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TWENTYFOUR/SEVEN

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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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