new beginnings teaser (issue #1 of rhetoric)
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1
1
The
rhetoric
AUTUMN/WINTER
2012
2
2
Editor’s Letter
Dearest reader,
ou have entered the world of the Rhetoric. It was not an easy world to create, springing first from flimsy thoughts and then slowly becoming substance before our eyes. Creating deadlines, writing for a public eye and trying to join it all in a common theme has
certainly been a challenge! As with our own beginning, we present to you the theme of new beginnings. Creative writing, poetry, stories from around the world; we have packaged a little bit of art into a box and set it out in front of you.
When creating this magazine, there was only one thing that I was really looking for: to show the world a piece of passion, through whatever source the individual artist felt possible. I wanted to allow the freedom to express anything you‟re passionate about in a single medium and I hope that, in the end, this will be what has combined all of our pieces together.
Nelly Matorina
Y
COVER PHOTOGRAPH
BY VICTORIA SAVORY
3
3
CONTENTS
PHOTOGRAPH BY YANA BELOKON
Music 82
Festival Review : Northside Festival 83
Dan Rutman: Sweetest Fruit EP 87
Jukebox Playlists 91
Poetry 96
Wisdom found on a hilltop 97
Africa, My Home, My Heart 98
What happens when you melt music 100
Reflective Writing 104
The Beginning to an End 105
Making every day a new beginning 109
Names and Places 115
Reviews 117
‘Kafka on the Shore’ Review 118
Spiked Movie Theatre Drinks: An
Inception Review 119
THIS ISSUE
Creative Writing 12
Dear person who stole my wallet 13
The Universe Meets Here: A Recollection of Beauty
19
A Technicolour Beginning 23
Resurgence 32
Words are like healing drugs 34
Forged Innovation 38
Technology 44
The emergence of a QR code 45
NFC Technology: the age of innovation 46
Why did Google really buy Motorola
Mobility?
47
Travel 48
Four Parts of Pangaea 49
Best Benches To Do Your Hoboing at
This Summer 67
The guide book to hidden beaches,
hamster wheels and the most creative
duvet covers in existence
75
4
4
23 A Technicolour Beginning
32 34
13 109
91
115 105
100 119
Words are like healing drugs
Dear Person Who Stole my Wallet
Resurgence
The Beginning to an End
Names and Places
Jukebox Playlists
Spiked Movie Theatre Drinks
What happens when you melt music
Making every day a new beginning
CONTENTS/THEMATIC PIECES
PHOTOGRAPH BY SOFIA JUL
19 The Universe Meets Here: A Recollection of Beauty
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5
Contributors WRITERS
CONTRIBUTERS
MALASHREE
SUVEDI
NELLY MATORINA
LYDIA DEICHMANN
CASSANDRA WEE
JENNIFER AHNTHY PHAM
CECILIE
OLESEN
LYDIA DEICHMANN
NELLY MATORINA
ANNE ROLD
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6
EDITORS
JENNIFER AHNTHY PHAM
MARIE JO MOLTRUP
CONTRIBUTERS
LYDIA DEICHMANN
SOFIA JUL
MALASHREE
SUVEDI
CHRISTINA ELISE HOLM-LARSEN
MEGAN PHIPPS
MALASHREE
SUVEDI
JENNIFER AHNTHY PHAM
7
7
YANA BELOKON
ILJA
MOISEJEV
NELLY
MATORINA
CONTRIBUTERS
ELIZAVETA SAMODUROVA
MEGAN
PHIPPS
JOE HONG
CAROLYN ROTENBERG
BRENNA
SENGER
PHOTOGRPAHERS/ARTISTS
CHRISTINA
ELISE HOLM-
LARSEN
ALEKSANDRA
DUBROVSKA
CASSANDRA
WEE
ELISAVETA
SAMODUROVA
VICTORIA
SAVORY
KASPAR
CHRISTENSEN
BRENNA
SENGER
BRENNA
SENGER
VICTORIA
SAVORY
SOFIA JUL
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8
THE RHETORIC. AUTUMN/WINTER 2012 FEATURES
northside
festival
page 83
A day in
pictures
page 80
PHOTOGRAPH BY SOFIA JUL
PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNE ROLD
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9
FEATURES PHOTOGRAPH BY CASSANDRA WEE
get out of my
dreams and
onto my head
page 39
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Creative writing DEAR PERSON WHO STOLE MY WALLET | THE UNIVERSE MEETS HERE | RESURGENCE | WORDS ARE LIKE HEALING DRUGS | FORGED INNOVATION
FEATURES
PHOTOGRAPH BY YANA BELOKON
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Dear Person Who Stole
My Wallet a letter
by ANNE ROLD
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPHS ON THIS PAGE BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
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Dear Person Who Stole My Wallet,
I hope that you are reading this right now, and you get a
little bit of a weird feeling, perhaps a little cringing feeling in
your stomach or warmness eroding from behind your ears,
like I do when I get caught in an awkward situation. I don’t
mean you any harm, as I think you probably stole my wallet
because you are a weak person in some sense or another.
Maybe you are a young guy, and you don’t have a lot going
for you, and you are not very smart or particularly sexy, and
you feel kind of inferior a lot of the time, so stealing things
from other people gives you a sense of power. Maybe you
are a young woman, and you like experimenting, and you
get a little rush when you push yourself into situations
where you could get caught, and you like to dance on that
little line of insecurity that other people call morals and
boundaries. Maybe you kept it, maybe you threw it out, it’s
hard to guess even if you are a simple person to figure out.
I hope, most of all, that you are a poor person, and that
you really needed that tiny bit of cash that was tightly rolled
and squeezed into the innermost pocket of the
wallet. I hope you took the coins of foreign currency
a and exchanged them somewhere, because the Canadian
loonies and toonies would probably add up to something
you could buy yourself a small meal for.
CREATIVE WRITING
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I wonder what you have been thinking about the items you
found when you opened my wallet. Maybe you didn’t even
look at all my little precious memories, all pushed together
to fit a whole life’s worth of treasures into a paperback sized
leather pouch of segregating rooms and secret zippers.
Maybe you saw all the stamp-sized photographs and
Polaroids of little children, of girls that I used to know when
they and I were younger, boyfriends that I have loved, and
that one odd photograph of a Mexican-looking man with a
moustache that I found by a passport photo booth at a train
station in Berlin. I wonder if you thought I was related to
any of these faces, if I was a mature woman with my own
children, and a Mexican-looking husband, perhaps.
Maybe you became a little intrigued, and since you
obviously don’t have an issue with going through other
people’s personal things, you took out all my cards and
pictures and notes and lined them up on a table
somewhere. I wonder, when you looked at all my cards,
whether you sorted them all afterwards, sitting them next to
each other and making some kind of pattern or categorizing
them.
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
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CREATIVE WRITING
Maybe you made a color scheme, and put the brightly yellow
health insurance card in one end, and the red blood
donator’s card in the other, like I always do. My dad says
that’s because I’m a creative person, and my sister is a
practical person, because she always lines up her cards after
the numbers on them. Maybe you took all the cards with my
face on them and looked at my personal information, like my
birth date, and tried to figure out what kind of person I
could be. Maybe you went on the Internet and googled me,
or maybe you tried to find me on Facebook.
If you looked at my pictures, you probably also laughed a
little when you saw my driver’s license photo. And then you
probably wondered why it was Canadian, when I have so
many Danish cards and my name is very un-international. I
feel a little weird now, realizing that you know my name and
my birth date and the name of my family doctor and the
number you can call if you would like to talk to him between
8 and 9 on weekdays, or between 12 and 6 on
weekends. I hope that you feel a little weird too,
because it’s a lonesome feeling when you can’t
share it, like so many other emotions.
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CREATIVE WRITING
Well, Person Who Stole my Wallet, I might not have your bright yellow
health card or your picture ID or any images containing people you might or
might not know, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t try to figure out who you
are. The interesting thing is that, even though you technically know
everything about me, information that is usually only shared with the
government, doctors, and teachers, I might actually know you better
because you are the person who stole my wallet, and I think it takes a
specific type of person to do something like that. I hope you keep my little
treasures safe and maybe try to figure out who I am, because I hope that
the little memories, as ripped and worn and random as they are, might
make me seem like an interesting person. I have given up the hope that you
will return my things to me, my little precious collection of nostalgia and
reminders, but I still can’t help but wonder whether you appreciate the irony
in this situation. I don’t need your personal information to know you, when
the things you do can show so much about the person you are.
With regards. ш
PHOTOGRAPH BY YANA BELOKON
PHOTOGRAPH BY YANA BELOKON
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CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPHS ON THIS PAGE BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
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by malashree suvedi
Souls; which are born of freedom and infinity, roam here. They‟re wild, and fast.
Etched with dirt,
And bruised a lot,
They smile their broken smiles.
Their giggles are too articulate to be real, too divine to be false. Their movements are loud and precise.
Souls; born to run,
THE UNIVERSE MEETS
HERE: A recollection
of beauty
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
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And move and turn,
Lie naked and emancipated.
“This is the point where the universe meets” she quivers, “everything is perfect.”
You can taste the air,
The universe meets here,
Tears are pure.
We aren‟t expected to follow rules here. All the universe asks of us is to exist. But, time seems to breathe in surety and breathe out
existentialism. How does one find the surety that age and time swallow? Is there a way to stop time? Maybe there is, but honestly
‘But, time seems
to breathe in
surety and
breathe out
existentialism’
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPH BY
MEGAN PHIPPS
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uttering „to exist‟ is the only answer to all of these musings.
That‟s all we can do: exist. And swim in the nude. Let the water touch you in places you didn‟t even know existed, let it disarm
you, and it let it engulf you.
Let the sky above you become the reflection of your soul, and the water you in swim in the reflection of your depth. Say no words,
but move your lips to the unheard song of the wind.
I am not going after anything but my soul,
Because Lo! And behold,
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPH BY MEGAN PHIPPS
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It‟s drifting away.
“But you are a soul” the universe sighs, “you are a soul, and you have a body. It isn‟t the other way around, how can your soul
drift away? It‟s more likely that your body‟s being shed”
That makes sense, in theory. But reality is a different story. However, it must be acknowledged that reality is an evil man-
made construct designed to force societal norms upon wild souls.
And the universe meets at this point,
The muddy water anoints,
As sighs of relief are heard.
Pain could not help but flee and indifference soon died. After a while, all the wild, naked, free, divine souls had left was air. Air
that tasted like truth and sounded like glory.
Maybe, someday, you‟ll see the place too. Don‟t count on it though. As with all divine sightings; they are rare. Ш
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
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Prologue
”I need a coin,” you say, your voice suddenly carrying the authoritative undertone that it has always lacked. She raises an eyebrow at you. “It’s the least you
can give me,” you insist stubbornly, and she sighs, a soft, indulgent exhale, and manages to dig out a grimy coin from the pocket of her shorts.
“Here goes,” you say, before flipping it in the
air, watching it fall to the ground with the sound of finality.
This is where your new life ends, where your world begins to lose something resembling colour.
22
a technicolour beginning
BY JENNIFER AHNTHY PHAM
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
CREATIVE WRITING
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You wake up. ILLUSTRATION BY CASSANDRA WEE
CREATIVE WRITING
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You wake up.
The ceiling above you
– the walls
surrounding you – the
sheets covering you;
they are all in
varying shades
of grey.
You close your eyes,
expecting the insides
of your eyelids to be
crimson – that is what
you remember.
Instead, it is all black,
an abyss.
It takes you a few
seconds to remember,
this is your life.
Stepping outside your
door, you look up at
the sky, look at the
grass beneath your
feet, the banners,
billboards and posters
littering the edges of
the roads, thinking
blue green red yellow
purple, hoping that
colour will bleed into
the world instead of
out. It is a desperate
hope that you have
kept for far too long,
but it is also an
unshakable gleam in
the midst of black and
white, so you grasp it,
cling to it, pray that it
will take you
someplace else.
This is your life: you
have a job which you
hate, but pays off your
student loan, your
rent, your mother’s
(futile) medical bills.
Finishing law school,
you had thought,
this is it, this is where my life begins. Back then, when you
walked down the
street, there would be
colours (bright ones,
mostly blue and green
with an aura of hope).
You had a girlfriend,
who you thought you
would marry. Instead,
she took a look at you
one morning and
smiled a little sadly.
Clearing out her things
after a year and a half,
she kissed the corner
of your mouth and
whispered that she
was sorry. You
remember her pink
lips, the yellow of the
nail polish she wore.
You still see her,
sometimes, when she
walks past your desk,
but she blends in with
the grey behind her
now.
In a way, the lack of
colour is gratifying;
without it, you almost
do not recognise her
at all.
ou begin to
question
whether your
life actually ever
began, simultaneously
wanting to know and
being afraid; because
what would it say
about you if it turned
out that you have
Y
CREATIVE WRITING
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O
spent the best years
of your life in only a
pre-life stage? On the
other hand, if this
truly is life – if it has
begun without you
noticing – does this
mean that there will
be no more
beginnings,
that you are
stuck here
until your
miserable life
ends?
ne afternoon,
while you are
still busy turning this
over in your head, you
take a shortcut home
from work and
somehow end up
toppling over a young
woman in the middle
of the street.
Standing up quickly,
you flush, offering
your hand to help her
up, but she needs
none of your help. She
looks at you for a long
time, eyes boring into
yours –
she has really
striking green
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
O
CREATIVE WRITING
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eyes –
before she offers you
her hand, her name.
She runs off before
you can give her
yours – as if she
already knows it.
You awake one
morning with a
flicker of
something
resembling
rebellion in
your chest.
Looking around your
room, you realise the
change: there is
green, green of the
tree outside your
window, green of the
forgotten tea mug on
your night stand,
green of the t-shirt
you realise you are
wearing.
ou meet her
again. It’s a
grey, dreary evening.
The kind with wet
sidewalks and the
smell of acid rain. She
watches you walk past
her, hands in the
pockets of her
shredded shorts, legs
wet, one foot bare.
You hunch your back,
not wanting to draw
attention to yourself.
She looks at you,
appraising your every
move, so you stop.
With a flick of her
chin, she draws you
into an old, unused
apartment, obscure
dust swirling around
your feet like fog,
asking you, “Are you
ready to start anew?”
You tell her
you don’t
understand
what she is
offering, but she shakes her
head at you with a
mirthful turn of lips,
pulls you by your tie
to a battered couch
and settling down next
to you, asks you in a
cryptic manner
whether or not you
can keep a secret. You
flinch, replying “yes”
without even thinking
about it, and she
kisses the corner of
your mouth much like
another girl did, once
upon a time, but
instead of whispering
sorry, she whispers,
“I need you”.
It turns out that she is
on the wrong side of
the law, and that she
does need you, but not
in the way you might
have expected. She is
a criminal, the kind
with light feet and
easy fingers, who
hides in shadows and
always succeeds
because what does is
not for money – it’s
a drug, a talent
turned addictive.
Y
CREATIVE WRITING
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he wants to steal
into the archives
of the corporation you
work for, and for a
moment, shame makes
you angry,
embarrassment that
she has been watching
the whole firm, and
has singled you out as
the one most likely to
turn traitor. She
smoothes the anger
from your face with a
soft palm, giving you a
hesitant kiss on the
lips, and you think to
yourself,
why not throw
caution to the
wind?
When you open your
eyes again, the dust at
your feet is not dust at
all, but specks of
colour, golden dots
from the fireplace, red
from a plush carpet,
rich brown of the
leather you are sitting
on. It feels nothing
like your life. You
think about new
beginnings; you ask
for a coin.
In the end, you never
regret the outcome,
because to you, it
does not matter if she
is using you; everyone
has been using you for
as long as you can
remember, and she is
the only one willing to
give you something in
return.
S
S
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
CREATIVE WRITING
CREATIVE WRITING
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radually, the
world begins
to resemble both
reality and a high-
budget movie –
different from the
previous colourless
sequence. Colours are
too bright and people
too perfect. She is
perfect, you think, as
she teaches you how
to move silently, how
to steal without
detection, how to
become a different
person in front of
surveillance cameras.
“It’s a trick of light,”
she explains to you
when you express
doubt, because
you cannot escape who you are,
or you would have
done so a long time
ago.
“No no,” she laughs,
her good mood
contagious. “See,
when light hits you at
a certain angle, not
only does it bring out
or hide certain
features, but your face
can become either
paler, or darker – and
then when they look
through the tapes
after, they never
consider that you
might not have been
this colour at all”.
G
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
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30
You shake your head
stubbornly. “They
won’t only look at the
colour though, they’ll
look at my hair, my
build, everything –”
“That’s where you’re
wrong,” she says
softly, her eyes
compelling you to
believe her:
“In this world,
everything is
about colour.”
ou’re good at
this. The
success
brings her
joy, becomes a magnet
between the two of
you, and after a few
months of working
together, she puts her
hands around your
face, looks at you
euphorically, kisses
you fervently after
every single job well-
done. You realise
somewhere along the
line that it is not
because you are
addicted to the
adrenaline that you
succeed. She does it
for the thrill, always,
only the thrill;
you do it
because
without your
help, she will
get caught.
“If anything goes
wrong,” she says,
though the
mischievous smile
Y
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELIZAVETA SAMODUROVA
CREATIVE WRITING
CREATIVE WRITING
CREATIVE WRITING
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tugging at her lips
betrays her statement
with a statement of its
own: of course it won’t
go wrong. “Run”.
You replace answers
with kisses, paying
special attention to the
ivory of her jaw, to
the rose spreading on
her neck, to the sore
blue jewels randomly
scattered on her arms.
When you open your
eyes, you realise that
the world has changed
yet again. First from
black and white to
vibrant colours, now
someone has painted
the world in muted
shades. In this third
world, you experience
that
she, in all of
her bold, stark
colours is all
you can see.
The night before you
are caught, you wake
up to warm, yellow
sunlight playing in the
tresses of her hair.
You think to yourself,
no more beginnings.
ou cross your
arms. The
room they have placed
you in is lifeless and
cold without her
presence, reminding
you of your earlier
self so much that, for
a moment,
you fear that
the past year
has just been a
desperate
dream.
You shout for her;
they tell you that she
is in another cell next
door.
One of the uniformed
You drag her
forward by the
belt loops of
her jeans, so
you can knot
your hands in
her hair.
Y
CREATIVE WRITING
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
CREATIVE WRITING
32
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men slams his fist into
the table, repeating
what he has been
telling you for the past
hour. “If both of you
remain silent,” he
says, frustration
giving his words a
menacing edge, “the
court has sufficient
evidence to sentence
the both of you to five
years of
imprisonment”.
You know what comes
next; the thought of it
makes you flinch. The
man notices, smiles
sardonically.
“If either you or the
lady next door
confesses alone, that
person will be let off
with a six-month
sentence, while the
other can get up to ten
years,” he continues,
his grin becoming
increasingly feral.
“But if both of you
confess, you each get
three years”.
You know this
strategy; you studied
law, you studied the
probabilities, the
possibilities, and you
wrote a paper on the
ideal answer, titled it
“An Analysis of The
Prisoner’s Dilemma”.
It hits you now, your
naiveté, your narrow-
mindedness:
because you
never added
colour to your
equations.
You have no idea what
she is going to
answer,
“I need a coin,” you
say, picturing a soft,
indulgent exhale and
the weight of a grimy
coin in your hand. ш
PHOTOGRAPH BY ELISAVETA SAMODUROVA
CREATIVE WRITING
CREATIVE WRITING
CREATIVE WRITING
TO READ THE REST OF
RHETORIC MAGAZINE
(trust us, the best is yet to come)
VISIT
www.rhetoricmagazine.com
/magazine
PHOTOGRAPH BY BETTIE SADAUKSA
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