MASTHEAD

THE FLYING WALRUS

Editor in Chief -
N. Alexander Armstrong
Assistant Editor -
Blair Beauchesne
Health Editor -
Maria Golikova
Arts Editor -
Ali Hersi
Layout Designer -
Elise Haskell
Webmaster -
Josh Moore

All Photographs by Madd Hattere unless otherwise noted.

Special Thanks-
Stong College Fellows, Masters Office, and Student Government
Webnews Printing
TransCanadada Motorway Services

Q: What did the Buddha say to the hot dog vendor?

A: Make me one with everything.

A RETRACTION
by Sasha Makarewicz

Hello, Flying Walrus lovers, levitating
blubber fans, speedy Tusk fetishists
(sadly I will not be attending the
convention in March. Stuff has come
up. Mostly legal stuff involving smug-
gling speed into hollowed out walrus
tusks). I would like to apologize for
a mistake in my article “York U Go
Down the Hoooooooole” found in the
last issue of the Flying Walrus. It was
a simple mistake, but a mistake that
sadly occurred on the most important
sentence of the article. A mistake
that I could have avoided. A mistake
I could have not made and by doing
that, it would not be a mistake. It
was a mistake, it was my mistake,
I take full responsibility for said
mistake, and if you happened to be
upset with my mistake in that article
that you were reading and that I
wrote, well then I am sorry, it was a
mistake. I’m so very very very very
very very very very sorry and I hope
you forgive me. I still really haven’t
forgiven myself but it is not about
me, is it? No, it is about my mistake
and maybe you if you want it to be
about you. Oh I’m sure it is all about
you. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?!
Anyway, the mistake in question:
“Some students do not know how
flush a toilet.”
It should be
“Some students do no now ow flush
2ilet”
Sorry for mistake. Happy Valentin-
stein’s day.

2

TABLE OF AGE OF EXCLUSIVITY
by Blair Beauchesne
CONTENTS There are people out there who ben-
efit from isolation. There are people
EDITORIAL 2 who benefit from making us believe
we are unified. I’m not talking about
A RETRACTION 2 the antisocial artist cliche who gleans
AGE OF EXCLUSIVITY 3 insight from a distance from their
MAN AS A FORM OF MACHINE 4 subject. I don’t want to sound like a
THE SOCIAL NETWORK 5 fervent revolutionary with a mouth
like a rabid raccoon, but we’ve been
HEALTH 6 led astray and shit’s about to drown
MIND SPLIT 7 us. We can either start shoveling or
GRUDGES AND QUANTUM MECHANICS 8 learn to love the taste.
We live in a fragmentary society.
ALCHEMICAL GUACAMOLE 9
I’m unconvinced of the cause. Is it a
“STONG SUCKS DICKS”? 10
modern expression of our biologically
PROJECT BLACKLIGHT 11 programmed survival competition, a
cognitive reflex to break down our
ARTS 12 world into comprehensible subsub-
SILLY WALRUS 13 subgroups, or a compilation of many
THE DISSOCIAL NETWORK 14 causes. Though the mechanism is un-
HAIRY DEFENSE 15 clear, the disease and its symptoms
A FORTNIGHT AT THE OPERA 16 are apparent. We divide humankind
into clubs based on how we dress,
MY YEAR IN SONGS 17
who makes your electric toys, what
we eat, who and how we worship,
POEMS 18 who we like to fuck, what side of
1995 19 an imaginary line we habituate, how
RACE TRAITOR 20 much melanin our skin cells have, the
OUR BODIES ARE MOTION 21 correct phonemes, and minutia of life.
FULL 21 This competitive drive has infect-
WAITING 22 ed most, if not all, facets of life and
ODE TO A YOUNG HELLENE 22 they aren’t all innocent. We root for
different sports teams because they
CAMPUS WALK 22
are from different cities. We slander
VISUAL POEM 23 people because they build and orga-
nize a city or a country differently.
We incite animosity between colleges
inside our own university. We send
soldiers overseas to steal, siege, and
shoot because we are uncomfortable
at home. We fight amongst ourselves
because it’s easier to act out our
engrained hording skills, than solving
the problems of disease, hunger and
EDITORIAL
resource depletion that we all face.
Technology is wonderful, but it
isn’t the cure-all we think it is. How
many times have you experienced
someone answering a phone call
or text, and paying more focus to
the interaction on the other end of
a wireless ribbon than the people
they can smell and touch? Or seen
the glazed eyes and pasted grimace
on a face sitting across from you
between a pair of white earbuds?
Status updates and tweets don’t fill
the void of human interaction. Some
of the best writers this planet has
ever known couldn’t make you actu-
ally experience the texture of skin
in an entire novel, much less in 140
characters. Technology isn’t snake-oil
if it’s prescribed properly. My usage
of technology verges on technofetish,
but I try to keep it in its place, the
moments where it enhances the ex-
perience of life instead of distracting
me from creating new ones.
Call me a Utopianist if you must,
but we have the resources and
technology to eradicate the problems
facing all of humanity today. The rea-
son it doesn’t happen is not because
the problem is too hard or too big
to solve, it is because we are too
distracted fighting amongst ourselves
with just enough of a soother to
keep us from crying out. Government
or God isn’t going to change our dia-
pers. We have to learn how to do it
ourselves before we drown in shit. So
take the white soothers out of your
ears, the black and white distraction
away from your face (after your done
reading the entire issue of course),
and take a look across the aisle. The
best way to start is a simple “Hello”.
3
 EDITORIAL
MAN AS ONE IN THE FORM OF A MACHINE
by Ali Hersi
When you take into consideration
the rapid acceleration of technology
over the past few years you can be-
gin to get a better understanding of
the size of our planet, the shrinking
distances, and borders disappearing
between peoples from every region.
Thinking about it, I begin to won-
der whether the few contracted mil-
itary personal from MIT, IBM, GE or
wherever, responsible for “triggering”
the massive shift in human commu-
nication and information proliferation
so wide spread today had any idea
what was in store for human knowl-
edge in the coming generations.
Naturally, like most common sci-
entific advances its original purpose
was one meant for war and destruc-
tion. But out of the treasonous minds
of brilliantly deceitful technologists
was born a desirable necessity that
was required in order to place man
once again on the level of infallible
godliness.
Freely distributed, at first, in all
its oversized and ample grotesque
physical features; wires and lights,
and sheets of constantly warm metal-
lic honey combs. Smaller was better,
secrets were leaked (a premature
instance that will later become more
common) and young suburban men
confined to their middle class car ga-
rages, with next to nothing to do but
to trip balls and command ones and
zeros, miniaturized the entire thing
naming their creations after specific
Malus species.
4
Mainstream commercial success
was instant and extremely lucrative.
Resulting in the separation of part-
nerships and the splintering of the
industry into numerous competing
factions that resorted to all kinds of
deceit, crookedness and cutthroat
“free market” normalcy. Information
was priced; no longer could knowing
individuals share and broadcast with-
out the vexatious worry of month-end
bills that came equipped with per-
sistent and pestilent hidden charges
that were guaranteed to always go
off.
Young suburban men confined to
their middle class car garages, with
next to nothing to do but to trip balls
and command ones and zeros, min-
iaturized the entire thing naming
their creations after specific Malus
species.
They tried to assume complete
control. Fortunately, they could not
contain those valiant and obscene
pornographers and pirates, who carry
in their bosom pure hearts of courage
that pump the purple blood required
to strengthen their cause; the right
one, and affirm their conscience
through the well grounded reason of
the right to information for all.
From bestiality to lose ended
t-girls surprising the curious and the
deviant alike, we’re all equal and all
that is required is an avatar and a
pseudo-sexuality prepared to encoun-
ter bright eyed stay at home mothers
hacking for the sake of peeping on
the very few and far apart private in-
stances of Julia (the Australian prime
minister), and her randomly auspi-
cious citizens e.g Julian (full name?).
I am describing here the same
place where a private first class, the
lowest official ranking in the US mili-
tary, and a complete stranger single
handedly brought the entire neo-Ro-
man empire to its knees with only
a flash disk and a wireless device,
resulting in the first publically covered
and widely discussed cyber conflict
that included an online sleeper zom-
bie army, 14 year olds, and Visa.
It is not clear whether those who
initiated it were completely sure of
the implications that this innovation
would have. The benefits, however,
certainly out weigh the cost. In fact
it is hard for me to understand the
cost, if any do really exist except for
the oligarchic control most countries
practice in distributing it. Still, there
will be those pushed to the fringes,
operating in the dark, spreading their
subversive knowledge to those hun-
gry for a cretin more authentic truth,
absent of the putrid stench and
violating vision of very easy monetary
interests, slogans and logos.
 EDITORIAL
THE SOCIAL NETWORK, IT’S CONTAGIOUS
by Lori-Ann Russell

Unification-- the word has a When Mark launched the website has been around for a long time;
definite togetherness about it. My a few years ago, he was not expect- we’ve just finally caught up with it.
definition of unification simply means ing the controversy that would arise Privacy is a thing of the past.
togetherness, bonding; but that’s in the years that followed. Backstab- Facebook profiles make it easy
just a universal explanation. In a bing, jealousy, and any other form for anyone to create an alter ego.
more substantial sense, are we uni- of deadly sin that you can think The information is easy to forge and
fied as a culture, a nation? I believe of reside in almost each and every pictures-- well, what is digital picture
so. With the stride of 2010, 2011 teen profile. Numerous scams have rendering without Photoshop? Out
is sure to bring more to the theme presented themselves through the of the millions of profiles on Face-
of unification as the era of global networking trend, making important book, how many of them are really
communication advances. Speaking of information more prone to violation real? How many people have only
phenomena, let’s talk about Face- than ever before. “Stone to death” five friends and not five hundred? At
book-- everyone else does. is the latest scam to hit the Face- what point do we draw the line and
Facebook is a prime example of book cyberspace. It lures victims with establish ourselves as human beings
today’s modern representation of the message: “This American GUY and not fictitious cyber creatures
culture. It is a status Who would have thought
a website must be Stoned roaming the realms of Facebook cy-
that has attracted could have united more people than to De@th for berspace?
not just teens but
any other social network? doing this to For all its encouraging of connec-
anyone who owns a computer. a GIRL!!!” A video link follows this tion, Facebook makes it a lot easier
Facebook connects people from all message, persuading viewers to click for individuals in our culture to be
over the world. Young, old, friends, the message. The link, however, is a completely isolated. But it’s not like
enemies, relatives, long distance ploy for scammers to retract personal this is something that can be avoid-
cousins, etcetera, etcetera. In es- information such as passwords, user ed; communication is inevitable. Sure,
sence, the words long and distance IDs, and friend lists: unification at its Facebook has eliminated all forms of
no longer constrain the fanatic Face- best. physical communication, but words
book profiler. The connection between various and images are still exchanged none-
No longer is it impossible that a users around the world enables unifi- theless. People are able to connect
teen from Denmark can message a cation to prosper in its highest form. and fight for something they believe
teen in Saskatchewan and receive the Our society is fast-paced and we’re in. Protest groups, friend groups,
reply in a second or less. No need to trying to keep up. It might seem that movie groups-- it doesn’t matter.
have a family barbeque, just invite we are straying away from cultural Unification (pump fist in the air!):
the grandparents online and have identity but actually, we have become it’s still strong within our culture
a group chat. Facebook, otherwise encapsulated in it. Facebook has eliminated
all forms whether we recog-
known as the connective apparatus, Over the last decade,
of physical communication, but nize it or not. With

is the enabler social interaction. Who our culture has the help of Face-
would have thought a website could changed. From letters words and images are still ex- book, the world will
have united more people than any to postcards to tele- changed nonetheless.
come together
other social network? Even Facebook phones to cell phones to instant when it needs to. As far as epidemics
creator Mark Zuckerberg didn’t. messaging to Myspace and now, go, unification is the major conta-
finally, to Facebook. Unification gious symptom of anyone suffering
from the social network.

5
 H
E
A
L
T
H
SPORTSCREAM by Maria Golikova

MIND SPLIT
by Ali Hersi
In these deeply distressing times
of an imminently decreasing quality
of life on one side, and a consistently
increasing level of a towering social
existence on the other, it becomes
difficult to maintain a well-balanced
state of mind.
It almost seems that with every
slight flourish of the neck or slight
shutter of the eye, one quickly finds
oneself, all of a sudden, occupying a
completely different personality.
In between the many attitudes
and faces that we constantly alter
and shift when we present ourselves
to people, some damage is more than
likely to occur.
All the different story lines,
deceit, and lies lead us up to a given
moment, wherein we realize that all
of this accumulated bad faith has
converged and congealed together to
constitute our complete person, who
we really are: not a singular, not even
in our own minds, our consciousness
is nothing more than a launching pad
for different personas and desirabili-
ties.
It becomes very easy to lose
account of these fabricated essences
and realities that we build up over
time with other people. We remain
unconcerned about the disastrous
possibilities this practice will eventu-
ally create not only for others, but
for the general “well-to-do-ness” of
our own selves.
Dramatic climaxes and perma-
nently damaged memories aside,
it will probably result in a greater
amount of self-inflicted trauma-re-
lated difficulties. This will be felt the
most, at least from a popular point
HEALTH
of view, when we are alone and there remain alive ceases to exist.
is no one to realize ourselves in, no Finally, we reach that critical
one to create for, to be God to, to point responsible for the ruin of many
show that we are capable and real in lives, more specifically attributed
many different possible ways. to lives of particular backgrounds,
The Nausea is for certain and is created by expectations to submit
felt like an ocean spray of lead wash- completely to other expectations in
ing over the bowels, leaving behind order to help keep a few of us in
only the remains of a scorched and the relatively low and counterfeit
sterilized inside. standard of comfort we’ve come to
Excessive cuisines, uncontrollable cherish and learned to distribute, and
giddiness; shifting and sickness. For will, eventually, be the end of it all.
a brief period of time we feel life the
way we actually really know and see
it, without the relaxing filter of too
much objectivity or an outside pres-
ence.
It’s all at once, directly before
you in all its overwhelming frightful-
ness and mysterious omnipresent
size, everywhere. Like falling off the
cliff of a sublime vision that has gone
awry and has presented itself in the
real life danger we respect and that
the surreality of “real life” usually
protects us from.
No control, no immediate escape:
we are forced to live it--only instan-
taneously--and waves of elusive pain
maneuver casually through the body
in the form of shock and heat and
sensitivity.
The pressures that arise will
eventually become too much, will lead
to the development of very extreme
psychological crises and disorders
that will manifest themselves in un-
usual and extremely troubling ways,
that will lead to the deterioration of
one’s life to the point where feelings
of satisfaction and pleasure become
negligible and unrecognizable, to
the point where any true reason to
7
 HEALTH

GRUDGES AND QUANTUM MECHANICS

by Blair Beauchesne

I was raised on phrases like “I’ll a fundamental law, that things never and expecting different results.” But
remember this for the next time you change. But all things are in flux. just because things seem the same
ask for something” as if they were Every molecule that composes the to our weak eyes and poor ears
vitamins. All my actions became a world vibrates microscopically. doesn’t mean they are. There is so
function of adding or removing points much we cannot sense. But we are
on an arbitrary scale. And so I usu- Atomically things are never in repeatedly trained by experience to
ally felt I was a running deep red identical places even if they haven’t believe that people who have done
debt. During my moved. All things wrong before, will always inevitabil-
teenage years I rea- are constantly be- ity do wrong, which leads to a state
lized the implications ing rearranged. Our beyond redemption. But to force this
of these phrases and Insanity is doing the same thing perception, built belief is to misunderstand the nature
the system they over and over again and expecting from weak sensory of the universe. It denies that things
supported and I grew
different results. organs, cannot are always changing. When we hold a
resentful. For years perceive these grudge we force ourselves to remem-
I carried a grudge changes and thus ber a single state of the way things
against the parent we believe the are, and ignore that things are chang-
who enforced this system, but world is static. Every cell in ev- ing. If we believe Einstein’s definition
sometime over a year ago I came to ery body is a finely tuned series of of insanity, can’t we also believe it is
the unconscious realization of the chemical reactions. Individual cells also insane to believe that changing
weight of this grudge. For years all break down and die but the tissues systems will always yield the same
my interactions with this person were they compose continue to live. The results?
guarded with scripts and algorithms, neurotransmitters in your brain are no
even when I wasn’t interacting with different. They are constantly being I gave up my
them my mind would negotiate terms refreshed with new nutrients, building grudge because I realized it was too
and analyze their efficiency. I was still new connections, much energy to
working within that imposed system. and sending differ- maintain my belief
I rarely talk with that member of ent signals. without the constant
my family anymore, so I decided to We are repeatedly trained by experiments
save myself energy and give up that A common experience to believe
that people (trial and errors) of
grudge. But I’ve lately analyzed the aphorism attributed who have done wrong before, will having this person in
mental mechanisms behind grudges. to Einstein (I can always inevitability
do wrong, my life. I don’t know
These are my notes. hear all the phy- about you, but I
scists from here to would much rather
It’s easy to believe things are Germany cry over put the space in my
concrete, and unless we see motion my usage of the father of modern head to better use.
there is none. This lack of new data physics’ phrase) is “insanity is doing
constantly reinforces that inertia is the same thing over and over again

8

ALCHEMICAL GUACAMOLE
A MANIFESTO/RECIPE FOR UNIFICATION
by R. Nansen
I know of no art more satisfying
than that of cookery. Socrates hated
cooking, thought it no better than
the empty rhetoric of the politician
or schoolteacher— he would have it
that we do not eat at all, and just
expect to be nourished on wisdom
alone. A platter of Plato was served
at the Symposium, while the wine
and cheese were left inside the cave.
However, Socrates suffered from
indigestion, so his input on the mat-
ter must be taken with a grain of
wheat. Wisdom is not a matter of
mind alone. A claim to wisdom which
does not include the stomach is
malnourished, anemic, and should be
regarded as rancid.
A meal is a sort of discourse. It
is the conjoining of several elements
presented in a logical order, often
using a dialectical method (i.e. Meal
[Thesis]—Drinks [Antithesis]—Dessert
[Synthesis]). The cook chasing after
ideal food follows Milton’s description
of “What choice to choose for deli-
cacy best / What order so contrived
as not to mix / Tastes well joined, in-
elegant, but bring / Taste after taste
upheld with kindliest change.” The
cook striving for wisdom becomes a
sort of alchemist, turning base ingre-
dients into culinary gold. A taste of
this food can transform the eater in
a way that no philosophy lecture can.
Like all the best teachings, good food
is a mystery that can only be known
by experience. Luckily, anyone can be
initiated, even you, yes you
who are reading this nonsense, you
too can become an alchemist of food
preparation.
By unifying ingredients, the
alchemical foodie unifies the mind
and body as well. For today’s recipe
I would like to present a simple but
transcendentally delicious dish that
you can whip up for any gastrosophi-
cal party: Guacamole. A good Gua-
camole will reverberate the tones of
the universe. The maxim “As Above,
So Below” applies to your nachos.
Ingredients:
Due to the flexible nature of this
dish, almost all of these ingredients
are optional, and there are certainly
other suitable ingredients which are
not listed here. Additionally, only the
vaguest of measurements are given;
like all things in life, taste is the
deciding factor.
—Many avocados
—Half a lime
—1-21 cloves of garlic
—A bunch of cilantro
—Some hot sauce or hot peppers
—Salt
—Spices
—Fresh veggies: yellow peppers,
green onions, etc.
—Whatever else
HEALTH
Instructions:
1. Choose your ingredients wisely.
Imagine an ancient guru squeezing
an aphroditic avocado in the produce
aisle of your local grocer. “Is an avo-
cado ripe if no one eats it?”
2. Cut the avocados in half,
throw out the pits. Spoon or squeeze
the insides out. Hastily mash them
in a flat glass container, or whatever
else you might have lying around.
Don’t worry too much about it being
creamy just yet. Every time you stir
in a new ingredient, you get closer to
the desired consistency.
3. Put in everything else. Do it
with passion, intelligence, emotion,
logic, illogic, petulance, serenity, and
rage.
4. Say a little prayer and eat.
According to ancient traditions,
one must make Guacamole every day
for seven years before being consid-
ered competent. The delicate balance
of salt and lime, the subtle harmonies
of cilantro and nacho selection. What
is the line between too much garlic
and not enough? What is the french
name for cilantro?
Yes, I can see you have a long
way to go before becoming wise.
Best to get home and start unifying,
for that is the secret of both wisdom
and cooking.
9
 HEALTH

“STONG SUCKS DICKS”?

by Adam Abbas

“Where Ignorant Armies Clash by Night…” job? Who cares? It’s just some faded tagging before, although I’ve only
- from “Dover Beach” by Matthew Arnold scrawls on the walls, not immediately done it twice and it was years ago
noticeable. Just don’t look at it or under train tressels in Winnipeg on
Stong Sucks Dick-- that’s what give it any attention. It reminds me walls that weren‘t noticeable to the
the graffiti on the front wall of Stong of my current residence at a York U public. My tag was EMRGNCY, inspired
College says. It’s scratched on the Village house where people spill mi- by Basquiat’s ‘Livery Line’ poem,
slanted brick wall on the right side of crowaved soup onto the kitchen floor which he sprayed back in the ‘80s. I
the doors, the lettering faint but still and don’t bother to clean it up, or always thought tagging was weak in
visible and legible. For the two and track dirt into the hall and the bath- contrast to piecing but I did it any-
a half years that I’ve attended York room floor with their shoes instead ways. But even back then I still had
it’s remained there, and has since of taking them off at the door. And the sense not to do it somewhere
become the first thing I notice when- just like the graffiti, I shouldn’t pay noticeable.
ever I enter. There’s also a clearly it any mind. The meaning of words York is a university with a huge
drawn phallus on the wall inside the often change so maybe in the future student population and “Stong Sucks
college (by the stairs, on the right “Stong Sucks Dick” will become a Dick” waits to subtly worm its way
side of the doors) next to the stand badge of courage and honour. If not, into the back of everyone’s minds.
with the newspapers and university we must be all be rich if we attend And this begs the question: what kind
publications, including The Flying Wal- York anyway and therefore need of academic integrity and comfort
rus. exposure to life’s polluted reality to can I maintain and how much pride
I’ve tried to remedy this problem. ground us. And besides, “Don’t you can I really have being a student at
I spoke to the cleaning staff inside like having your dick sucked?” this university? This is an institution
about removing it and they said I’m not going to reel off all the of higher learning and petty issues
they weren’t responsible for outside discomfort surrounding York because like this should be resolved as soon
maintenance. In the beginning of the that’s a well-known point of agree- as possible.
2009 Fall Session I told the student ment among many students. I have So if in the near future the
council president of Stong about the to do what I can with what I have graffiti is completely cleaned off,
graffiti and saw him write it down where I am, as the saying goes. If I that would be best. If not, after my
and shake his head in dismay, yet fall into paying exorbitant fees for previous attempts to raise the issue
it’s still there. Based on the faded unnecessary textbooks or for slight and now with this article I’m not
lettering it seems like there’s been a amounts of food, I learn and become comfortable becoming the shrill wheel
past attempt to remove the graffiti, wiser for it. But I think that the any further. The graffiti could very
but it seems it wasn’t good enough atmosphere of this university--and well remain there, still readable, and
because the graffiti remains. It re- the energy and money I’ve put into people can be persuaded to think
minds me of my previous employment it to build the foundation for a future that York a reputable institution. And
in a factory where recycling wasn’t career, as solid as that sounds--is the reputable institution can persuade
practiced, and when I raised the issue degraded by allowing something as us, the students--or “clients,” to use
I was told it cost money to have the garish as the graffiti around Stong to its own term for us--into believing
proper trucks come to the factory. have existed for as long as it has. that this is a wonderful time in our
Therefore recycling wasn’t an option. And I’m not a saint either-- this is lives.
So why try to do a thorough coming from someone who’s gone

10

PROJECT BLACKLIGHT
by Canis Lupin
Hypothesis 1: The insolation of a surface is greatest when
it directly faces the sun.
Hypothesis 2: The insolation at the surface of the earth is
reduced when light passes through more air.
Experiment Design
Hypothesis one requires the plane face of the solar
cell facing the sun be altered from directly facing the
sun. That is, the face is perpendicular to the sun’s rays,
not parallel. This tilting needs to be quantified (this may
have something to do with where you live). This is done
by using the shadow cast by the cell, since the length
of the shadow cast is directly proportional to the angle
of tilt under consideration (stay with me, here). The sun
is high in the sky on a sunny day. The cell is mounted
on a 1x3 cm, thin wooden strip, upright on a 10x10 x
12cm cardboard platform with an off white surface (you
should be able to éclair right here—don’t be afraid). Glue
is used to keep it secured. Tape is used to hinge the cell
on the top part of the strip such that it stays horizontal,
also tilt vertical. Next and most importantly: on the other
side of the cardboard a stick sharpened at one end is
glued, secure. The cardboard is place over soil so that its
shadow covers that of the stick. This means that the cell
is directly facing the sun. At this orientation, the sharp
end of the stick is stuck in the soil. The ammeter is then,
properly connected. The cell stands 3 cm above the card-
board surface on which its shadow is cast and easily mea-
sured. Starting from the horizontal position, the length of
the shadow cast and the corresponding ammeter reading
is measured for various tilts, minimum to maximum.
The measurements taken are tabulated then graphed.
To make things easy, the ruler is place on the surface
with its marking in the direction of its shadow. What’s
left? Read the shadow lengths as it moves along the
ruler. Calibration of the ammeter is also done prior to
the readings. It is, in fact, done for every reading set
or measurement taken, as calibration within a set would
introduce systematic errors into the experiment. Hence,
the first reading taken before a calibration would not be
consistent with what occurs after a given set (nausea
is acceptable here). The wooden strip is glued strongly
so that the whole setup remains rigid, as any movement
would mean consequent shadow movement which leads to
HEALTH
erroneous readings.
Hypothesis two is investigated by taking readings
when the sun is high in the sky and when it is low. The
cardboard set up, as described, is used again to ensure
the Sun is faced directly, but this time there is no tilting.
The ammeter reading for these two different times is
recorded.
It is also acceptable to experiment with different light
sources* for comparison effects on the cell: fluorescent
light bulb, university transcript (dull or bright), cell phone
screen etc., and so on and so forth.
Conclusion
In the first part, the ammeter reading changed with
the orientation of the cell. The highest reading occurred
when the cell was perpendicular to the rays and lowest
when parallel (think missionary). The (L) vs (I) graph is
mostly a straight line, which indicates the direct propor-
tional relation between tilt and insolation. It goes like
this: shadow length is proportional to angle (tilt) which is
proportional to insolation and this shadow length is also
proportional to insolation. Hypothesis #1 is confirmed.
The second investigation showed maximum current
when the sun was highest in the sky but only 75+-25
when the sun was low, at dusk. At dusk, light has to pass
through much more air before hitting earth’s surface.
Recall that at both times the cell faced the sun directly.
Hypothesis #2 was also confirmed.
*Regarding the cell response to various light sources,
it was found that the higher the wattage of the light,
the higher the ammeter reading, irrespective of how true
white the light (note the beat boxing). Also, the closer
to the light source the cell was, the higher the current.
The university transcript was the least effective. There-
fore, only one thing can unify black/light. Philosophy tells
us it’s out of our hands because we are black and light,
mere consequences of the powers that be somewhere
out of reach. However, the only thing that unifies black/
light is immortality. Celine Dion knows. She wrote a song
about it. Anything that touches this perfect blue planet
becomes mortal, no matter how many temper tantrums
we throw over the Bunsen burner. Or else insolate. Cheers
to the sun!
11
 A
R
T
S
THE GREAT ARCHITECT by Tamara Tanurdzic

SILLY WALRUS, UNIFICATION
APOCALYPSE
by Patrick Grant
(A short script about why all Flying
Walrus themes are the same.)
Patrick: When the world was first
consumed by the darkness in my
heart, it was pretty cold outside.
Slush-caked boots danced down dilap-
idated avenues. Stores stayed open
late. I felt strong and secure and
everyone was happy. Other than the
Mis(t)ery. Things became popular, you
know? Like zombie shows, paranormal
phenomena vibrating on airwaves for
the joyful fantasies of the young and
old alike. The deeply devoured blood
and semen, all of us, heads blown off
for loaves of bread, lying in the gut-
ter while modified Priuses cruised by,
speakers blaring. All plans for naught.
Record collections started their own
dust collections and argued about the
age and size of mites and bunnies
(nice and funny). The sun was all like,
“These days are full of meaning.” I
couldn’t agree more. Each little frag-
ment bouncing and stretching and
becoming and flashing in and out of
existence all for the sake of move-
ment, just to elude easy description
and simply BE, working harder in
every minute of minutiae than I’ve
worked in my existence’s entirety,
excluding, of course, the countless
toils of mitochondria and the like, the
unsung heroes of energy futures.
(ENTER The Darkness In My Heart,
looking gluttonous.)
DIMH: Hey, get on with it, okay?
You had a case to make.
Patrick: It’s true, I did. I was
going to say something about the
potential of positive apocalypse.
DIMH: And not in the “My veil is
torn, enlightenment abounds!” kind
ARTS
IS
of way. Still the big evil world is over
and there’s nothing kind of way.
Patrick: Right, so everything is
gone, right? They turned on a large
Hadron collider, it fucked up and
everything got sucked into a human-
created black hole. Thanks, Science.
Science: Hey, no problem.
DIMH: Who invited you, other
than humanity? There wasn’t even a
stage direction.
Science: Nobody, I guess.
DIMH: Then, quoting Biff, “Make
like a tree and get outta here.”
Patrick: No, wait! It’s cool, Dark-
ness In My Heart. He’s with me. Us.
I’m a little confused here. Anyways,
as I was saying, we’re all gone. Not
even dead, just nonexistent. Is this
in any way different than what you
expect for yourself after the oblit-
eration of humanity? All of your
accomplishments, significant as they
are, draped in purple robes and lain
before God (absent for this reading)
with passion and sensual excitement,
rubbed with fragrances, laced with
cat tranquilizers and syncopated to
the beat of marimbas, will vanish as
we all do. This alone unites us. It’s
the only lone that many of us can
get approved for. Togetherness is a
bi-product of Mis(t)ery. The apoca-
lypse kiss us every second and imbue
these moments with everything, for
in the tomorrow is only nothingness
and all of its potential.
(The Darkness In My Heart removes
his newly-sprouted proboscis and
stuffs me back into his pouch-like
throat cavity, hiccups, belches and
disappears)
13
 ARTS
THE DISSOCIAL NETWORK
by Lucas Nochez
Racing down the highway at ille-
gal speeds while on my iPhone trying
to return e-mails and text messages
to a director that I was supposed to
interview amidst the frenzy and chaos
of the holiday season, I was late for
my interview. When I arrive, I find the
filmmaker comfortably sitting at the
reserved table, glued to his phone.
Finally sitting down and greeting
Michael Mazzuca, I quickly scramble to
get my interviewer resources ready. I
place my phone on the table, still on
loud. We were going to be discussing
how communication technology both
advances and cripples our abilities as
social individuals, a fact which made
me feel much more of an idiot when
my phone rang.
Michael Mazzuca is a York Uni-
versity graduate currently trying to
find his niche within the scarce world
of cinema in Toronto. Following his
successful debut The Thirty Thing,
Michael recently premiered his newest
film Reception at the Carlton Cinema.
Michael Mazzuca is somewhat of a
raw talent. His debut film The Thirty
Thing is a gritty take on Italian cul-
ture. The film is a retelling of an old
Italian folktale that finds a 29-year-old
trying to fight the curse of the Thirty
Thing. Now, Michael has switched
tones and genres from cultural drama
to estranged thriller. The film follows
two couples and their challenge to
overcome an enraged friend once he
gets grim news in a cottage isolated
from the rest of the world.
Our discussion opens with talk of
David Fincher’s The Social Network.
Michael was not short on words about
how social networking in society has
impacted his life and his film.
“Being a little bit older now, I’ve
14
realized that one of the villains in
life is definitely this lack of commu-
nication between family and friends.
Reception, inevitably, is about commu-
nication; the lack of, the abundance
of, and our reaction to, its presence
and absence.”
Straying away from personal
stories of how he met his girlfriend
through Facebook and more towards
sociological commentary, Michael ex-
plains how Reception is an account of
the behaviour we adopt when we rely
too heavily on devices for communi-
cation.
“I feel more than ever that our
society is depending more on these
hyper-modes of communication. We
lose that ability to go over and just
talk to someone…anyone. It is like
we are constantly plugged in! With
blackberries, iPhones, the internet,
Facebook. Just last night, I was hav-
ing a family dinner, and three of us at
a time were always on our blackberry.
We are constantly pulling some sort
of communicating device out. And the
real irony of it all is that we are los-
ing that essential part of communicat-
ing to becoming more anti-social.”
When asked where the inspiration for
this film came from, he responds,
“I like staying within our reality. I
wanted to do something a little bit
more commercial my second time
around. It’s all about the art and the
message behind the film. Reception
came to me while driving really late
at night and while turning on the
radio, I found the station immersed
in static. Instantly, I thought of my
cottage.” Reception was filmed at the
Mazzuca family cottage, an isolated
haven where Michael fled as a child
to get away from the madness of the
city.
Like The Social Network, Recep-
tion is a revelation of the negativity
of disconnected relationships. The film
demonstates how a piece of simple
cinematic artistry can connect people
in the areas where they lack interac-
tion. His job as a director is to artisti-
cally transform disparate pieces of our
society and create a whole. By watch-
ing a film, strangers collectively join in
one common place to indulge, dissect,
and reciprocate ideas. As fundamen-
tally disconnected human beings are
becoming through the impersonal use
of the internet, the movie theater
becomes a positive realm of interac-
tion and personable communication.
“The whole idea of Reception was
to show my skill as a filmmaker and
show my skill as a positive member
of society to connect people, even if
it is through this means of cinema.
I wanted to really show a mood, a
feeling, and really pushing that, and
having people talk about it with each
other afterwards”
The interview concludes and we
both find our way back to our vehi-
cles, I sit in my car and wait for it to
warm up. As disconnected as it could
be to sit in a dark room and watch
the frames of a film pass by, I never
realized how movies connect people.
In a fragmented society where we are
constantly being broken off from the
enriched culture around us, perhaps
cinema is the medium where technol-
ogy may flourish, and we can still be
able to go up to a stranger and spark
up a conversation. Hopefully, cinema
is the medium that can account for
changes in technology, either socially
or aesthetically, but also, sustain our
ability as social, unified individuals.

HAIRY DEFENSE
by Ted Killin
I itch, I tingle, I wriggle. A large
crop of hair presses into my mouth,
barring my way as I attempt to eat
out his asshole. He flexes against
my efforts but his misgivings are not
shared by his pubic hairs stretching
against their moorings, tense strings
craving my mouth. O, there is far
too much hair! After convincing him
to lower his containment program I
will not allow mere fur to co-opt my
advances.
It has become commonplace to
travel inside a technology that fills
the widespread demand for public
asylum. The press of a button sur-
rounds the individual in a perfect
cube of smoke. Each cube contains
a personal filter that restricts the
people able to enter; any number
of ridiculous characteristics can be
programmed into this device to keep
others at a distance. The moment
an undesirable person approaches
the containment shield it breaks and
releases noxious smoke to cloak the
person, allowing them to make a
clean getaway. The gender of its ten-
ant can only be gleaned after close
scrutiny of the shadow it throws.
All at once, I halt, out of breath.
To defy his modesty I push apart his
legs wet with saliva, demanding that
he rid himself of this troublesome
thatch. His face glows red and he
murmurs with a timid thirst, los-
ing willpower because I stare at his
bottom raised in the air. His Adam’s
apple bobs as he nods assent. Then,
squeezing his muscles together, he
shakes the deep crack of his but-
tocks and ejects his rectal tuft in
one go. It shoots out of the window
into the street looking like a colony
of dandelion seeds emerges from
my apartment, a full sphere floating
as its life ebbs, waiting for a fertile
patch to interrupt its flight.
The programmed defenses of
a man beneath my window remain
inactive when the hair encounters his
cube. It takes advantage of his open
button-up to latch on and spread
over his chest. The man tears at this
amorphous entity, reddening, frenzied.
Quivering under his turbulent touch,
it resolves to stroke his long curved
bones, stitching through the shallow
skin that stretches over his ribcage.
His thrashing prompts the enclosure
to break and in the cloud of released
smoke I see his Adam’s apple bob.
Another cube looms into view
and its inhabitant doesn’t slow as it
nears his exposed cloud, ear tuned
to her handsfree mobile. Her silhou-
ette is tinged green, a telling sign
that her filter’s presets will not allow
her to interact with any cube whose
owner makes less than six figures.
The hair hurls itself upon her body
and latches onto her head, tearing
out her receiver as it surges past
her ear. My lover’s dark hair weaves
its way around her skull, plunges
into her while it gives her blonde
head a vigorous massage. A convul-
sion shakes her and throws back her
head when the hair whips through her
sinuses and tightens around her neck.
Wetness streams down her lofty legs
and ass. She tries to scream but the
hair wraps around her tongue, shov-
ing this stiff interfering muscle into
the man’s outstretched mouth. The
confines of her cube break and in
the cloud of released smoke I watch
her Adam’s apple bob, her lower lip
ARTS
drooling as she processes his saliva.
Any person that comes close enough
to inspect the situation is invari-
ably drawn in by ravenous coils of
hair that forcibly instigate pleasure.
Slipping through the preprogrammed
interpersonal technologies, it strips
clothes, invades pores, splays legs,
enters holes, presses into bladders,
writhes in sweat, semen, blood and
urine, thrums and vibrates while
wrapped around cocks and balls, al-
ways tuned into the shrieks of shock
and pleasure that wrack the grow-
ing crowd. I watch this mass unfold
through the window as the man in
my room begins to put his breeches
back on.
“Do you want to go down and
join them?”
He shakes his head, eyes widen-
ing.
“Look how easily you quiver.
You’ve become too far removed
from your body. Can you fully know
your body unless my tongue probes
your lower tract? Sure, objects pass
out through the same tube, but you
don’t experience your insides dur-
ing such necessaries. You need this
intimacy, so I’ll give you two choices:
either I get my way or I’ll throw you
into that mob, and I’m sure your
promiscuous hair would love to sub-
ject you to the sexual congo line it’s
forming down in the street.”
His Adam’s apple bobs and his
cheeks glow red. I thrust my tongue
into him unannounced because I want
him tight and squirming as I introduce
his sleek anus to my sweet mouth.
15
 ARTS
A FORTNIGHT AT THE OPERA
by Maria Golikova
Performance and Installation Artist Stacey Sproule Sets Peggy Seeger Aflight on The Earth Ship
In a copse of tall cardboard trees
stretching towards a lofty ceiling,
trees with corrugation exposed for
bark and knot holes glowing, some
soft yellow and some ice blue, Katy
Cruel twirls around a bed of aluminum
foil frosted like silver snow. Not the
Dancer then, but a girl with beetroot
hearts dangling from the back of her
dress, she is swathed in gathered silk
and cotton, cherubic cheeks glowing
against frosted skin. The singers are
in black: the man adorned with balls
of felted blue wool clinging to him
with spider silk; the girl with a belt of
colourful yarn. When it started they
came around and offered us anise-
flavoured candies, so now we all have
the same taste in our mouths. From
one corner of the room, up in the
loft space accessible by ladder where
the industrious musicians are housed,
emanate the plaintive sounds of a
lap steel guitar and clarinet. We wit-
ness not only the life of Katy Cruel
but, indeed, her death too: there is a
funeral. And we witness not only her
death, but, indeed, her life too: she
is reborn, and whirls again amidst a
flock of powder blue paper butterflies
One underestimates the bone-
chilling, vein-stilling power of the
uninhibited human voice full-tilt in an
interior acoustical space. The Earth
Ship itself, the place the performance
was held, is one of those confounding
spaces in which is amassed a collec-
tion of seemingly incongruous objects
that exist in perfect harmony, one of
those spaces you could look around
forever and the moment your eye
finds an object of interest to rest
upon it is immediately called else-
16
where. The hanging plants, big paper
lamps; the spice racks and knick-
knacks; the drawings, pressings; the
darting of the cat. On your way to
the bathroom: the record collection.
Our conception of an album is
normally that of a complete entity,
but audiophiles who revel in the world
of b-sides and unreleased tracks are
privy to the fluidity and dynamism
the recording artist’s productions of-
fer. In an effort that literary people
might think of as Romantic, Stacey
Sproule decided to conceive of and
produce an operatic performance in
a two-week residency at the Earth
Ship, to dissemble and then reas-
semble the beautiful and somewhat
obscure first solo album of Ameri-
can folk singer Peggy Seeger. She
opened up her process to the public,
encouraged friends and family and
fellow artists to help with the set
and costumes, with needle-felting and
sewing and sculpting and cutting the
teeniest most delicate things out of
paper, and in so doing told anyone
who thought they could prescriptively
determine what she wastryingto do
to shut their face. What shediddo
was offer up a new, a truly sensually-
integrated experience.
It occurred to me that the experi-
ence must have differed for those
who had not heard the album before.
But both points of view must have
had their own merits: lovers of the
album felt a pleasant heavy warmth
brewing in their chests upon discern-
ing snippets of their favourite songs;
those less familiar with the music
marveled at the dancer’s dress and
the singers’ voices and the eerie
sounds of the track in the back-
ground, were unsettled by the heavy
warmth in their chests when Katy
Cruel was covered by the shroud.
The audience, filtered throughout the
space, surrounded the “stage” and
looked inwards at the performance.
Thus it was not only the figure that
dominated the viewers’ interest (to
use the visual artist’s paradigm),
but the ground too. The theatre is
designed to enhance the solitary
experience.
Folk songs emerge from a tradi-
tion that is inclusive. Although they
might be communicated in terms of
an individual’s plight (or in this case,
complaint), although they often name
charming and not unspecific names,
the cries of misery or glee or ambiva-
lence are universal. The wordfolkis
derived from the GermanVolk, which
means “the people as a whole.” It is
clear that authorship is unimportant.
The songs are constantly re-worked—
memories aren’t what they used to
be—and yet we never tire of them.
The tradition is not about moderniza-
tion; rather, about reintegration. What
was significant in Sproule’s dynamic
performance was not the deconstruc-
tion but the re-creation.
Performers Included:
Alex Samaras & Robin Dann, Singing.
Matt Dunn, Lap Steel.
Jordan Armstrong, Clarinet.
Paige Culley, Dancing.
For more information, visit:
http://staceysproule.blogspot.com/
You won`t be sorry.

MY YEAR IN SONGS
by Betty M.
Can you really describe your life
as a clearly defined path that unfolds
before you? It often seems more like
an amorphous chaotic mess, a mess
of actions and reactions, of interacting
electrical impulses. You could take one
step and end up right beneath the an-
vil that will splatter your mind all over
the sidewalk. It happens every moment
and it is called living. This is how I
peeled the shards off the concrete and
made sense of the turmoil.
With a one-way ticket to Paris, I
take time to reflect over the previous
year. The recollection of my affec-
tions, rejections, and collections takes
the form of music. Music recorded
from my subconscious, unapologetically
honest. Playlists that demanded to be
made emerged organically. It’s strange
to listen to in hindsight, understand-
ing my unconscious anticipation of the
coming heartache.
Much of the music is about my
very public dissolving of the lifetime
partnership with RAD collaborator R.
Mirsky. We both had strong relation-
ships with music, art, and each other,
but ours was not meant to exist be-
yond that time. I have no regrets.
In the days that followed my re-
turn from Japan in late July, I had sub-
consciously, through sounds and sin-
cere sentiments, braced myself for the
stresses I knew could befall me. But I
believed, until the first of August, that
the man I considered my common-law
husband would meet me at the altar
the following weekend for our wedding
and that I’d announce a name change
at an art and music event entitled
Retrospectively RAD. We were set to
move to Glasgow, and he had made
promises of putting food on our table
while I obtained a professional degree
so I could work to sustain our hopes
and dreams.
In the three weeks that I was in
Toronto, rather than be weighed down
by wedding--or lack thereof--blues, I
recorded 13 hours of live improvised
music with my bandmates. With their
help, I put out the final edition of our
annual RAD zine, including his contri-
butions positively. A letter from both
of us regarding the situation was also
included. The shared show exhibited a
retrospective of my own work which,
after seven years, included many of
our collaborations. It took the name
Survival of the Fittest: A Retrospective
of Someone You Used to Know, and he
was in attendance. In between I got to
fill my time with all the simple things I
really fancy: shared meals, impromptu
photo shoots, ice cream cones from a
chased truck, road trips, and listening
to music.
My personal history with music
starts with the record collection of my
mother, with the melancholy beauty
of the Shangri Las and the range of
The Beatles. And at the age of four,
after having surgery to fix my hearing,
I learned how to use the turntable and
have never lived anywhere without one
since.
Vinyl is my oldest and best friend,
but over the years I have expanded
my circle of “friends” to include cas-
sette tapes, CDs, and the delightful
devil that is the digital format. With
that said, it should be no surprise
that my life is forever haunted by the
soundtrack to the mental movie of
experience. And, in the months that
preceded my return to Toronto, my
playlist told a story I didn’t assess or
acknowledge, even as I listened on and
on. It was…
ARTS
Koko Taylor & Willie Dixon- Insane Asylum
Irma Thomas- Break-A-Way
Oblivians- Bad Man (aka Bad Girl)
Jimmy Robins- I Can’t Please You (aka Just
Can’t Please You)
The Seeds- You’re Pushing Too Hard
Hank Ballard- I’ll Be Home Someday
Bobbie Smith- Now He’s Gone (aka Now
You’re Gone)
Mary Weiss with the Reigning Sounds- Don’t
Come Back
The 13th Floor Elevators- You’re Gonna Miss
Me
ROCKATONES- Everything’s Gone Wrong
If it were a letter, it could read
something like this…
“From the ‘Insane Asylum’
‘Bad Man,’
‘I Can’t Please You,’ but ‘I’ll Be Home
Someday.’ ‘You’re Pushing Too Hard’
and ‘Now You’re Gone.’ ‘Don’t Come
Back.’ ‘You’re Gonna Miss Me,’ now
‘Everything’s Gone Wrong.’
‘Break-A-Way!’
Love, Betty”
Thereafter, with singles like
“Party Girl” by Bernadette Carrolle, I
once again stumbled onto the perfect
soundtrack to the montage of men I
found fleeting fun and company with
over the last four months.
So for every woman who has
ever cried to me over their lost love, I
understand. And for every woman who
told me that my poise and persever-
ance inspires them to be better, know
that it does not come easy because
life is not easy; but thank you for see-
ing the good in me.
Some say I’m a sinner, some say
I’m a saint, nobody calls me anything
I ain’t. Just because you’ve read this
doesn’t mean you know me and just
because I cared doesn’t mean you owe
me.
17
p
o
e
m
s

1995
by Adam Abbas
Alabaster marbles carry blood inside
Throbbing proudly for my childhood friends
Polished gemstones capture what it means to hide
Truths will become lies when their arms open wide
Vehement tears of laughter were godsends
Alabaster marbles carry blood inside
Treasured secrets. My conviction cast aside
Lore and solitude on snowy weekends
Polished gemstones capture what it means to hide
POEMS & COMIX
Running moving far away as memories collide
Crushes playground fights and meaningless trends
Alabaster marbles carry blood inside
Paragons ablaze in them I could confide
Crowded bazaars empty museums forged amends
Polished gemstones capture what it means to hide
My eyes bound to onyx reveal what had died
Dedication so strong I believed it always ends
Alabaster marbles carry blood inside
Polished gemstones capture what it means to hide.
 POEMS

RACE TRAITOR
by Rasia Virani
with deepest love for jonny house, aka jonny d’anger; and with respect to Regina Frank’s “What is
Black? What is White?”
it may be terrible to admit, spreading beyond your ankles,
beloved, muted navy veins map
but i the oceanic swells below buttery antarctic sheets
am simply jaw-struck where leopard seals cavort in an alog tria ng les
by your pale skin. u l u l a t i n g s aw w av es
translated in my skin as tightening
its dense freckled textures infinite and spor adi c peaks.
each cry a place on my tongue
with i water
aromas like attar at each thought
like almonds yearn
like grains of clinging earth to slake my thirst
and sunswelled ripeness which soak my mouth with the rosehip brew
lingers, dr i p p i n g that steeped and stained your nipples,
beyond the white they see: you penis,
beyond the white they say: you! scrotum,
till they were too pink- too dark- too ripe
are flooding my eyes, a kaleidoscope unspooling to resist.
into so-many-colours.
(and
it must be terrible your prismatic paleness is a hypnotic canvas
rainbow-nacre-oil
to say slick
but) but whiteness does flirt crookedly,
i am in love labyrinthine inside your mouth
with your so-many-colours.

like the interior petals of an eglantine rosebud and white moons glow
through the beds of your split-polished nails
crayola peach with a salmon flush sally hansen seductive,
tight and stretched like the wing of a 2764-40, your choice,
pterodactyl chipping over all twenty of
our fingers
our shade identical, in these,
a night sky’s cloudy negative and in each

so delicate, in a taste eye, whitest of all, swathing

each iris in consciousness,
my lips pull forth whole constellations of blood-seamed and shining
the kaleidoscope unfurling
throbbing purple sunsets. i will always love your colours!
in recognition in repudiation and repeat.

20

OUR BODIES ARE MOTION FULL
by Kira Lancaster
Train travel is backdrop noise
the click clack of the railroad track
is the din of American spirit,
the wrinkles and cracks of our aging skin,
flaking into the wind with the flint
and spark of large darkened engines.
Hauling the weight of nations
in cars that carry us all in freight,
linked tight and safe; Cargo, Passengers.
It’s movement that feeds them, movement that builds
their cells; walled in again and again.
This takes time, but they have not felt
the wait lately. When did they?
The Past; where strangers meet in the club
car, and pass something between themselves,
from palm to palm, shaking, pausing before
a release, leaving hands’ journeys mixed
in sweat, the day’s newspaper ink
meets starch from a clean pillow-
Never unrelated again.
Does this make them lovers? Tunnelling
forward faster than history, through veins
pulsing beneath human surfaces,
Shared. Lovers apart breathing an air
no one could avoid, lovers
in breathe, one’s exhale another’s
inhale, coaxing ‘there’ to become ‘here’.
And there is eternally more,
breath, veins interconnecting
with skin that breaks into the wind-
bodies mixing, no thought or desire,
only motion. Untrained, untracked, motion.
POEMS
by Farrah Abdel-Latif
I feel empty. Lifeless legs lift me out of bed
to brush my teeth in front of a mirror but I do not
recognize who that girl is. There are light bruises
on her breasts branded by the tight touch
of your love; they remind her of her father
and his disciplinary pinches that left bruises
on my thighs bigger than these ones. I try
not to think about it, I dress, somehow,
I don’t know because I can’t see.
I’m thinking too much.
In the kitchen my mother and her pills
sit together and she tells the unfamiliar girl
that these will make you happier. These will make you
full.
Strange girl stands immobile, brooding
over the pharmaceutical billionaire who is
feeding his children with my mother’s pain.
While my father falls apart in the room
next to us, eating his self to death.
This girl, I wish I knew who she was,
walks out of my life and I feel empty.
This girl brings your love back to me. I shatter
into ten thousand shreds, all ten thousand
pieces of me feel your long lanky fingers pinching
to pick up and press ten thousand back into me.
Back into one so the two of us can feel
The Flying Walrus and Samuel J. Zacks Gallery
Proudly Present...
CRITICAL BEATDOWN:
An Art Show
Grand Opening on Wednesday March 23rd
We are looking for Artists and Performers! Contact walrus@yorku.ca for more info
21
 POEMS

WAITING
by Brennan Maynard

I arrived alone.
A destination in mind.
Flashing electric purpose
The guiding neon sign.
And for a while I was.
Identity in my cough and fidget,
Isolation in my unkempt hair.
Motion granting Permanence,
Among the dead and dying there.
But time is patient, cruel and true.
It knows this station well.
And while we wait and watch the
clock,
Clear our minds of friend and fuck,
It creeps about this prison block.
Replacing me with standard fare.
Wake!
With start and startle to see
This single moment,
Eyes fixed upon the glowing screen.
And realize the price of travel,
Is higher still than silver sheen.
It is our inactivity
Our staring, lounging, passing time.
That binds us in shared poverty,
And forces out this contrived rhyme.
Bankrupt of ourselves!
We’ve formed together
An ailing nation.
A unity in bored placation.
Harmony in thought cessation.
We are in this waiting one.

ODE TO A YOUNG HELLENE

by Giorgio Berbatiotis

The sun at dusk would cast a somber glow,
As Time did push it ‘cross the fading sky,
Its’ cold worn shade spoke of the sad van Gogh,
And as it changed from light to dark we’d sigh.
We wish for summer days that have long passed,
As winters wash away the life we had.
The thrust of Time is cruel and he works fast,
But for the change and haste of Time I’m glad.
That force of Time that cleaved us once apart,
New summer brings and we’ll with joy meet then,
And when he tries to use his subtle art,
I won’t let Time take you from me again.
For though Time’s push can bury solstice skies,
Old Time will stop when I look in your eyes.

CAMPUS WALK
by Rhys Mendes

Streetlights On a hedgehog All night

On a night Glowing softly Clinging on
With a sky Lit In the gentle breeze
Over the trees By the embers Till the filter burns
Of cold, dead wood Of a cigarette And the ashes
Thick Dying on the sidewalk Crumble
On the ground But Over a startled
Like feathers No one sees Ant

22
 POEMS

VISUAL POEM by Sara Flemington

23
 The Flying Walrus wants works on the theme of “Food.”

Everybody eats, but discussions of food rarely go beyond restaurant

orders and animalistic grunts. Food structures the way we live: our
routines, our ethics, our relationships with other people and the
world at large. Food is not onlyfor the body, but for the mind and
spirit as well.

So give us your personal vision of eating. Gastrosophical recipes, re-

views, stories, comix, poems, whine and cheese--but bake a unique
cake using only the finest ingredients; after all, the Flying Walrus
holds one hell of a potluck.

Deadline: March 13th