THE
CONTINUIST PRESENTS
NATURAL HABITAT
A NOTE FROM
THE EDITORS EVERYWHERE IS A HABITAT; its definition is fluid and subjective. It could be the calm of the country, the bustle of the city or even the familiarity of a bedroom. A habitat is any place where someone feels at home, but sometimes in the midst of our lives we seem to coast through our habitats. As we get busy we no longer have the time to admire our surroundings and fully take in just how beautiful a place can be. This zine is an homage to a place, to an atmosphere and to the feeling one has when being in sync with their environment.
K
THE CONTINUIST is an online and print collective based out of Toronto. Our mission is to provide an outlet for artists to showcase their work, whether professional or amateur. We are run by a group of passionate and committed students who love making art and strongly believe in the need for an outlet for artists to release their work. Interested in submitting? Send your work to THECONTINUIST@GMAIL. COM and check our online submissions at THECONTINUIST.WORDPRESS. COM Sit back and enjoy the view. Welcome to our habitat. LOVE ALWAYS, The Editors of The Continuist October 2014
COVER BY: HANNA OTTO
SYDNEY MYLES
TRISHA ROLFE
ANDREW SAVERY-WHITEWAY
ANISAH ALI
A natural habitat, a paradox A believed illusion, a disheartening reality Crowded with high-rises, empty without blue clarity Pure extinction, a natural habitat no longer exists Ignorance of precautions, awareness of aftermath Frailties and imperfections, hope in a dream What do we live for? When beauty no longer exists. KYLIE COLEEN TAN
Paperburrow Papyrus…Papier…Paper. I am said to dwell in bookstores. Especially the older, stacked and packed variety. Amidst myriad paperbacks and creaking hardbacks. But I do not dwell. I just find respite there. It's a temporary space. A lot of the larger repositories of books are, I've noticed. All those dry leaves… There's something infinitely comforting about the crush and slide of tomes. The slide, the turn and tide of thoughts. Thoughts like constellations you peruse through. I have known fireplaces and the glow of dark evenings. Fluorescence and distant sirens I have known too. Both are furnished well by good volumes. Home shifts and slants like those piles of novels. Home is both comfort and disorientation. Paper…Papier…Papyrus. PHOENIX SIMMS
EMILY HOUSE
EMILY HOUSE
MELISSA BESSIE
SIMON TOY
HANNA OTTO
City’s Girl I’ve always been more of a city girl; Not to say that I don’t like nature, But there’s a longing deep within me for those glimmering city lights. Fireflies, after all, Are but single, ultimately lonely entities, And the stars can be cold and comfortless. I find I simply cannot resist the warm beckoning Of urban constellations, Each light’s glow a symphony of intrigue and wonder Pulsing in time with my ever-quickening heart. As bright splashes of neon paint the sky with every hue, And dozens of languages swirl in the air around me, I close my eyes and submerge myself In this feeling of belonging. RACHEL KEARNEY
ANNA AVITSIAN
City Edge This place is like a worn out town That everyone's moved out of The park where kids played until sundown Silent and abandoned As a secret circus comes Reviving people's spirits A daily market came one day It's been here ever since Laid out upon the slanting ground Are hand-me-downs and rarities From old movies to fountain pens And clothes from distant cities Listen and you'll hear the crash Of waves upon the ocean The cries of seagulls echoing Will add to the illusion It's really just the sound of cars An auditory trick They zoom along the endless roads And nearby concrete bridge The nearest subway entrance Is a back door in an alley Historic house facades galore Art murals and graffiti The sunlight filters through the trees And into wild gardens But also through construction dust The drilling never ends The cries of children ever ringing Ring of the bell Recess mayhem Schoolyard sounds surround this place Sounds of innocence By sunset the blackened skyline's Stabbed with skinny lines Of condo cranes and by nightfall Gunshots are for fireworks Mistaken. GERALDYNN LUBRIDO
DAISY BARKER
ELANA DELANEY
ANNA AVITSIAN
Starry Night trunk of tower! twig of streetlight! flicking its tongue under branches of cranes and bridges and shades and back through the windowed city dew! and garbage glistens in the moon shine and walks my shadow on leash— black in the roots of sky scrape tree tickling the Starry Night fuck of billboards bong shop bay street bark! tomorrow comes, chirping; and night will howl through the glass door of sun— yawning wide our star-blink street-lamp flicker-film orbs. CAMERON MACDONALD
Habitat I was born in a jungle of concrete walls with a syringe pushed to one ear -to help, they saidstringent, but so lacking of natural sustenance that I climbed that wall and lifted myself out with such disciplined arms onto cauliflower tree tops -lifted so entirely that I ended up here. And suddenly, birds and running water entered from behind a closed curtain to lend the sense that something had been missing the entire time. A man with crooked gums and hair like Jesus rescues my self-confidence -a saviourwhen, on the way to my morning, He prophesizes a pleasant day and calls me pretty Then, an argument, spewed through over-zealous lips, over my eye colour breaks out on a stale subway ride that was meant to cause some sort of change, but really, only incurred a token-less shortage And a wish for four senses in a habitat where looks and smells and touch are mostly fine but hearing? –Causes aches and a grimace throughout
an argument between individuals who share differing opinions on a sense of sight that does not appreciate hearing about it My habit[(at) night] contrasts slightly with this broken screen, broken dream, no room for a dream catcher window, where ghosts travel in and out to hold these and whisper to my heart sweet nothings that don’t feel as genuine as those belonging to my morning Jesus.
KRISTINA PANTALONE
KATIE MAZI
Woman on the Bus every so often she picks up and goes, the coffee table left destitute, the clothes packed in bags the essence of her past swept like dust into a corner but there is no picking up this time for something bad happened here something she would rather forget like a conversation that goes on too long that turns to debate and then to shouting the streets were quite empty today no one there to bid her farewell but a stray cat at the bus stop that bowed its head with reverence then scampered off into the vastness of the city and as the bus carved through the Nile streets she watched on in her nakedness at the things she left behind at the buildings and bustle the lovelorn trinkets and the jaded nightclubs with no good will for them into the forest away from the pillars of her ruin to replace them with the pillars of nature, to find the solemn stream and sip from the pool of Lethe DAVID EATOCK
ALISON POSTMA
d THE CONTINUIST