflections and overheard conversations that you try to drown out in your head

This intermediate of judgement and chiding looks

…

What judgement

What sentence

Is being meted out?

In this real-not-real realm,

This place of phantoms and laughing witches

And all the sound and fury

Reserved for a sinner

And a board that counts down the minutes until

I am delivered

From one Hell to the next?

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Public Private Places, Abby Nowakowsky

HOW TO NEVER HURT: A Brief How-To Guide

by Emmali Branton

HOW TO STOP YOURSELF FROM CRYING

1. Turn away from all eye contact as quickly as possible. If this is impossible, use hair

or hand to hide face.

2. Look up towards the ceiling, blinking rapidly to discourage tears.

3. The ideal mantra for this exercise is DON’T CRY, DON’T YOU DARE CRY YOU IDIOT.

Repeat internally until the prickling behind your eyes has subsided.

HOW TO CHOKE BACK WORDS

1. Think hard about what you want to say.

2. Don’t say it.

3. You will feel a growing knot in your throat. Ignore it; these are the words trying to get out.

Swallow them if the situation calls for it.

4. Eventually the urge to speak will leave you. Until then, watch the scenery out of the

passenger seat window.

HOW TO SAVE YOUR HEART

1. Never trust

2. Never “live life on the edge.” Spontaneity can be dangerous.

3. Never make a home in another person. If you find one, leave it be.

4. Never fully give yourself; always cut portions in half,

And save for later.

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CONTRIBUTORS

Abby Nowakowski likes art, cats and derby. Her work deals

with themes of intimacy, womanhood and questions gendered

gestures.

Richelle Forsey has the worst rommate in the world - she

doesn’t pay rent or clean up after herself, often demands a

meal at 6am, and uses at least a ream of paper a week drawing

cats and writing poetry; but she’s determined and thus

destined for greatness, so the co-habitation will pay off in the

end.

Felicity Jones is a Studio Art major who’s work explores altering

and creating new perspectives through abstraction.

Marina Doukas is a 4th year studio art student and I focus on

painting and digital media. I hope to attend a postgraduate

program in the fall for Visual Effects.

Emmali Branton is interested in intertextual, multimedia

work. Her art examines modern relationships between

documentation and memory, and the politics of vulnerability

in an image-saturated world. Working with memories and

concepts of artificial abstraction, Emmali explores her generation’s

anxieties surrounding image and representation.

Pursuing studies in both Studio Art and English, Emmali aims

to approach issues of communication from multiple creative

perspectives.

El Martinez is a 2nd year Bachelor of Landscape Architecture

student. She wants to pursue rehabilitation of landscapes but

is also an aspiring children’s book illustrator.

Michael Herbert is a 4th year Mechanical Engineering

student who enjoys photography, the outdoors and procrastination.

Madigan Cotterill is a wannabe world explorer, and enjoys

taking photographs of the things around her. She can often

be found lying on the ground while petting her rabbit, Fig.

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KALEIDOSCOPE

Issue 09 • Winter 2017

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k magazine F17

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