The UTSC Messenger!

In late October I got the job as photo editor for UTSC's first online magazine, The Messenger.

As well as editing for the magazine and contributing photos, I recently wrote an article about the importance of heatlthy eating at university.

Check it out here:
http://theutscmessenger.com/?p=1732

Letterbox Love

There it is. Slightly faded; slightly small; but there, whooshing through the slit in the door. The breeze follows behind, causing it to hover in the air with a sense of urgency before continuing to flutter gracefully to the floor. It nestles comfortably between my feet, hitting the polished wood without a sound. I stare at it a moment, its picture face up, nervous at the prospect of picking it off the ground. The word EDMONTON jumps out at me first, the yellow line beneath it a lame attempt at adding some excitement to the otherwise drab photograph. EDMONTON! with an exclamation point is how I’m assuming it should be read, overzealously, but without any real emotion. I continue to stare at it until the letters rush into one another, a jumble of yellow and Es and Ns and Os. I bend down to flip it over before I ruin the moment, the long-awaited excitement. My fingers buzz in anticipation.
Lauren, this is edmonton. pt. 1, Jake.
Edmonton! must be exciting. You used to sign love before your name in bold black ink, as if you had traced the letters over and over again to make sure the word, or perhaps the meaning, did not fade before it reached me. There is something so definite about black ink.
Your love got to be a sloppy green when you reached Nunavut and then a crooked mess of penciled letters when you hit Newfoundland. And now in Edmonton where your love has faded or perhaps just couldn’t make the journey, I have become a hazy blur, my face a pleasant memory that you keep tucked under your pillow for something to dream about at night.

Snow

"Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over a pool. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying "snow", my lips move so that they kiss the air."

-Ann Beattie, Snow, 1983

The Audition

There’s something about the first day of a new semester, so full of promise. Newness pulses in the air and becomes tangible in the sharpness of pencil points, the crispness of ruled paper, the prospect of doing all those things you said you would last semester, getting closer to that one thing you didn’t work hard enough for. But is it real promise? The kind of promise that could be cradled and rocked under the bosom of hope?
Choosing to wear black on this day was symbolic; I was mourning newness, cloaked and covered, shielding myself from the promise this Lysol-coated hallway was pretending to offer. The white gleam of the floor was beginning to blend into the walls around me and I felt like a fat, black blob immersed in a sterile swath of white.
The door opened and a fresh-faced student walked past me wearing an obnoxiously loud pink sweater. I was next. I took off my black jacket, saying nothing, looking at no one. I straightened my body, swivelled my shoe twice so I could hear the satisfying clean squeak it made; I was here, I was real. Breathe in and out. And go. The notes evaporated out of me as if I were the steam rising out of the professor’s mug of coffee.
When I had finished the last note, my mouth snapped shut and I looked up at the professor. The air buzzed with energy as if it were holding onto the vibratos and crescendos of my voice. Real promise, real hope circled the air between us.