TWENTYFOUR/SEVEN

TWENTY
FOUR seven
FALL 2021 VOLUME 11

CREDITS
Directors and Editors:
Catherine Cassels, Carly Pews,
Anthony Tran, and Celine Tsang
VP Graphics:
Bridget Koza
Graphic Design
Commissioners:
Michelle Chiu, Ella Eum, Shirley
Jiang, Tiffany Lin, Miles Obilo,
and Michelle Sadorsky
Copy Editor:
Kaitlyn Lonnee
Cover Art:
Chelsea Hitchen
Books!
art by BRIDGET KOZA
1

art by
SHELBY SAMMUT
Time waits for no one. It’s an ever-moving
force that never fails to remind us of
our mortality. But of course, we are not
merely standing by. We live. Every second
of every minute of every hour—we live.
Though time is the driving force behind
our lives, it is still ours to shape. How we
use it, how we manipulate it, is entirely up
to us. So, we might ask ourselves: What
is time well spent? Is it hours searching
for success, minutes with loved ones, or
those few seconds you get to yourself?
Kada Shaw’s “The Faces of the City” and
Michael Samoilov’s “the new rat race”
examine what it means to feel pressured
into a system based on commodification.
We can find ourselves so busy keeping
up that we do not take time to recognize
what lies beyond money and success as
we race toward this finish line we may
never reach.
TWENTYFOUR/SEVEN is a product of
bubbled-over anxieties from months
spent indoors, alone or with a select few.
We were waiting—waiting for our lives
to just carry on or, for some, to begin.
Now, we find ourselves back in routine,
in our so-called “new normal.” But what
does that “normal” now entail? TWEN-
TYFOUR/SEVEN attempts to answer that
fateful question. As we skid alongside the
passage of time, adrift between the sky
and the earth, some of us are grounded
and some of us are still finding our footing.
Sarah Tiller’s “Room to Grow” reminds us
to never stop treasuring the time we have
with our loved ones even while we appreciate
how time spent away from them
can be formative and impactful on
our identities today. In the same
vein, Reilly Knowles’
“I Miss My Dollhouse 2”
is reminiscent of a
simpler time in our
childhoods
when we
spent
hours animating mini figurines, waiting
to grow up. Meanwhile, Abbie Faseruk’s
“Sonder” perfectly captures the experience
of comprehending the complex and
varied experiences of others, and further
asks us to consider how others might
comprehend us.
Good days can look different every
day—it could be that you’ve met up with
an old friend, finished all the tasks on
your list, or just got through the day. And
it’s more than okay to realize you might
not be exactly where you expected to be
today. You still have potential mentors to
meet and look up to, new friends that you
couldn’t even imagine today, challenges
that will change your worldview, and
most importantly, you still have time.
Readers, live your life to the fullest and use
your time to do what you want to do—not
what productivity culture urges, or what
others want for you. Time well spent looks
different for everyone. Be proud of how
you used your days and enjoy how time
travels at light speed when you’re having
fun. Don’t compete to sleep the least to
have the most time awake, or jockey to
have no time for taking care of yourself.
Set your boundaries and live faithfully
by them. We only have one shot at
living every day. Make it count.
Love,
Catherine,
Carly, Anthony,
and Celine
2

Covering up holes …
in the wall by
ANJALI SINGH
3
the new rat race by
MICHAEL SAMOILOV
47 years by
DARCY MCVICAR
The Faces of the City by
KADA SHAW
Sonder by
ABBIE FASERUK
4
5
6
15
16
Day to Day by
HOLLIE SCOTT
Sun and moon by
GRAY BROGDEN
What to do When
You’re a Marxist
Shopaholic by
SARAH TILLER
Retail Therapy by
ANJALI SINGH
Closet Portrait by
COSETTE GELINAS
7
17
Spare Change by
ANTHONY TRAN
City Lights by
KADA SHAW
photography by
ANJALI SINGH
Welcome to my
Garden by
ABBIE FASERUK
lost in time in a
small town by
CHELSEA HITCHEN
Room To Grow by
SARAH TILLER
I Miss My
Dollhouse 2 by
REILLY KNOWLES
Blue Portrait by
COSETTE GELINAS
Skeleton by
BRIDGET KOZA
8
9
10-11
12-13
Waiting by
BRIDGET KOZA
Boredom by
COSETTE GELINAS
14
18
19
20
21
22-23
24
ME by
MILES OBILO
Bedroom Study and
Livingroom Study by
STEPHANIE FATTORI
freda by
CELINE TSANG
SDMJ BY
STEPHANIE FATTORI
Wharncliffe by
STEPHANIE FATTORI
Trial Version by
JONAS BAHN
Dichotomy by
ALLISON BREALEY
3

47 Years
the
new
rat
race
text by MICHAEL SAMOILOV
greener pastures picked and pickled
peter piper smashes sickles
robots chug along alone
chugging workers chug from home
purpose, porpoise, words lose meaning
moon approaches, time is weaning
clean and cook and learn new skills
sleepless mornings foot the bills
robots skew my business classes
i need new prescription glasses
tin men lacking hearts indeed
robots see machines in me
studding gems for crown achieving
linked in webs of spiders weaving
fake until you make it stop
peace is at the ladder’s top
nothing new will be remembered
just immortal bees in amber
save your time, abscond the hive
in green, un-pickled pastures, thrive
art by DARCY MCVICAR
4

art by KADA SHAW
The
Faces
of
the
City
5

At the bus stop, I am reminded of Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro.” The sky
is a reflection of the grey sidewalk that is being power-washed by the rain. All the people
around me shine like glow-in-the-dark paint as the raindrops dampen their clothes. We
shine like beacons in the dark daylight.
My bus is late again, so I play that game. The game that comes along with the
familiar concept that we are all living different lives. I think it is crazy that no one has the
same life, that no one could ever be the same as someone else.
I look at the girl a few steps to my left. Her hair is pulled into a loose bun atop her
head, and I can hear the music slightly from her headphones. She must be confident, I
observe, for not caring that others can hear what she listens to, for leaving the house with
hair in such a disarray.
I watch a boy across the street run to catch up to a bus that is about to pass him
at the stop. I picture him silently cursing in his head as he misses it. Now he will be late in
preparing dinner for himself and his three roommates. That will be for the third time in a
row.
Now I think about myself. How would I describe myself if I was someone else playing
this lonesome game?
My bus pulls up to the stop and fresh raindrops tickle my face. I disappear through
the doors, leaving behind the portrait of the shining painted street.
text by ABBIE FASERUK
6

C L OSET
C L O
art by COSETTE GELINAS
P O RTRA T I
P O
RTRAIT7

Blue Portrait
8
art by COSETTE art by GELINAS COSETTE GELINAS

SKELETON
art by BRIDGET KOZA
9

10
“Welcome to my garden,” the cloak said as they followed him into the graveyard.
The grass was green, freshly fertilized—a clear sign that great care was taken across this
mature landscape.
The three figures drew up
short as the cloak figure, whose
garden this apparently was,
stooped down and fiddled with a
tiny pebble that rested lonesome
along the path.
“Sorry,” he said as he
stood. “I like to collect things.”
They hurried onwards.
“What is our assignment?”
asked one of the three, who will
be referred to as Number One.
“Ah,” the cloak sighed.
“We must all be patient now. We
are getting there.”
“This is taking a long time,”
Number Two chimed in.
The cloak shook as if in
laughter. “Your assignment surely
will not be one of patience.”
Number Three did not say
anything.
Now the cloak diverged off
the path from which he had picked
up the pebble and led the three
through the nice green grass. It
pillowed beneath their feet and left
their footprints imprinted behind
them as if it were memory foam.
“This grass is rather
lost in time in a
small town
photography by CHELSEA HITCHEN

unusual,” offered Number Two.
“Must you state your every observation?” asked the cloak. “And do
not insult the grass, for that is an insult to me.”
They continued walking.
“Are we there yet?” Number One asked for the second time, this time
with more aggression.
The cloak swatted at him. “Yes.”
Again, Number Three did not say anything.
Finally, they came to a stop at a single grave. It looked the same as all the others.
“This is your time to shine,” the cloak delighted at Number Two. “What do you observe
about this stone?”
“It has no inscription,” Number Two answered.
“Precisely,” cheered the cloak. “Because its owner has yet to be born. You will be his
observations, his delights and hates and memories.”
The cloak turned to Number One. “And you ask a great many questions, so you shall
be his curiosities and ideas that lead him throughout his life.”
The cloak waved his arms up in an obnoxious dismissal, and Number
One and Two made their haste away through the grass.
The cloak lounged up against the blank headstone and took the
pebble out of his pocket.
“And what do you want to be?” he asked Number Three.
Number Three did not respond.
“Come on now, haven’t you any idea what you are?” the
cloak said.
Number Three shook their head.
The cloak fiddled with the pebble between his light fingers.
“You shall be his time. His heartbeat. The count of the tapping of
his foot. It shall be you every time the sun rises and every time it
sets.” The cloak waved his arm. “Now be dismissed, for he is to
be born any moment now.”
Number Three turned to leave. They hesitated. “Does this
make me death?”
The cloak paused in fiddling with the pebble.
“No, for the passing of time is not the work of death, but
of life. It is I, if you must give me a name, that am death. And remember,
life and death are not enemies, but great friends. You complete your
assignment,” the cloak glanced at the blank headstone, “and I will look
after your beautiful creation.”
With that explanation, Number Three headed through the plushy
grass towards the exit.
The cloak resumed his relaxed position against the headstone. He
glanced down at the smooth pebble. “I like to collect things.”
text by ABBIE FASERUK
11

art by REILLY KNOWLES
I MISS MY DOLLHOUSE2
12

ROOM
text by SARAH TILLER
to GROW
My childhood best friends lived two streets away from me. My parents let me go over to
their house every weekend. This was our routine for so many years that when they renovated
their basement to give the girls a bigger room, they put in bunk beds so I could have a bed
too.
When I went away to summer camp for the first time, there was no teary-eyed clinging to
my parents like the other kids at drop-off. My 11-year-old self barely noticed them leaving;
I waved them off like I was just two streets away for the weekend, as usual. The tears only
came on the final day as I clung onto my new friends and begged to stay longer.
In high school, I was involved in everything. I would head to school in the morning,
stay late for a meeting, go to play practice, see my boyfriend, and then come home
in time to say goodnight to my parents and do it all over again the next day. Not to
mention that as soon as the last day of school came, I packed my bags and went
straight to camp. On the day of graduation, I drove directly from camp, got my diploma,
and headed back in time for the campfire.
I’m not much different now, but my parents are. As I grew up, they never
said a word against me being able to do what I wanted when I wanted. I was a
good kid; if I came home late it was because I had to sort out something on the
student council or I was volunteering for something or other. And I guess they
knew that all of those things were necessary for me to grow, to learn to be independent
and all that good stuff that you hope your kid becomes. But now that
life is coming at me pretty quickly, they’re clinging onto me like I should’ve clung to them
in the camp drop-off parking lot.
My mom sees her parents once or twice a year, my dad, once every three years. There’s
no bad blood or anything—that’s just how life worked out for them. And I guess that’s how it’s
always been for me. I love my parents, but there was just always something else for me to do,
somewhere else for me to be. Now I’m at the stage of my life where I have to set my future into
motion, and the more I plan, the further from my parents I seem to be getting. I can see how it’ll
end up, and I think my parents can too. They can see those same annual visits and occasional
phone calls while I live my life and they live out theirs.
I know I needed that room to grow to become who I am now. I know that, but it still weighs
heavier on my heart with each kilometre I put between us. So, every time my mom asks me when
I’ll come home next or my dad tells me he misses me, I can’t help but wish that I stayed behind
some weekends, hugged them tighter before camp, skipped a meeting or a practice, and just
went home.
13

B
o
r
e
d
o
mart by COSETTE GELINAS
waiti n g
I’ll do it
when the sky is clear,
when the water is calm,
when the sun kisses my face,
when I find the right song,
when there’s peace
and quiet,
when there’s
freedom
alas,
text by BRIDGET KOZA
when I feel complacent,
when I escape this class,
when the world is normal,
when I dry my tears,
when the stars align,
when the perfect moment appears.
14
But when is When?

DAY
TO DAY
DAY TO DAY
Every day was a day
full and complete, existing only between the
brilliance of the sun
and the gentleness of the moon,
text by HOLLIE SCOTT
She began to fixate her gaze on the cycle
her eyes burned and
her head grew fuzzy in remembrance of
undisturbed dreams
neither of which she saw from the comfort of
her dreams.
from a time she no longer knew,
of a time she no longer says existed.
But the firmness of her pillow caught up to her—
fixated on the crack her curtains made, she
watched.
As the sun fell, the moon peaked,
the cycle both endless and utterly indefinite.
SUN AND
MOON
art by GRAY BROGDEN
15
14

What to do
When You’re
a Marxist
Shopaholic
text by SARAH TILLER
(1) What to do when you’re a Marxist shopaholic? Well,
let’s first look at what that means. It’s a term I use to describe
myself because I’m well-aware of the harsh effects
of our capitalist society, but can’t escape capital accumulation—a.k.a.,
I feel bad when I shop. And they always say
“ignorance is bliss,” and I think, “hey, they’re probably
right.” Because when you’re not ignorant, there’s no way
to ignore all of the blaring issues you have with life, society,
the world around you, all that fun stuff!
And sometimes, I think I’d rather be ignorant so that I
could just enjoy all the silly little things that life has to offer
me. So that I could buy my silly little Christmas gifts, and $3 shirts, and my ticket to Disneyland,
and live out my little consumerist life to my heart’s content. But (un)fortunately, I chose to further my
education, and now I can never be blissfully ignorant again.
(2) It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Or it was, probably. I like to try to convince myself
that it’s the best time of the year, but I can’t help feeling like Cindy Lou Who in How the Grinch Stole
Christmas. I feel like Christmas probably started out as a holiday of joy and faith, but the way it’s
been so commodified over the years clouds whatever it could have been. Because odds are, you
too can see the corporate greed that has wiggled its way into every holiday season. And odds are,
you don’t feel the same about Christmas as you did when you were a child. Odds are, that’s because
you’ve grown to realize that there’s nothing magical about it; odds are, you feel distress when
you think about it because you wish you could go back to the simpler times when you didn’t have to
think about how much money the holiday season drains from your bank account. And the odds are
that you wish joy, and love, and friendship were a good enough gift to give out. But odds are, you
still want presents anyway.
And if you want a present, you have to give a present. So, what do we do now? Because the
immense pressure around the holiday seasons tells you that you have to buy people things to show
your appreciation for them. And oh my God, how rude would it be if that person buys me a gift and
I don’t have anything to give them? Better head to the mall. Yes, and head straight for the cheap
stores where you can buy everyone on your list a gift without breaking the bank.
Pressure gone, right? Nope.
16
Because as soon as you get
home, looking at all your successful
Christmas shopping, the guilt of
fast fashion and global pollution is
next up. Was this sweater made at
the hands of child labour? Will these
toys end up in the ever-growing
landfill? Well, at least I got my friend
RETAIL
THERAPY
photography by ANJALI SINGH

this $8 graphic tee to show how much I care about them. Maybe I’ll do hats next year.
(3) Disneyland: the happiest place on Earth. Now, this one might be a little more niche. Theorist
Jean Baudrillard has a book in which he details that our modern society in its entirety is actually a simulation—that
we’ve left the real in the past and we’re left with a hyperreal society. He talks about this
idea of hyperreal through nostalgia, in which he uses Disneyland as an example. Visiting Disneyland
and watching Disney movies creates a kind of nostalgia for the masses, but the thing is that they’re a
company. There’s nothing nostalgic about a commodity that you had when you were a child; it’s not
nostalgia of a real past, it’s nostalgia of a simulated past made to sell to you.
And what’s crazy about this is that I get it. I really do, Baudrillard. But no matter how much I get
it, I can’t stop feeling that comfort when I hit play on my favourite princess movie. They even created
Disney+ so that they could further capitalize off of this, and guess who has a yearly subscription?
Yeah, me. And guess who has a copy of Simulacra and Simulation on the same shelf as a pair of
Minnie Mouse ears from her trip to Disneyland? Yeah. Me.
(4) So, what now? It seems to me that we’ll never know what to do when you’re a Marxist
shopaholic. I guess all you can do is be self-aware, but not suffocatingly so. Ignorance may be bliss,
but now you can’t claim ignorance. So, good luck! …and Merry Christmas.
Spare
Change
If happiness were a currency,
I would give it all to buy your love
so that one day you might pay me
back
in just the smallest amount.
text by ANTHONY TRAN
I thought it was fair
that every bit was worth the price,
that even though I’d have nothing,
I’d have everything in you.
“Love is give and take,”
and take,
and take.
I know, one day,
the well will run dry and empty, so
too will my heart,
so from today,
I’ll be frugal with what I have
and keep the spare change for myself.
City Lights
art by KADA SHAW
17

text by CELINE TSANG
a false alarm
preluding the real
thing
notified by text, not
even a ring
a rapidly spreading untreatable
tumour
a roomful of teens all growing older
securing pre-sale tickets for a concert next march
entering the ER without hope of discharge
picking over decorations at a discount store
i’d believe you if you told me she was 74
clapping around 16 blown out candles
discussing how her body should be handled
Livingroom
Study
celebrating how much i have grown
and she died apart, confused and alone
setting up a zoom for her funeral
service
anticipating the actual her to
resurface
claiming my
indifference not like
a badge but a hole
wondering if
humans do or
don’t have a
soul
18

art by STEPHANIE FATTORI
Bedroom
Study
me
art by MILES OBILO
19

20

art by STEPHANIE FATTORI
21

Dichotomy
text by ALLISON BREALEY
The world is so tender at golden hour.
I sit in Gibbons Park on a worn-down
bench, iced caramel macchiato in hand, and
wonder at all of the people walking by. I wonder
at their happinesses, I wonder at their sadnesses.
I certainly wonder at my own emotional state
of affairs.
This afternoon was both a
brilliant rebirth and a death of
sorts as I rose from a messy
bed and stood in a puddle
of discarded, tear-stained
Kleenex. There, I wondered
at myself, and I
wondered at the corruption
disguised as art falling
to pieces around me.
Now, I look to the
willows and the patches of
grass underneath my feet, and
I think to myself, how beautiful,
how wretched is life. How beautiful
it is that the world keeps on spinning, that
the trees keep on growing. How wretched it is
that daylight is almost spent, and I only got out
of bed an hour ago. How tragic it is that I spent
last night in a pool of misery, held fast to my bed
by the invisible clutches of my imprisoned mind.
Here and now, the last gasps of sunlight
breathe their way through the golden boughs of
the willow tree, and I let the cooling breeze caress
my cheeks, just as my tears did the last time
that 11:11 PM came around. I remember writing
a journal entry right at that moment, and the
scrambled words I penned down encompassed
my wish to be just as golden as the dying sun.
“Dear journal, I can barely see through
my tears. I’m grieving too much.”
I had an essay that was due at 2 PM today.
The class that the essay was due for was at
2:30 PM, and I was supposed to have just freed
myself from the confines of Talbot College
approximately seven minutes
ago. Supposed to, supposed to,
supposed to. I was supposed
to write that paper yesterday,
and I was supposed
to be sitting in the back of
class today, paper done,
head on straight. Instead, I
spent all of Sunday crooked,
and I spent this afternoon
trying to iron out all
of my creases.
Last night, I listened to “Why
Are Sundays So Depressing” by
The Strokes, crouched in a ball, rocking
back and forth, chin to my knees. My
laptop stayed closed. My journal stayed open.
“I’m grieving too much. Every part of my
coiled-up, rotted insides are ballooning up in my
body and leaking out everywhere, and my head
hurts so much, and I’ve got tissues shoved up
my nose. There’s a tearstain between these pages,
and I wonder if they will still wrinkle five, ten,
twenty years from now.”
Depression is a tricky thing. Depression
takes you in its arms and lends itself your voice.
Depression holds you tight, and chokes you up,
22

and tells you it is your friend. Depression whispers,
you are a vessel for an empty space, devoid
of light. Depression: It, She, It. It wears my
face; I cannot separate myself from her. It/She
turns the lights down very low and dances with
you until you collapse, back against the wall,
crooked, crooked, crooked, collapse, snap,
crumble, fall.
“Nothing in the world feels like a friend.
I’m so tired of trying for nothing. Stop taking,
please, stop, please.”
The scent of burning firewood fills the air.
I hear children laughing, and the birds begin to
sing their blue goodbyes. A child yells, “Hold
me, Mommy,” and the park xylophone chimes
underneath her insistent hands. Laughter. An
ant crawls up the side of my iced caramel macchiato.
Someone is having a barbecue, smoke
billows upward. The dying embers of the sun
part ways with me.
“Please leave me something, I’m
begging.”
The world is so tender at golden hour.
The world is so cruel in the night.
23

trial version
24
art by JONAS BAHN

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