MASTHEAD

THE FLYING WALRUS

Editor in Chief Assistant Editor Health Editor Arts Editor Layout Designer Webmaster Sara Flemington Jessica Bebenek Giorgio Berbatiotis Christopher Stager Elise Haskell Joshua Moore

All Photographs by Alex Clarke unless otherwise noted. Special ThanksStong College Fellows, Masters Office, and Student Government Webnews Printing TransCanadada Motorway Services A Very Special Thanks to Ansel Schmidt - Mouse Wrangler

EDITORIAL TABLE
EDITORIAL OF

CONTENTS
ARTS

HEALTH

(Untitled Sketch) 3 Nine Hour Difference 4 You Are Where You Live 6 To Kill a Rat 8 Thin Skin 9 Your Head is Occupying Your Ass: A Rant 10 The Mental Menace 12 Invasive Procedure 13

POETRY

Blame It All On Me 14 Hurt 16 Screaming 18 Viscosity 17 Children 19 I Was Not Part of the Dirty Dishes 20 Moan & Call 21 In Karl MacIssacs Bedroom at Three-Thirty in the Morning 22

by Cameron Gee 3

EDITORIAL Nine HOUR DIFFERENCE

by Sara Flemington

The following is an interview that took place at my parents house in Kingston, NS. The chair I was sitting in was very comfortable and had a little green floral pattern on it. I was eating yogurt and cereal and Steve, my interviewee, was eating a box of Toffifee chocolates. Q: When did you go to Afghanistan and how long were you stationed there for? A: I was stationed at Kandahar Airfield in Afghanistan from July 2010 to February 2011. Q: What did you have to do to prepare prior to leaving? A: Prior to deploying, there were numerous qualifications we had to have. Being able to fire, take apart and clean the C7 rifle, our First Aid had to be updated with battleground techniques, and our Nuclear Biological Chemical Warfare had to be updated, along with testing our gas masks to ensure they were sufficient. For fitness, we were required to march 15km with a 25lb backpack in 2 hours. Q: What were your first impressions of this new place like? A: My first impressions upon landing were... what did I get myself into. The place was very hot, dusty, and dirty. We were given a day to get situated and take a look around, but most of us took this opportunity to sleep since the trip was so long. Q: What were you interactions with locals like? A: I had quite a bit of interaction with locals in buying goods from merchants for personal use as well as buying items for the NATO HQ I worked in. I was also the Tax Man, per say. Once a month I would go to all vendors on camp and collect a percentage of their earnings which were turned over to a fund to help build schools, shops, roadways, et cetera. The merchants were very polite and willing, and sometimes would even approach me with the money a few days before the actual collection date. I had interactions with some merchants that could neither read nor write yet were in charge of handling thousands of dollars. Trust was the major aspect amongst us. Q: How does it feel to be a military presence in a foreign place? A: Being a military presence had its good and its bad. Some of the local merchants were genuinely happy we were there and that they could come onto the camp and earn some money for their families.
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EDITORIAL
Unfortunately, the Taliban were aware of who were coming onto the camp and would rob them at days end on their venture home. I spoke with one individual who had been hijacked on the way home and was robbed of over 3000 dollars. That was a month worth of sales gone in a flash. Q: What kinds of adaptations did you have to make while staying in this country? A: Being in a foreign country there are a few things you need to adapt to. Being a foreign country at war you need to adapt fast. Things such as rocket attacks throughout the day and night kept you on your toes. If an alarm was sounded you had to hit the ground and cover up for two minutes and then find shelter until the all clear alarm sounded. We had to deal with the extreme heat, and our water intake increased substantially. At times we were working in 60C for days on end, always carrying our weapon. All work days started at 7:30 and were regularly 16 18 hours in length. The change in diet is another adaptation we had to make. Although efforts were made to get North American food, the cooks at the Chow Halls were mostly local and were not adept at cooking like this. The time difference when trying to talk to loved ones was another thing we had to adapt to. There was a nine hour difference for me, but there were some people from western Canada and British Columbia who were dealing with a twelve to thirteen hour difference. Q: How did it feel to leave? A: As happy as we were to leave and get home to our families, we will always be wondering if we did enough during our stay. Seeing some of the locals for the last time, knowing that I would never see or talk to them again was sad, and knowing the plight of some of these people and the peril they have lived in left me wondering whether they would be alive in a week or a month. I am glad I did my part, but I still wouldnt want to go back.
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EDITORIAL YOU ARE WHERE YOU LIVE

by Giorgio Berbatiotis

It was a journey I relished taking. I was casting myself into the underground of my hometown music scene. I hadnt been to Oshawa in almost six months. I was going to meet a group of guys I hadnt seen since high school that had since formed a local band together, renting out a room at the local jam space. Id been there once before, but as a rather somnolent figure tending to the condition of a tender stomach. This time I was back to really understand what went on in this building dedicated to the attunement of the character to the life of an artist. Im sure all artists, whether writers, musicians or visual artists, understand the troubles of having your work recognized as legitimate and your pursuits as more than simple fancy. In my time as a guest in their jam space, I was finding out how the local musicians added a sense of professionalism to their pursuits by having a community of fellow artists to live in, a cesspool of creativity from which spawned an engulfing energy. This creative energy permeated the place. As the waves of music spilled out into the desolate
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industrial wasteland that surrounds the building I entered its green double doors to be hit by a wall of percussive sound. The jam space is a dilapidated elementary school, a painted mascot on the basement walls roars out to empty halls. Theyre lined with crumbling bricks that hug the sturdier concrete foundations. The bricked walls are mismatched with the wooden frames and doors of old classrooms, giving an oddly chic urban feel to a relic of south Oshawas past. A movie set could not more fantastically create a space in which musicians could feel they have conquered the institutionalized past we all face in education. Theyve taken the cold empty halls of the modern constant lockdown school system and replaced it with fierce rebellion, apotheosized in the form of screeching amplification and raucous double time drum lines kicking a series of entrancing beats so loud that they quite literally thicken the air. So I found myself entering the room of the band Id be staying with, Sleep When Youre Dead. I was instantly greeted by a chorus of my name, a

hearty welcome that surprised me and hinted to the vibrant and cheerful aura of the place. Their north wall was lined with gear; amps, speakers, the drum kit, more amps, more speakers, instruments, lights, cables, merchandise and more instruments. Sixteen feet dedicated to rather haphazardly storing all these assorted tools of the trade.

The back wall of the room was the chalkboard of a classroom at some point but had since been spray painted by an artist named Tito whose work is prominently displayed in more than one of the local bands rooms. In one such room a psychedelic humanoid rabbit seemed to be offering something to a flying fish, the details are blurred in my memory. On a pair of couches in the corner, Sleep When Youre Deads members and their friends were sitting around a

EDITORIAL
coffee table. As my eyes focused in on the cigarette smoke spiraling upward from a young womans hand, she tapped the ashes into a little tray and I realized I was in their world now. Oshawa was outside the green doors; inside, it was the musicians and their companions who created a separate hidden society within. As her shining red lips parted, a gale of laughter followed the thick smoke blown out from within them, and I wondered what stories those were purged from an unstable and babbling conscious. This was not by the power of some mystic force inherent to the building, but rather by the knowledge I was in a place so different to the daily grind Id grown accustomed to as a York student living in the bizarre nether realm known as the village. This place was better, maybe not cleaner, certainly not newer, but definitely better. Whereas Yorks village and Oshawa itself encourage one to watch their back (and perhaps to buy bear mace for a camping trip) the jam space encouraged me to be open, to drop my veneers and let my true self shine through and muddle the puddle of personalities present. At least for me, this temple (hail to Freyja, Bacchus, St. lips could tell of such a place, Jude and Apollo) was a place hidden from the world, no one that held sacred individuality. could know it was there unless As time went on I found this someone who already knew had was because the insider/outsider told them. paradigm that distorts almost It was in this moment of all other interpersonal relations clarity, of sudden realization, seems to disappear in a place that I felt the most liberating where everyone is in tune with force bubble up from within a general human fondness for myself. A similar feeling I could the odd personal quirks that compare it to is uncontrollable make us who we are. laughter. It felt as though all This is the rare beauty of the the idiotic and inconsequential jam space. Its a place where stresses and responsibilities I the outsider is the insider, the submit myself to in the bufreject is the accepted and the foonery that is my daily life lost are found. There are punk rockers and hip-hoppers, country stars and rooms like bars (if bars never threw out their empties). Theres even an old man Summers, a sixty-something year old who will gladly spend twenty minutes explaining the finer aspects of guitar construction to a mohawked youth. Its really something special, but now that I think of it, not that extraordinary for a city like Oshawa. Oshawa has always been about bikers, blue collars, rock n roll and cocaine. Born to Be Wild was written by one of our locals and remains to this day an anthem of rebellion and apathetic disdain for societal norms. With places like the jam space, Im certain Oshawas musical peak is ahead, not behind. Its places like that and bands like Sleep When Youre Dead that will continue to push the youth of the city towards self-expression through music and art as oppose to drugs and weapons. In just a handful of weekends, the people of the space stormed the Ivory Tower and liberated me from my own inhibitions and self-doubts. I was redeemed, not morally but truly, as I became able to accept myself, my beautifully flawed self, in a place that appreciated not what I one day may become, but what I already am.
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EDITORIAL TO KILL A RAT

by Christopher Stager

I once opened my kitchen cupboard to stare into the black eyes of a rat. All I wanted to do was make my girl some KD. We were tired from walking home in the rain, but this rodent caused hysterics instead of the soothing feeling of slurping down some bright yellow pasta. I wont lie, I screamed. My shriek caused my girl to run out of the room, also screaming. The rat, obviously more scared than both of us, jumped and fell out of the cupboard. Upon landing it slid its greasy body against the counter top, leaped behind the stove, and squeezed itself into a hole in the wall. I was shook. I might sound yellow, but it was a brown oily sewer rat, not a cute pet store rat or a little mouse. It was big and I was scared so we left and slept at her place. The next day I came back to the apartment. I cautiously opened the door, hoping not to see my roommates dead body covered in a family of bloodthirsty rats. I remember hearing scurrying, but I dont know if it was real. I cleaned the apartment after finding chewed bags of rice and rat shit in the cupboards. I set adhesive traps, filled holes
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with steal wool, and placed poison. I had taken all the necessary precautions and prayed I would find a dead rat in the morning. I slept in the basement of a split-level apartment. I got under my blanket and began to drift off to sleep, thinking about rats. It was already an obsession. I must have been almost asleep when a loud crash from the kitchen delayed my dreams. My roommate didnt call down, so I just fell back asleep. Waking up to a rat running around your room bumping into bookshelves and dressers can cause panic. Distress and poor choices can be made under the circumstances. Forgive me. I yelled my roommates name to wake him up. He came downstairs half asleep after many attempts at yelling his name. I explained the situation and we decided to try and trap the rat with a laundry basket. It didnt work. The rat had crawled behind an upright radiator. We hit it with various objects but it did not move. Golding must have influenced us. We thought up the idea to duct tape knives to the end of broom handles. The rat has to die somehow,

some way, we thought. Feeling the knife go through the rats body and hit the wall was what my roommate described as the the grossest feeling of his life. The tiny high pitch pleads to stop from the rat were some of the worst sounds we had both ever heard. But believe it or not, it didnt die. It ran out from behind the radiator, spilling blood on the carpet and smearing red on baseboards. We knocked over a shelf of DVDs, we tried cornering it, even threw the homemade spears. It simply ran under the stairs, still alive. Days passed and we heard nothing. Maybe it died in the wall. But there was no smell. I opened a cupboard in the kitchen just to check things out. A brand new piece of rat shit.

EDITORIAL THIN SKIN

by Jessica Bebenek

When I pull my fingers up the fat, they leave big white and red lines on my stomach. When I push the fat down it wrinkles in sagging waves like melting paint. The red lines where I unfold my rolls are like open gashes. If I run my hands over it, I can pull it all tight into a ball, a big lumpy doughnut with a belly button centre, curdled butter filling. The outlines of my ribs and hips tighten against my tight skin like gauze and I turn to the side, squeeze all the air out of my lungs, pull my shoulders up as high as theyll go. To show my bodys beautiful swany spine, the soft curve of my pinched waist. I tilt my jawbone up, to the side. Then let it all go. The fat soaks up my torso like a sponge. My jaw moulds back into my neck. And Im gone. All over me, covering me up, fucking formless piece of shit. When I hold my arm out, the fat looks like two pinched sausage links. When my arm moves, I can see my muscles twitch under it, see it jiggle. See it wave like a fucking banner. Can see where its hiding me up. When I pull it all back behind my stretched arm, I can

see the beauty in the definition, the grace in the structured posturing, the elegant rigidity of my wrenched ligaments under thin skin. Can see how it could be. I let it go. And the trench of my muscle exposes the boundary where it ends and I begin. Where it hangs. If I could peel it all away in one strip. When I pull on the stomach fat it leaves big red lines. I can grab all of it in my two hands, knead it like a big ball of dough, pull it away from my body. It stretches so easily away from my body. When I walk, the fat swings around my thighs, bunches around my knees. It turns my skin lumpy, pulls huge divots in my ass, turns my knees into a knotted mess. Fucking cottage cheese coating. But when I pull it all back, I can see the clean smooth lines of my parallel legs, the perfect gap all the way up, the perfect evenness of my pale skin and the way my muscles twitch in a come-hither pulse. If I could keep it this way. If I could just be in my body. If I could just fucking get this shit off me. When I pull down on the oblong breasts, I can see the

tight barrel of my rib cage, the stately stretch of skin down my collar bones, the elegant protrusion of ribs along my chest. If I could just be me, be my eyes in their sockets, be my twitching muscles, be my bones. Be my fucking body. When I let them go, the red lines stay there. When I touch my hips, I can feel the looseness of it. Can see the thin white scars undulating like radio waves. Can see them pulsing vibrant white against my skin. To be smooth again. It could all be clear and smooth again. Smooth and straight and shining silver, tracing the thin white scars red. When I push into them, they bloom like flowers. When my hands pull the fat on my stomach into a ball, they pull it away. They pull it like it would peel away. But its stuck. It just takes a steady hand to keep close to the curve of the muscle. It just takes a bit of a grip. And then I drop it. And then its gone. The arms are simple, straight across. Then it drops from there too. The thighs just need to be planed, a little smoother, a little straighter up and down. And theyre good. Me. I can just be me up and
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EDITORIAL
down. Me and my eyes and my muscles and my bones up and down. Red and spotted ivory in the mirrorangry, knotted eyes looking me up and down. And when I push the knife into the mirror, the little shards stare at me in a million red-dripping eyes. When I go down, after all, it does make an awfully good cushion.

YOUR HEAD IS OCCUPYING YOUR ASS: A RANT

I cant even begin to explain how much the Occupy movement annoys me. Everything about it to me seems shallow, fake and hollow. What gets me most of all is the arrogance of their 99% claims. Firstly, a vast majority of people living in North America are at least in the top 20% of the world. And if youre reading this then youre probably a student at York, so place yourself into the top 10% of the world. Just from this they should change their slogan to We are the spoiled 9%. When I was in grade eleven in 2007 I tried my best to get people from my city to come to the antiwar protest hosted by the A.N.S.W.E.R. coalition. This a movement that Ive since learned to hate as their entire focus seems to be, much like occupy, complaining endlessly about how the west functions with a proper understanding of it. Now, no one came, just a best friend I dragged along, and the protest itself had a turnout of a measly couple hundred. I have a theory for why the pre 08 protests had so few attendees by comparison to the flourishing Occupy movement. Put quite simply, no one gave a shit about the rest of the world. Only now that people find their standards of living under attack do they bother to show up and fight, supposedly, for the less privileged. Yet so many of these protesters are probably wearing or using hundreds of dollars worth of the products made by the companies they claim are exploitative and cruel. When they could easily afford their desires within the capitalist system, no one seemed to care
10 by Giorgio Berbatiotis

EDITORIAL
to take any action about these companies exploiting the poor. So now that the economy has faltered and so many are being personally affected, how am I supposed to believe that every protestor is out there for the betterment of all, and not just for selfish purposes? How many of these protesters am I supposed to believe actually gives up some of their own excess money to the poor or the hungry, or gives up their own time to help those less fortunate? Ironically Id guess the number at about 1%, if that. No, they are not concerned about the less fortunate. They are concerned that they wont get to enjoy the gravy train North America has been riding, because the people who built it arent sharing the spoils of war as generously as they once did. Ive yet to hear a fully reasoned explanation as to why the C.E.Os of these banks should be giving their money to us. Do these protesters desire the ability to flaunt their wealth in the same manner? The problem is how our generation has been raised. We are led to believe human life has intrinsic value, and that each human life is special and unique. Lets be serious, at 7 billion Id say human lives are the most overvalued asset on the planet, with endless supply and zero demand. Why should George Soros or Zbigniew Brzezinski be forced to forfeit their hard earned and well deserved money so that your family can afford a second car and pay for your ridiculously expensive and utterly unnecessary smart-phone with internet access? Should we rob someone who actually provided greatly through their intelligence and innovation for all of society so you can afford another useless gadget? Some of these billionaires, who are the targets of the protest, put us in the top 10% of the world. And lets be honest. Were all replaceable in terms of what we do for society as a whole and the rest of the world is willing to do our job for 1/10th the price. I leave you with some quotes from Ayn Rand that will hopefully jolt some sense into these masses that overvalue themselves and undervalue the great innovators of our time: Individual rights are not subject to a public vote; a majority has no right to vote away the rights of a minority; the political function of rights is precisely to protect minorities from oppression by majorities. It only stands to reason that where theres sacrifice, theres someone collecting the sacrificial offerings. Where theres service, there is someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice is speaking of slaves and masters, and intends to be the master. Run for your life from any man who tells you that money is evil. That sentence is the lepers bell of an approaching looter. There is a level of cowardice lower than that of the conformist: the fashionable non-conformist. Until and unless you discover that money is the root of all good, you ask for your own destruction. When money ceases to become the means by which men deal with one another, then men become the tools of other men. Blood, whips and guns--or dollars. Take your choice--there is no other.
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HEALTH THE MENTAL MENACE

by Anthony Harvey

With most guests, you can show them the door when they outstay their welcome. But there are some, no matter what you do or try, you find yourself powerless against. These guests make their home in your thoughts. Your mind is typically seen as the safest sanctum. It is where you feel most at home. It is where you are able to retreat to in order to protect yourself from the world. Or, rather, it should be. But there are guests who invade that sacred place and make it theirs. They throw you out to the curb, and conquer your thoughts. They control you, and you feel helpless against them. I speak of mental illness. These guests come in as many forms as there are minds in the world. Two years ago I was diagnosed with having bipolar disorder. I was not surprised. If my mind were a house, each day it would change, my loath12

some guest rearranging it as it saw fit. One day its walls would be painted with vibrant colours, the furniture clean and polished, reflecting all the beauty of the world that my mind would whisper to me. The next day, as if it were on a whim, my guest would tear the house asunder. Angry, wanting to torture me,

permitted it. I knew every belief I had was as feeble as sand. I had never felt more lost. Any person whos experienced any form of mental illness in their lives will attest that taking back control of your own thoughts is far easier said than done. You try to challenge it, but he illness fights against you and forces you into submission. You become sapped of all motivation and feel like your entire body is in a state of atrophy. But all hope is not lost. These guests, as powerful as they are, can be fought. Ive it tore down every beautiful talked to many people on this thought that was hung and subject, and one thing we all replaced them with vile poison. seem to agree on is that insight My world would suddenly trans- and understanding into ourselves form into a hell a cold desogoes a long way in separatlate abyss that I would have ing what thoughts are ours and to brave, day in and day out, what thoughts belong to our alone and miserable for the rest guests. When we learn more of my life. This game repeated about ourselves, we wrest more itself for years. Every thought I control away from the menace, had existed because my illness and become stronger overall.

INVASIVE PROCEDURE
by Sarah Varnam

ARTS BLAME IT ON ME
by Mark Jordan Manner

The old man sat in a rocking chair next to the window. Moonlight absorbed the colour out of him. He looked grey now, scarred by a collection of deep-set wrinkles. Lucy sat on the old mans lap, followed the lines on his face as if they belonged to a maze she was trying to escape. Each line was rigid as cracked ice, fleshy furrows leading nowhere. Eventually her fingers grew tired of tracing them and Lucy felt bored and restless. It was late for her, past midnight already. She placed the palm of her hand on top of the old mans belly, started squeezing the fat, jiggling the folds in an attempt to give them life. His stomach simply rested there, plumped on his thighs, stagnant, a gut curved like a hill draped beneath a sheet of blue sweater wool. Lucy knew the old man was dead, but what did dead mean exactly? She turned her head to look at me, shrugged her shoulders in an animated fashion, as if to ask, What happens now? I transformed into a silhouette of the devil. What always happens: something bad. She tilted her head to the side like a confused puppy, feigning confusion, but we both knew exactly what was about to happen. Her mouth moved at me, dropping lines like she was fishing for a nod or a thumb, any gesture to show her we were on the same page. But we werent on the same page. I was ripping the pages. She disappeared momentarily. I listened to the movement of her body as it made its way upstairs. The ceiling creaked above me, high-pitched and painful. She returned holding a tube of her mothers red lipstick. The cylinder case was gold, reflective. It showed a warped perspective of the room we were in. Her hand trembled, but the old man sat still and cooperated. Soon the rim of his mouth resembled a ruby dropped from one of Dorothys slippers. That was Lucys favourite movie. Shed made us watch it 348 times. Theres no place like Lucys home. Lucy propped herself back on top of the old mans thighs. His legs felt slippery beneath her bottom, like a couple of wet, wiggling eels. She pressed the side of her face against the old mans mouth, stamped her cheek on his dead lips. After that she tried to show me the mark. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot, only sloppier, the design skewed, a little unbalanced. I tried to see something beautiful in it, but all there was were the lips of a corpse. Next Lucy decided to pierce the old mans earlobes, which were large and dangled low. She used a sewing
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ARTS
needle, stabbed a half a dozen holes into each one of his ears. The earlobes began to tear around the sixth hole (due to the weight of the earrings Lucy inserted, as well as the newly tattered quality of his repeatedly pricked flesh). Eventually there were no more earlobes to work with, so Lucy stuck the needle through one of the old mans cheeks. Lucys parents returned home from their New Years party around two-thirty. She felt relieved to see them. Blood continued to drip and occasionally spurt from the sides of her grandfathers head. She tried her best to catch it in her hands, but a bit of red still managed to drop onto the pale carpet. Lucy tried to blame it all on me: the lipstick, the mascara, the eyeliner, the blush, the earrings, even the torn earlobes. She pointed at me and said, She did it. She did it. It was all her. It was her. I sank into the corner of the living room until I was no larger than a spec of dust, a cookie crumb, a flake of dead skin. Her mother bawled. Her father put a hole in the wall. No one called an ambulance. Not for a while. The old man slept. I watched him for a few minutes. He actually appeared quite tranquil, in a mutilated sort of way. The fissures at the corners of his mouth curved so that it looked like he was smiling. I smiled also. Lucy kept looking around the room, but she couldnt find me. Come back, she pleaded. Sorry. It was me, okay? All me. My fault. Just come back. I dont wanna have to live here without you. I felt bad for her. She was young, and dumb, and crying. I probably wouldve gone back too, to forgive her and all. Only it was never my home, so I forgot how to get there.

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ARTS HURT
by Mike Jolly

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POEMS VISCOCITY
by Jack Howitzer

In the middle of somewhere the grasshoppers heat sky grain asphalt clouds scattered small rocks reflecting the sun. Broken thoughts stuck in his eyes her lips kneecaps teeth vulva pupils fingers tan line of a wedding ring. Tires blurring beneath the car the brakes starter carbs lights mufflers trunk pitted pieces of chrome. Dead clock in the dashboard counting the years hours months minutes days seconds that dont tick by. The prairies moving past the car the blackflies junebugs mosquitoes that got in the way.

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SCREAMING
by Mike Jolly

POEMS CHILDREN
by Kelly Paoli

All these fuckers in the playground gawking at prosthetic faces unaware that horrors come from between their legs. A bedroom of clocks and coffee pots brimming with baggage of thighs lacking tonal finesse. The anatomy of fucking was never concerned with that; it was preoccupied with the neon flicker of young teens thoughts slicing apples with fingernails before they even fell from the tree. But of all the kids I chased and pawed and chewed and sucked and barked and brawled you were the yellow painted line that screamed out yes.

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POEMS I WAS NOT PART OF THE DIRTY DISHES

by Dylan Wagman

I was not part of the dirty dishes That slouched in the sink With wasted Kraft Dinner deposits, Refusing to bathe themselves. I was not part Of the murmurs born of shouts That snuck through the vents, Seeped through my covers bunched like a shell. I was not a signatory On their second mortgage. I just wanted the twenty-four pack Of crayons, instead of the twelve. I was not told to shovel The piles of fallen bills Or rake the paychecks That plunged from the money tree on the front lawn. (They told me that tree belonged to the city And it could not be cut down.) I have practiced back crawl and whip-kick, Keeping my elbow up when swinging, And my wrists up when C scaling. But I was never told That proper positioning of limbs Meant working until seven And refinancing the car, Because it should last for twelve years. I was not asked to remember Their nights spent cradling A dripping ball of sneezes and coughs Or waiting up until four To listen for the rumble of the garage. I was never asked for a thank you, And one day I will never ask for one.
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POEMS MOAN & CALL

by Nicole Haldoupis

I just wanted something bad to happen to you just a small, little thing but it got way too permanent it sort of smells like youre still here only less bitter no one wants you around anymore you cant go near anyone except dead friends you should have tried trimming a bit of your brain to make some space to give you room to think but they barged in here too fast and sunk their teeth it ended too soon now your fever is rising in this hot room and its far too late becoming lifeless is one step too close your eyes become glassy shards and your ribs fall through the cracks but I dont really feel sorry for you, you were asking for it. I bet you couldnt wait.

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POEMS IN KARL MACISAACS BEDROOM AT THREE-THIRTY IN THE MORNING

by Jessica Bebenek

How do I go about telling you that to me, you are a less interesting version of my boyfriend? True, you have the beard, the awkward lanky charm of a man who gets laid far more often than you would think, who filters the soft green light of a bankers lamp through empty clumping bottles, to lazily halo your half-grinning head and I wonder how many condoms are stuffed between the mattress and box spring. Still, I think that I would like to touch your hair, to look at your eyes, to ease a finger crosswise over the spines of your several books. To sweep my hand over knotted orange crepe paper gathering in dust and bottle caps at the baseboards edge. I would like to ask you if you use product in your hair. I did not think tonight that I would be blinking, listening to your conversation on the treatment of religion in South Park, or noticing how the smell of this room and the weight of your hand as it brushes the inside of my ankle could be quite so similar. So I watch as you dip your head and with your eyes ask, Why are you sitting on my bed?
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Did you know that The Flying Walrus has a life online too? Check out our web extras at www.yorku.ca/walrus/ New this month Giorgio Berbatiotis gives a complimentary tour of the jamspace featured in You Are Where You Live. & Musical video footage by Me and the Infinite Lovely

THE FLYING MICE

by Ansel Schmidt

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The Flying Walrus wants your works on the theme of Modern Rituals. Everyone has tendencies to fall into routines, and everybody has personal habits, but when do these routines and habits become designated as rituals as those actions we feel we need to do in order to maintain a sense of balance within ourselves? And which of these rituals, in our North American 2012 context, would have been unheard of even just a few years ago? What is the necessary and meaningful, and what is the absurd and arbitrary? Send in your editorials, prose, poetry, and artwork to walrus@yorku. ca by our ritual deadline March 2nd, 2012.