New beginnings teaser (issue #1 of Rhetoric)

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The

rhetoric

AUTUMN/WINTER

2012

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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

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COVER PHOTOGRAPH

BY VICTORIA SAVORY

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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

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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?

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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

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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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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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EDITORS


MARIE JO MOLTRUP

CONTRIBUTERS

LYDIA DEICHMANN

SOFIA JUL

MALASHREE

SUVEDI

CHRISTINA ELISE HOLM-LARSEN

MEGAN PHIPPS

MALASHREE

SUVEDI


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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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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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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


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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



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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


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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


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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.

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a technicolour beginning

BY JENNIFER AHNTHY PHAM


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

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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


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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.

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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


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


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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 ELIZAVETA SAMODUROVA

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

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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


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TO READ THE REST OF

RHETORIC MAGAZINE

(trust us, the best is yet to come)

VISIT

www.rhetoricmagazine.com

/magazine

PHOTOGRAPH BY BETTIE SADAUKSA

New beginnings teaser (issue #1 of Rhetoric)

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Transcript of New beginnings teaser (issue #1 of Rhetoric)