T
able of contents
Partners in crime
3
Sonnets
6
With these eyes
7
Sam marco square
8
A Family vacation
9
The mist
9
Potholes
10
European vacation
13
Poesy
14
Horomenon is passive
15
15
The man in the moon
16
Balloons
19
Ghosts at varadero
20
Two goddesses
21
B Line
22
Legal lets
23
My grandmother with cancer
23
Eagle at vesuvius
24
A shadow of his former self
25
Contributors
F
rom the editor
We don and doff a great many hats, adapting to meet the challenges of ever-changing environments. The greatest challenge, however, is in the simultaneous and contem-poraneous donning of several hats, stacking the characters of our being one on top of the other.
This is the lot we have been cast. This is Esoteric.
I began with the notion that Esoteric could humbly serve as an escape from the confines of legal exposi-tory; as a vehicle for the cathartic re-lease of artistic expression, in some medium however and whatever, expression being capable of assum-ing nearly limitless forms.
I wanted to state this premise, that we could transcend our legal train-ing by our artistic endeavours, but I could barely get the sentence onto
paper before realizing the pervasive-ness of legal reasoning within me. My mind sprouted immediately to judicial treatment of Charter section 2(b). Has the law not already told us what is “expression”? Has it not already limited my proclamation of “however and whatever”? The free-dom of expression is not absolute. Has art already been caught by the ambit of the law, leaving me with no basis for my initial assertions? I recalled the obscenity provisions of the Code, remembering that judicial analysis has noted “Art” as a valid exception. Artistic merit can circumvent these provisions, evidencing that “Art” manages to simultaneously transcend the law, while still being defined by it. A compelling duality.
I initially posited that we must escape the law in order to be art-ists. I was wrong. Esoteric is not
an escape from legal influence, it is a celebration of our duality; our simultaneous donning of many hats. Inextricably linked are the law and its practitioners, but we are not only “legal beings”. We who live under the “living tree” have continued our personal growth, feeding from the roots of our legal endeavours, but also casting our own into the soil of personal fulfillment. The law sought to define art. The law sought to define us. The world sought to call us lawyers. We shouted back that we are writers, photographers, poets, existential philosophers, free thinkers. We are artists. A statute, a precedent, a judicial opinion is but one canvass in our minds of infinite possibility.
I see an artist. You see a lawyer. We are one and the same.
P
artners in crime
Kyla Lee, UBC 1L
The concrete pillars prevented me from seeing the face that was hissing the voice that climbed up those damn pil-lars and snaked around them, assessing their value and purpose and worth. I was sitting on a leather couch with striped cushions; eight others were identical to it, placed conveniently throughout the great room in a manner that allowed people to act and interact, to play out their roles with the ease of the social dance. The lady walked toward me, her heels snap snap snapping against the floor rhyth-mically like the tap tap tapping of a dance. I could hear her voice approaching, but she was always obscured by those concrete pillars, those fucking poles creating the divide between me and the voice, the voice of that damn lady who was selling the law school out from under her feet. From my vantage point on the couch, I could see her hand that wrapped two or three times with its long bony fingers around a pile of neon stickers shaped like cir-cles. She held a black magic marker in the other hand and as she talked, her voice snaked out of her dirty tight mouth I could see her hand working deftly and swiftly. She wrote numbers on the stickers and stuck them to objects as she passed them. She slithered in and out of the pillars, so I could view her and her companions only for brief seconds as they danced in large arcs around the interaction foyer in the main hall of the great old concrete building. Her arms would rise as she passed a garbage can and with a flourish would fall to land a sticker on it, the price of which read 25cents. She passed a fake plant that sat, covered in dust in the hallway near the door, and marked it for a dollar. As she twirled and tapped and whirled she started discussing the chairs. Her sequined tuxedo tails flipped out behind her as she leapt on to the arms of the chairs and danced around, spinning. One of the men who was with her threw her a cane, and she stuck this between her hands, dancing a cabaret and advertising the chairs for thirty dollars each. A student walked past her. She stopped him with a hand to the forehead as she spun the cane in the air, distracting the well-dressed business men with her trickery. When she removed her hand, the student carried on his walk, a price affixed to his forehead. No one turned to look. She
jumped down from the chairs, which the men scrambled over one another for. They were fat, with robust bellies and jowls and thinning grey hair. They were wearing suits which stretched at the buttons as they rolled over and into one another, fighting scratching for the chairs, thirty
dol-lars each. They were the fat cats of the big firms, the heads and chees-es and pals and partners from Borden Ladner Gervais Fraser Milner Casgrain or somebody like them. They bumped and bundled into their partners in the crime they were committing in the foyer. Their fat asses dared to break the seam on their pants as they bent to pick up the chairs. They lifted the chairs high above their heads and opened their mouths. Their jaws dropped to the floor and they swallowed the chairs whole, ab-sorbing them into their bodies, the shape blending into the roly-poly mess already in their stomachs. They rolled behind the woman as she snaked through the pillars, coming closer to me. Their tails flicked in anticipation. The Serpentess sparkled and shimmered. Her hair was in a tight bun on the top of her head, and her lips were painted red. She started spinning, performing elaborate turns and cartwheels. She wheeled and whirled, hands high, manipulating the cane, the fat cats following behind her, swallowing things as they went. She continued to price objects: a magazine rack for a dime, the carpet for-ty dollars, a soda machine four-fiffor-ty. Each spin and twirl was punctuated by a high can-can kick, and I saw her legs, which were long and lean and covered by black nylons. She smiled wide and white, her red lips stretched over her white teeth. All her venomous teeth were showing. She leaped into the air and landed in front of me with a flourish. All behind her the fat cats rolled and tumbled and bumbled and lumbered into place. They plopped their asses on the concrete floor, for one of them had already handed over a wad of bills and consumed the
She smiled
wide and
white, her
red lips
stretched
over her
white teeth.
All her
venomous
teeth were
showing
.carpet that was beneath them. They wobbled and wiggled and weebled and bubbled about before settling into po-sition. The woman, the dancer, the announcer, the Ser-pentess had been spinning in a stationary blur the entire time they had been seating themselves. They applauded her, and the fat on their plump fingers jiggled as they clapped their hands together. They laughed and burped and huffed and breathed heavy, full of pieces of furniture and mouthfuls of the building. One of them reached out his hand and ripped a hunk of concrete from a near-by pillar. He shoved it into his mouth and crunched on it like popcorn. The others began to do the same. Suddenly, the lights went out. It was dark for a moment and there was nothing to punctuate it besides the sound of the fat cats as they munched and crunched away on the building. A few students gathered in the crowd, but they didn’t stay long because the fat men from the big firms began to eat them, too. They ate everything, con-suming it with a fervor and a fever. Then, a spotlight turned on and the Serpentess was illuminated in front of me, the fat cats around her in a semi-circle as she raised her hands to the sky, clutching the cane. She brought them down in a powerful motion and threw the cane from her left hand directly into the mouth of a fat man in the audience who swallowed it without even noticing.
And now, Gentlemen, I offer you this chance of a lifetime. This is the moment you have all been waiting for. This is it. La piece de resistance! The moment and reason you all came here today. Up until now you have only had a mere taste of what is to come but now you are offered the first chance at true wonder and splendor. Can I get a drumroll please?
From somewhere in the back, shrouded in dark-ness, came the sound of a drum, softly at first then louder and louder. The Serpentess raised her hands and punched the sky with her fists.
That’s right Gentlemen, now is time to start the bidding on these glorious deluxe fantastic couches right here. Perhaps one day you yourselves were seated on these very couches! Did your hopes and dreams and legal needs soak into these striped green cushions? Did you ever hope of one day earning back all those tears you shed, all that sweat you dripped into your hard-earned careers? Well here’s your chance, boys! Today only, bid your highest, fattest, roundest
bids to win the chance to once again own a piece of your own history! And what a discount are you getting today, Gentlemen, for you are great friends to this Law School and we mean to offer you only the best of prices and bargain deals. These couches cost a thou-sand dollars each, can you believe it? But today we are starting the bidding at-- you guessed it-- one hundred dollars each. This is an as-is sale, Gentlemen, the couches are going exactly as you see them here and now! Take them today or take them never. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to try a piece of history before time consumes and changes and holds and owns it! Gentlemen, take out your fat wallets with fat wads of cash and place your bids!
The fat hands shot into the air and the flab jiggled but-tery on their arms as they did so. The men pushed and pulled and fought each other, scrambling to get the mon-ey, brown hundred dollar bills, into the upturned tophat of the Serpentess, as she assigned a couch to each. She started by pointing at the farthest away, and a large man rolled on his side down there. He pulled a lobster bib from his pocket and set to work on it. He ate it slowly, sa-voring each bite. His hands caressed the leather and fab-ric as it moved into his mouth. He chewed with big, slow, open bites and I could see the fibers as they were crushed by his yellowed and crooked teeth, mixing with his saliva and then being swallowed. He ate the whole couch as the others watched, staring in a mixture of awe and envy. The next couch went to another of the fat men who waddled over to it. Two of his partners lifted it for him and he laid on the floor with his moth open. The part-ners were girthy fat men, with belts stretching at the buckles and buckling at the holes. Their sleeves were rolled up and the fat on their arms jiggled with the ef-fort needed to lift the couch. He used his fat fingers to pry his jaw down to his knees and they inserted the couch into him, the whole thing, and he swallowed it. The following four couches disappeared in much the same manner, with fat grey-haired men handing over fist-fuls of cash to the Serpentess as she danced and twirled and laughed with a mixture of glee and disgust at their fat, slobbering, desperate faces. The seating in the Interaction Area was disappearing at an alarming rate, and as they proceeded down the line of couches I started to realize my fate: I too would be eaten if I did not get out of there.
“Doctors are the same as lawyers; the only difference is that lawyers merely
rob you, whereas doctors rob you and kill you too.”
Et nis nos nullut adiating ent
nosto ex enisci blamcom
mod-oloreet wis doluptat. Il dui ex
ese dolore do eugait venim eu
fe-umsandre tismolorper ipis
nul-luptat lut amcommy nos augait
acipit, commolum verosto odio
ent alisl delit alit autpating ero
corper iuscil esto doloboreet
nulputat. Ex eugueros acincip
sustrud dunt acin henim autpat.
Met lute modit wis alit lor
sus-cil dolute eugait adiamco
num-san utpat, cor alisim quis
aliqu-is num zzriusto con er se feugait
I stood up and saw around me a sea of swirling and swarm-ing blubber: fat men were climbswarm-ing and crawlswarm-ing and twist-ing into each other, creattwist-ing a rat ktwist-ing out of their gelati-nous bellies. I couldn’t tell where the obese outpourings of one ended and those of another began. I climbed onto the arm of the couch, hoping I could jump over their hun-gry and salivating mouths, as they eyed that final prize, that delicious couch that I had selected that morning. I bent my knees.
I swung my arms behind my back.
I felt something hit my chest. It was the Serpentess, her hand outstretched from her body, the tophat pressed hard against my chest.
And just where do you think you are going, you delicious young articling thing? Do you think you can escape this mess that you see before you, that a leap of faith will bring you out of and beyond the control of the masturbatory machine that feeds these greedy bellies? That there is something more out there besides a sea of consumption and disgust? You are wrong, little girl, and you will be sucked in too for you belong now to this machine and this place and you are meant simply to become it or become consumed by it, which of course means that you will become it anyway. There is no way out. So sit your skinny ass down and make a decision; you will not sail across these writhing and jiggling bod-ies, you will only sail into them and become them, consuming the building with them. As them. Or you will be consumed yourself.
I looked around at the swarthy mass about me. I real-ized that it was hopeless, futile. There was no way my thin legs could carry me in a jump beyond the mass of sweaty fatty bodies. Some of the fat men on the out-skirts of the mass had realized my original intentions and were waiting with their mouths open for my land-ing, should I miss my target. They were smaller than the other fat men, but girthy still. They wanted my flesh, my body, anything to feed their legal desire to grow and become a giant blobulous mass like the rest. They wanted the prestige associated with a global waistline, and I was merely a prawn in their disgusting consump-tion of the building and everything in it. I realized I had already been bought and paid for; my fate was sealed. Defeated, I laid down on the couch. I crossed my arms
on my chest, as though in a funeral. With the greatest of ceremony, the swirling and swarming crowd slowed to a buzzing pace. They parted, forming a circle around the largest of the fat men. He was so abundant in size it would have taken three of the others to com-prise his shape. As if to emphasize this point, he reached out a blub-bery hand. There was no bone visible, and the hand moved as if it had been made of Jell-o. He reached out and plucked one of his fat partners from the crowd, opened wide, and swallowed him down. No one said anything, no one complained. I watched this expressionless from my gowned funeral po-sition on the couch. This was my convocation, this pomp and ceremony, and I was merely to accept the sealed fate and cross over the stage into my already-determined future. The fattest of the fat men, the leader, perhaps, of their society, merely opened his jaw. Without words, the rest of the fat men lifted the couch and me all in one smooth motion. They twirled it around. They danced, they chanted, they sang. The music they were making with their groaning, grunting, drooling, open mouths swelled. It reached a critical pitch as the couch spun round and round. Then, everything stopped. There was nothing-- no movement, no sound. A light was turned on at the back of the room and the Serpentess was standing there, watching the carnage from a safe dis-tance. She had tricked me! She laughed, big chortling fat belly laughs that filled the silence of the space. It was the last thing I heard as I was lowered into the belly of the fattest of the fat, disgusting, all-consuming men.
“Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people
will find a way around the laws.”
Plato
And just where
do you think
you are going,
you delicious
young articling
thing ?
Borden Ladner Gervais LLP is an Ontario Limited Liability Partnership.
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UBC’S ESOTERIC MAGAZINE
COMMITTED TO YOUR SUCCESS AND DEVELOPMENT.
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Kyla Sandwith, LL.B. $BMHBSZ LTBOEXJUI!CMHDBOBEBDPN Halla Elias, LL.B. 5PSPOUP IFMJBT!CMHDBOBEBDPN Valérie Dufour, LL.B. .POUSÏBM WEVGPVS!CMHDBOBEBDPN Marketta Jokinen, LL.B. 7BODPVWFS NKPLJOFO!CMHDBOBEBDPN Joanne Silkauskas, LL.B. Ottawa KTJMLBVTLBT!CMHDBOBEBDPN Rick Morelli, LL.B. 8BUFSMPP3FHJPO SNPSFMMJ!CMHDBOBEBDPN
S
onnets
Tlell Raffard, UBC 2L
First Year Law: Exams
‘Midst the numbing hours and pages turning, Buried in the countless cases skimmed, Facts and facts and facts be endless churning, Here and there the players neatly limned; A pause, a breath, a moment to reflect – Was that the ratio or a mild dissent? – The discord ever dripping with respect, That banded branded crew will not foment; For equity and jurisprudence rule
Where common law fills in a statute’s weal Lest it remains the lowly common mule And legislated law devours the meal. We poorly students lapping at the rim The glimm’ring Truth as yet a distant dim.
Obstruction
Untold mysteries lurk betwixt the lines, Obscure a simpler meaning in the tome. Great Lexicon will sneer at lesser signs
Which blur like shadows writhing in the gloam. A blink, a stare, then squinting of the eye. Provisions grasped while others slip away, Clarity a figment quick and sly.
Uncertainty belied by long delay. Dissection lends itself to greater toil And grinds all forward motion to a halt Whereby the stagnant parties come to boil, Each calling out the other for the fault. Thus resolution surely will elude
W
ith these eyes
Eric Laxton, UBC 2L
“The only power any government has is the power to crack down on
criminals. Well, when there aren’t enough criminals, one makes them. One
declares so many things to be a crime that it becomes impossible for men to live
without breaking laws.” Ayn Rand
S
an marco square 1902
James Wilson Morrice, UoT dropout
Oil and graphite on wood, 25.6 x 33.1 cm. National Gallery of Canada (no. 30424)
“This was Venice, the flattering and suspect beauty - this city, half fairy
tale and half tourist trap, in whose insalubrious air the arts once rankly
and voluptuously blossomed, where composers have been inspired to
lulling tones of somniferous eroticism.
“I decided law was the exact opposite of sex; even when it was good, it was
lousy”
Mortimer Zuckerman
A
family vacation
Jordan Forsyth, UBC 1L
Standing neck-deep in the shallow end of the over-chlorinated pool,
cherished more than anything else for its aroma
as you turn down the last corner and see rippling shadows dancing down
at the end of the hall. Sitting outside a tennis court surrounded by chain-link and secured by a heavy lock. Inside relatives chase the ball,
green in the same way that the pool is blue, laughing and knowing
so many things you do not, and they knew these things before you were here,
before you swam
and watched and ran.
Water shadows ripple
and you suddenly realize how although you are pushing off from a concrete wall
to another concrete wall,
the water in between is still beautiful and turquoise
and there are still shadows which smell like chlorine and
bounce like tennis balls
across the stern white ceiling.
T
he mist
Eric Wordsworth, UBC 2L
Stop They say
To appreciate what is good Though you may stand still She
Will not She Will not
Be grasped, held, restrained.
Is there only comfort in holding? She
Walks with you. She caresses your face. You can feel it
Enveloping you.
The only way you know it’s there. It does not leave you as you walk. The comfort is not only in holding.
It’s in knowing She is there. She
Like the mist Cannot be held But can be missed
P
otholes
Joshua Dedora, UBC 1L
He gingerly lowers himself down, trying to avoid scrap-ing his exposed belly. The pavement is coarse and cold as his girth touches down and folds into more and more flabs the lower he gets. Using his arms as sup-port he plunges his head deep into the water cleans-ing his face, snappcleans-ing him awake with its atmospheric coldness, while drinking deep and letting the grainy oily water wash down his throat to ease the drunken dry-ness. He then reverses the process by easing out of the pothole and resting over it with his weight on his belly and arms as the water drips off. He moves back to the bus stop bench as he shakes his head hard side to side in order to get rid of all the water while brushing his large belly with both hands to clean the dirt and mois-ture from it. The sky still exists overhead reflective of the rain that fell earlier into the pothole, except it has abated and the clouds hold the rain close for the time being. He brushes his hands against each other rapidly in the air away from his body with his clean face averted and then scrapes any excess dirt from his hands on the round plastic edge of the bench. With these semi-clean hands he puts on the carefully folded white shirt pulled from the protective folds of his suit jacket. The shirt is worn and sweat stained to its fibres, but it is pressed daily by the Laundromat around the corner that does him this favour in return for him using his intimidating size to keep the loafing kids away. He carefully buttons the delicate shirt up the bulge of his belly to his broken barrel chest and in a modest moment he slips inside the phone booth beside the bench to undo his pants in or-der to tuck in the shirt. He strings the narrow black tie around his large fat layered neck, snugging it up so tight you would think it would cut off the circulation. The bus comes and as he goes to his seat the bus jerks to one side as it hits a pothole spraying the murky water all around. It is still early and he watches from his side window seat as his bus stop bench moves by again and then again with the driver hitting the pothole both times. At a main station he gets off to collect a coffee and some break-fast consisting of an egg/sausage product and several do-nuts. The bus takes off as the hidden rising sun seems to have stirred the rain clouds to let more fall. Through
an open window somewhere on the bus a clean fresh-ness wafts in as the dark clouds drop onto the city; blackening rain fills the streets with moisture and heady breathe, but it is deserted as people flee for dry ground. He gets off at the office building and is the only per-son at this stop. It is a red brick building with a set of
primer grey doors in the front with small windows right at eye level that only one eye can look through at a time. The lobby smells hygienic from the weekend cleaning, and he smells himself, grimacing, knowing that he should have splashed some water under his arms. A lone parrot exists in the lobby with a tiny piece of shiny orange bale twine tying it to its perch; he does not know where it came from but it insults his smell everyday as he passes and then it falls from the perch hanging upside down by the lone shiny piece of twine as if dead. He passes, not bothering to look at the bird, but notices it has a little pot where it shits, which eliminates the sight but not a faint odour. The stairs are uninviting yet inevitable with the perpetual outage of the elevator that he doesn’t even stop to check anymore. He takes off his jacket and shirt while entering the stairwell, being careful not to get them dirty; he folds the shirt, placing it inside the jacket that he carries while gripping the rail with the other hand. He moves up the stairs, pausing every second storey for a rest, looking out the high narrow chicken wire infused window at overcast skies. Again he moves on hunkered down with his back bent he moves quicker using his knuckles to propel him up the stairs in a loping step; a train of children emerge on the stairs in single file Soviet sameness they move past and stare in wonder as they view the beast – it is they squeal out in childish shamelessness and wonder aloud what it is, but this is all interrupted by the teacher who comes out on the platform below and is pestered with questions asking what is it Ms __?, she responds in a hushed voice, hoping not to draw the ani-mal’s gaze, that it is the capitalist future. He reaches the top floor and pulls a brush out of his back pocket he uses
In single file
Soviet
same-ness they
move past
and stare in
wonder as
they view
the beast...
back pocket he uses to comb away the hair on his face, chest, arms, and back. He collects the hair and lights a little fire burning the hair atop an accumulated pile of ashes in the corner. Again he carefully puts on his shirt, tie, and jacket. He then moves through the hall made with cinderblock walls left coarsely plain while the rest of the building had been redone this floor was not; once or twice he said something to the manager but she al-ways looked away into one of the repeating sailboat pic-tures she got for each floor and the three for her office, which all seem to match the stiffly soft looking chairs. It is only this one hall in the building that seems to go on forever straight past the end of the building so that he used to worry about the structural integrity when he first started, but now he only follows the hall past the mysterious doors that he never sees into, touches, or even understands that they can be opened. Never has he seen a person move through this hall; not once has he ever meet another person he would have to squeeze past with the inevitable touching and apologizing; many times he has imagined how he would get to a side of the hall, hoping to limit the amount of space he occupies – he always envisions a women and how he would search out a doorway to squeeze himself into, but he always wonders whether it would be best expose the front, rear, or side, questioning the amount of space and discom-fort for to the passer in each pose. The hall eventually curves and then cuts back, rolling like the melancholy hills of the old calendar tacked to his wall and stuck on a perpetual autumn October since November and December were missing when he bought it years ago. Within an hour he slides the sticky key into the lock, wiggling it up and down until it opens as if there was not a previous problem. He is able to rest in the metal framed chair covered with a dark-wine vinyl that pulls sweat forth from his bulky frame; the sweat runs in a wine river till it falls from the chair salty clear to an await-ing wide mouthed copper basin that was installed one morning countless years ago: on arriving that morning he had to crunch himself in a corner out of the way as there was a continual head count of ten people in white coveralls who worked away in a steady stream with a new worker always replacing those whose coveralls got dirty
and then they all filed out at once without an explana-tion or even looking at the inconspicuous black ball in the corner who was finally able to sit in his chair welded to the ground in a perfect position over the copper ba-sin that makes a deep resonant ping and then an echo-ing gulp with each sweaty drip causecho-ing sounds that drift away from consciousness. He sits down in the chair, pulling up the desk with an inbox containing no sheets and the outbox piled high to the roof in a swaying solid pillar that he attaches new documents to with staples and paper clips. Then the door begins to flap, becoming a screen door on the open prairie during a hot summer day when kids run in and out, never bothering to latch it until that unpredictable west wind blows in with a desire to tear the screen door from its fragile hinges, but it is really just a wind that shakes the door open and closed until it finally comes to a closed rest as a plain unpainted door without a window but having a tricky lock. Laying across his desk is his two assistants who are somehow stretched out fully by navigating the many objects; the assistants that he never sees except when they show up in the office with doe eyes mooning over him because they are bored and looking for work; the assistants often changes – never once have they been the same but oc-casionally they will be similar to the others or the two will have an identical likeness that stems from young lean bodies hugged tight by the same grey suit that flows tight to each curve making it seem that they cannot move, but they can move. The assistants show up and paw all over him then leap up to the ceiling to which they fasten tightly only to drop on his back in order to curl around his bulky neck, and then they slink down to the floor to do it all over again. He used to ignore the as-sistants, as it was only an occasional hindrance, but even-tually the interruption to his work began to bother him, so now, as a matter of habit, he quickly picks up the assistants from the desk, as they turn over in his hands and stretch out lazily, and puts them down a chute with a clanging metal door that has always been in his office. The assistants can be heard to slide down for a long time – they never reach an end but simply fade away; he puts them in the chute for their own good, as well as his own, saving them from an angry outburst on his part and therefore sparing their obviously tender emotions.
“Laws are like sausages. You should never watch one being made”
Otto Von Bismark
And then it is lunchtime. Again the same routine is repeated as he moves through the hall with agonizing apprehension at meeting someone, and then down the stairs in the same manner removing his jacket and shirt, which is followed by a mini fire at the bottom. He meek-ly explodes out the front door onmeek-ly to cross a twenty-lane highway where he dodges vehicles in a lumbering way and then burrows under the meridian through a hole that street crews fill loosely every night. He comes up on the other side of the meridian and encounters an earth rumbling semi that he avoids by squeezing his compress-ing girth back into the tunnel only to emerge seconds later to pound across the ungiving road by moving from line to line while becoming light headed from fumes and speed he tumbles over the guard rail on the other side where he lands with a drunken sway on his feet. Here resides a copse of woods hidden from city eyes by the arrogant skyward concrete of the expressway. He takes off his jacket and shirt, protecting the shirt in the folds of his jacket. He moves off through the woods with nose wide to search the air by swaying side to side in motions far too silent for such a huge man who catches a scent and awaits in a bush – crouched low he wait to leap up into the air to catch a failing bird that he ravenously de-vours on the mossy wooded ground after which he wipes himself with a handful of feathers that provide a pillow for him to lay down on the soft earth while the peek-ing sun almost warms the chill air creeppeek-ing through the moist shade that keeps him from sleep but not rest. He then puts the shirt and jacket back on to dodge across the highway, takes it off again to go up the stairs, after the stairs there is a fire followed by a putting back on of the jacket and shirt, and after the hall he sits down to let out the built up exhaustion in his bones while rivulets of sweat run down in wine river darkness ping-ing and gulpping-ing. The pen hits the paper and the clock edges forward with each stroke until it is quitting time. He walks the street with nervous eyes averted in shame and held close to the ground he scurries along as people avoid the massive mutt; it is easier to move amongst peo-ple when they feel they can show their disdain and dread by moving away without fear of insulting him and his giant black suit back that forms the mangy back hair of the mutt, and with a head close to the ground the world is nothing but cracks in the sidewalk and moist granular stone surfaces. He walks on all four down a street of stores with aged windows and creaking signs faded away to a sickly white where only those that know from before would enter, but he passes from the decayed antiquity
around a corner into bright suns and acres of rumbling vehicles. He retreats from this sight going back to a faded sign where he has to stand to enter and order a pint in a back corner booth where he cowers in a cor-ner till the waitress is gone and he is able to mend his bleeding hands in peace as he picks out the tiny stones and hidden glass with brittle teeth so the wounds can be cleaned using a small jar of antiseptic stole from a bar-ber. He leaves the bar, dropping a ten but not bother-ing to wait for change, and so he escapes into the streets walking upright now as the bodies have all but cleared out. He moves to a familiar street and to a half door with bars up over the top half; it is a place of concealed identity and fear where people don’t want to see a face, and people can slide money in from one side of the cage and the bottle slides out from the other – whisky in this case. He always cringes at the first gulp of the cheap warming liquid. He catches the bus that drones across the falsely lit city where the dampened pavement gleams and glistens in counterfeit charm mirror-ing the windows of the countless buildmirror-ings paradmirror-ing around as diamonds while really being poorly cut glass. Moved by the glistening diamond night, he leaps from the bus not wanting to pull the cord and interrupt the bus driver’s route, but first he is careful to take of his shirt and jacket in order to take the brunt of the collision with the coarse pavement on his shoulder and back, cutting them up in his roll to the curb. He moves to the back of the Laundromat, knocking on the door and waiting with his bottle until the door opens and closes twice and the clean pressed shirt is passed out. He puts it on, being careful not to move and wreck the creases; he sits stiffly in front of the store all night as a guard against the young – unknow-ingly he guards the whole strip-mall complex. By the morning he leans hard against the wall while still gripping the empty bottle. If he is lucky it has rained during the night, leaving him somewhere to wash and drink from; when it doesn’t rain he has to go without and move sleepy eyed and parched throated through the world unaware with that burning whisky thirst that cannot be satisfied.
He meekly
explodes out
the front door
only to cross
a twenty lane
highway where
the dodges
vehicles in a
lumbering way
E
uropean vacation
Laing Brown, Partner B.L.G.
“For beauty is
nothing but the
beginning of
terror, Which we
are barely able to
endure and are
awed, Because it
serenely disdains
to annihilate us”
Rainer M. Rilke
“Beauty is but an
altered state of
consciousness and
perception,
an extraordinary
moment of
P
oesy
Ilia Korkh, UBC 1L
A Resolution
(Composed in the shower before sleep) Upon my Priapus I swear that tomorrow By six o’clock I shall wake up and rise; And no amount of bed-craving sorrow Shall lead to my plan’s languorous demise ‘Tis true, that it is not my disposition To greet the rising sun’s first rays, Yet if I want to nourish my ambition I must make the most out of my days.
Last Night
The memories of this occasion Will fade like a dawn-stricken wight. Sweet travesties of fornication And of Bacchic excess delight. The passionate promises whispered, The sanguinal vows all forlorn. The joys of this fiery evening
Shall soon become tainted by scorn
To A Girl So Wise And So Silly
You gave me shelter, wisdom and advice To your benevolence I am eternally in debt But then you had to offer me your heart
Praytell: just what the fuck am I to do with THAT?
An October Sonnet
A rather doleful affectation Today has come upon my soul; The freshness of this autumn chill
With pensive thoughts my mind has filled. These I wove ‘round me like a shawl, In hope that poetry would melt The stillborn passions that I felt; But like a church-bell’s lonely toll The echo of my feeling fades Among the bare October glades. And here I linger, as in thrall Of warmth that I will never know. In autumn’s melancholy wreathed My stanzas dissipate into the mist.
A Lisping Whore
Serpentine and sibylline, she - sheathed In a shadow-spun shawl of dusk, syllabed Thus to thee of abysses of bliss,
Whispering shameless, hissing the syllabus Of seven sins served by insatiable
Sensual,sultry and shapely seductresses -Luscious, lascivious, succulent succubi,
Wreathed in satins sapphire, saffrons sulfurious, Writhing on sable sheets laced with silks damascene : Wraiths upon sinful thrones, their throes thronged by satyrs and fallen seraphs,
Wrathful and saturnine in their Sapphic sorrows. Seventy shiny shillings gets you all this
H
orômenon is passive
Steven Wexler, Professor UBC Law
It’s not the seeing but the scene Not the seers but the seen
Not the seeming that has been
But the unseen that I mean.
What is not said inside my head As I lie in my bed pretending I’m dead What’s denied when I lie When I try not to cry.
I’m not the seer. I’m the seen. I’m the seeming. I’m the scene.
T
he man in the moon
Steven Wexler, Professor UBC Law
Can you recall when you first set eyes on the man in the moon?
“Hey, yeah! There’s a man in the moon!” And how you could see him as clear as day.
Only it was night, not day and the moon was bright with its quiet white light,
And he was there and you could see his face. Only now you can’t.
Is that pollution do you think?
Does that go with the cars and their stink? Is that why you can’t see him?
Is that what you think? It’s not pollution, mate. It’s educution.
Education taught you, mate, it ain’t no face,
it’s just the place
where shadows fall ’cross lunar seas. So you cannot see what you used to see, what you used to see as clear as day. Hey! Look! There’s a man in the moon!
“Law Skul sux”
Anonymous
“I’ve never been in love. I’ve always
been a lawyer.”
Anonymous
“Make crime pay. Become a Lawyer.”
Et nis nos nullut adiating ent
nosto ex enisci blamcom
mod-oloreet wis doluptat. Il dui ex ese
dolore do eugait venim eu
feum-sandre tismolorper ipis nulluptat
lut amcommy nos augait acipit,
commolum verosto odio ent
al-isl delit alit autpating ero
cor-per iuscil esto doloboreet
nulpu-tat. Ex eugueros acincip sustrud
dunt acin henim autpat.Met lute
modit wis alit lor suscil dolute
eugait adiamco numsan utpat,
cor alisim quis aliquis num
zzri-usto con er se feugait
B
alloons
Tlell Raffard, UBC 2L
Characters
LENORE JOE
Scene
(Brooklyn. A small, ratty apartment. LENORE sits at the table deep in thought. Someone KNOCKS at the door. LENORE ignores it. Someone KNOCKS again.)
JOE (O.S.)
Lenore!
(LENORE doesn’t move.)
JOE (cont. O.S.)
You in there Lenore? (Beat) Come on Lenore, I got a surprise for you!
LENORE
I don’t want no more of your sur-prises Joe!
JOE (O.S.)
Don’t make me stand out here like a jerk Lenore! Open the door would ya! (He BANGS insistently.) Lenore! Open the goddam door!
LENORE
It’s OPEN!
(Enter JOE holding a bunch of helium balloons that read “Congratulations” and “Bon Voyage” etc. LENORE stands.)
JOE
Well hey for Chrissakes. Look what I brought ya.
LENORE
Balloons.
JOE
Balloons! Well? Come on, they’re for you.
(She takes them and holds them, staring blankly at JOE.)
JOE (cont.)
What, no ‘thank you’?
LENORE
Thanks.
(JOE goes to kiss her but she turns so he kisses her cheek.)
JOE
So happy birthday, muffin.
LENORE
I ain’t your muffin no more.
JOE
Sure ya are.
LENORE
Not no more, Joe. I had enough once and for all.
JOE
Aw come on, Lenore. I said I was sorry.
LENORE
You always say you’re sorry. And I always believe ya.
JOE
You know I love ya muffin, and the others, they don’t mean nothin.
LENORE
I ain’t your muffin! (Beat, resigned) I oughta know by now. You can’t get
nothin’ right.
JOE
What’s that suppose to mean?
LENORE
Ah why can’t you just bring me bal-loons for no reason, huh Joe?
JOE
I never brought nobody balloons before. Hey, come on. Waddya ex-pect a guy to do? Beg?
(JOE drops to a knee, LENORE crosses her arms, accustomed to this regular event.)
JOE (cont.)
So fine I’m beggin. Lenore please, please forgive me I’m a weak, weak man and I’ve done wrong by you but I love ya so much and … and … I’ll do better! That’s it I’ll do better by you from now on. (Stands) So you forgive me or what? (Beat) You like the balloons?
LENORE
“Bon Voyage”? Where am I goin?
JOE
I got a deal on the ones already blown up. They’re still nice though. Look at ‘em.
(LENORE does look at them and her shoulders slump.)
JOE (cont.)
What’s eatin you anyhow?
LENORE
JOE
Yeah but we worked that out.
LENORE
Why don’t you just take off huh? Like once and for all?
JOE
Hey, I’m tryin to be nice now.
LENORE
Why Joe? Huh? Ya got more prom-ises up your sleeve?
JOE
I know I ain’t been the best to ya sometimes and I done some things, I know. I know. Look, I just think, you and me, we got a thing here, right? Or part of a thing anyhow. You don’t just throw away some-thin like that. So I screwed up. You gotta make a big deal out of it?
LENORE
So we got a PART of somethin. Big deal! We supposed to make a mar-riage outta that?
JOE
Heeeeey, what’re you talkin mar-riage for?
LENORE
I been thinkin Joe. I been thinkin hard these last days.
JOE
(Rolls his eyes away from LENORE)
Thinkin huh? I dunno about that.
LENORE
Yeah well I been doin it anyway. ‘Cause I ain’t gettin any younger, Joe, an I got the rest of my life to think of. I gotta be thinkin long term you know.
JOE
Right. Long term. So maybe we could be long term but why rush it?
LENORE
I had plans, Joe. Or at least I’m makin’ plans. And slingin’ food at the diner in The Towers Hotel ain’t the plan! (Beat) Ah Joe. I just – I just think you an me, it was fun, but we’re through ya know?
JOE
Fun? FUN? That’s it? Just like that?
LENORE
Come on, Joe, what’d ya think? You’re just a valet for Chrissakes.
JOE
Just a valet. That’s nice Lenore. You ain’t the only one with plans ya know. Me I got big plans too.
LENORE
Oh yeah? Since when?
JOE
Since today. I just made me a plan to stop listenin’ to this crap.
LENORE
You see? You never take me seri-ous.
JOE
You wanna be serious? Fine. Okay. So maybe this Valet’s got plans to run his own hotel one day huh?
LENORE
How you gonna do that? You got big dreams, Joe, I’ll give ya that.
JOE
You think I can’t do it.
LENORE
Sure ya will. And I’m gonna be a back-up singer. (Beat) Listen, I been seeing Donny again.
JOE
What? When?
LENORE
Yesterday … and some other times too. For a while now. Then yester-day, we talked a long time.
JOE
Just talkin’ huh?
LENORE
Yeah about plans and … and he wants me back Joe. (Beat) And I’m gonna go. Back. To Donny.
(Joe starts to pace.)
JOE
Aw Jesus. Aw man. So you been screwin’ Donny again.
LENORE
What, ya can’t take me gettin some on the side? That’s real funny comin from you.
JOE
That’s different! Those girls don’t mean nothing to me.
LENORE
Jesus, Joe, I’m pregnant!
(Pause.)
JOE
Is it … is it mine?
LENORE
You think I’d have your baby?
JOE
So it’s Donny’s.
LENORE
Yeah, sure. It could be.
JOE
Aw Lenore, Lenore. What’re you doin?
LENORE
I’m takin care a me alright? Look you gotta go. I got things to do right?
(He drops onto the sofa.)
JOE
Ya gotta give a guy a minute for it to sink in. (Beat) Lenore? Hey, Lenore. Listen, forget Donny. Just forget him ‘cause he’s a no-good scumbag and he’ll ruin everything. So how about you and me, we get (ahem) married?
LENORE
What?
JOE
Yeah that’s right. We could do it right at the hotel! It’d be a helluva party.
LENORE
Party, party! That’s all you think about. Besides listen to yourself. Ya ainn’t even askin me right.
JOE
Come on, Lenore. It’s you an me here. And we got this … part of a thing, right? Well. Maybe that’s (her belly) the other part. That’s been missing ya know? Maybe it don’t matter where it comes from, just that it’s here now, growin inside a you.
LENORE
You’re crazy.
JOE
Come on. I’m proposin here. May-be you got a ton a guys proposin to you these days but come on. That’s another thing I never done for no one else. (Beat) Waddya say?
LENORE
I say I ain’t marryin a valet Joe. Now stop talkin crazy at me and get out would ya?
JOE
So that’s it.
LENORE
I made up my mind.
JOE
You’re just wanna throw everythin away, but it ain’t like you got so much to spare.
LENORE
You’re just a lousy valet Joe!
(Joe grabs her.)
JOE
What if it IS my kid? Huh? You just gonna give it to that scumbag?
LENORE
At least he can pay for it!
(He throws her from him in disgust and she stumbles, lands on the floor. Joe stands still for a moment breathing deeply. Then he goes to help her up.)
JOE
Aw shit. Lenore. Get offa the floor.
(She bats him away but stays on the floor. He tries again.)
JOE (cont.)
Just get up offa the floor would ya?
LENORE
Get out!
JOE
Come on Lenore. Look, I’m sorry alright? (Beat) I’m tryin to help. I said I was sorry!
LENORE
Oh yeah! Sorry! Sorry! I heard that so many times Joe it don’t mean nothin no more.
JOE
Fine! You wanna lay on the floor? Ya look real at home down there anyhow.
LENORE
Go to Hell!
JOE
Don’t you rush me!
G
hosts at varadero
Michael Coleman, Coleman Fraser Parcells
Lying under a strong yellow sun on this tranquil beach in Cuba seems exceeding strange.
As turquoise waters softly sweep the shore, I remember university in the sixties
and think of Fidel and Che, Kennedy, Khruschev The Bay of Pigs, October Missile Crisis. Tourist shops here are filled with images of Che Guevara - frozen in time, rebel as poster-boy. A near half century has passed from that world on the cusp of war, only Castro remains, and he nearing the end.
Even the monolithic Soviet Union has vanished.
Yet the world still harbours malignancies and dangers: Bin Laden, Al-Qaeda and China rising. Sun and salt and sand
under the brilliant sapphire sky seem immutable,
more constant than the clash of men and arms and ideas rchoing
in the fading mists of memory.
COLEMAN FRASER PARCELLS
MICHAEL G. COLEMAN*
202-58 STATION STREET
DUNCAN, B.C. V9L 1M4 FAX: (250) 748-2733TEL: (250) 748-1013
*Michael G. Coleman Law Corporation
LAWYERS
“The key is to commit crimes so
confusing that the police will feel too
stupid to write reports about them”
T
wo goddesses
Ilia Korkh: UBC 1L
I. Morning
Awash in blazing bronze of cold November dawn Crowned with a glowing misty halo of your breath,
Among the bleak-garbed tired morning crowds you shone In aeneous splendor - like Aurora deigned to bless
This frozen bus stop with her presence saffron-dressed. Your sapphire eyes are calm and gleam with morning dew Like pools, kissed and bejeweled by midnight frost, Wake, melting in the rising sun. Serene, you glide. Seduced by some strange fleeting dream that crossed Your night’s repose; you gaze around, weary-eyed Blind to the one who would have worshipped you. II. Night
Ereshkigal, my mistress raven-haired,
How long I’ve sought you; often I’ve despaired
To find your beauty - bane of bards and wolves - ensnared Within the trappings of some mortal flesh. And now I kneel before you - dusk-robed and malign.
Unclasp your gown and let it fall undone; Unfurl your fragrant mane and let me twine My fingers through your tresses onyx-spun, Upon a sea of brocade couch yourself: divine Pale flesh girt by an amaranth eclipse -
A heathen idol on her blood-drenched shrine. Cursed wild-eyed witch, enflame my parched soul With scorching droughts of your vermillion lips, Upon your venomed tongue my hunger sate, And my burnt offering of passion consecrate. Enshrouded in your arms, how I despise Funereal cadence of the ticking clock,
The bastard dawn that yearns to spur your flight, The jealous world, the clouds of carrion flies; Spent, love-drunk, them I wish to mock, Escape and drown myself tonight
In stormy darkness of your autumn eyes.
“Because just as good morals, if they
are to be maintained, have need of the
laws, so the laws, if they are to be
ob-served, have need of good morals.”
Niccolo Machiavelli
“Morality is the herd instinct in the
individual.”
There was something about the way her hair danced in the wind as she ran for the number 99 bus. Her brown locks bounced to a rhythm. The rhythm was life itself. The world around her slowed -- though my heartbeat quickened-- as she came near. There was something about the way her face con-torted as the heel broke off her leather pump. Had it not been raining, she may have scraped her knee much worse when she fell; like some kind of epidermis to asphalt hydroplaning. I hoped. The blood seemed to indicate otherwise. There was something about the way she chased down the rogue sheets of paper, escaping from her tote, strewn about. The blown papers would settle, mo-tionless. But as she would approach, the wind would pick up once more, sending the white sheets whirl-ing and wavwhirl-ing. It was like teaswhirl-ing a child with candy. There was something about the way she pursed her lips, or exhaled suddenly, the breath escap-ing as with her hopes of catchescap-ing the 99 bus. I wanted those lips to touch mine. I wanted to breathe new hope. The bus won’t wait for her. There was something about her very es-sence, fraught with chaos; ripe with calamity. She was poetic in her misfortune. She was beau-tiful in her humanity. She was perfect in her flaws. Every morning I get on the 99 bus. Every morning. This is the unchangeable routine. She was anarchy to the status quo; an accident waiting to happen.
She was the accident I hoped would happen to me. The bus will leave without her. Per-haps today it can leave without me too.
The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”
William Shakespeare,
King Henry the Fourth, Part II
B
-line
L
egal lets
A Comparison of Squash and Law
Aminollah Sabzevari: UBC 1L
The sport of squash is my true break during the week, and it is a wonderful stress reliever. When I meet someone, I identify myself first as a law student, and second as a squash player. I play other sports; badmin-ton with a doubles partner, as well as soccer, ultimate and football with my law and residence teams. In these sports I’ve utilized and honed the teamwork skills that are crucial for a legal career. However, playing on the squash court is where my individuality takes precedence. Squash is a microcosm portraying the attributes I will have in the practice of law, and I try to emulate it in my daily life. If I fall behind in a game, I take full re-sponsibility, and do not try to blame anyone else. It is up to me to get back into it, and make the best of a dif-ficult situation. I keep my cool; needlessly getting angry does not help solve problems in squash or in my general life. I must adapt when my game plan isn’t working, and always be ready to counter a wily and fluid opponent. Being able to think independently, effectively and to solve novel problems are essential requirements for practicing law. Law also requires precision and accuracy, as does squash. Playing good squash requires a combination of skill, practice and experience. Some new players have a higher innate natural ability than others. Some have a stronger athletic background. You improve at squash through intense practice and playing with those that know more than you. Once you have played a lot of games, you also develop the experience that helps resolve common situations, and also respond to unexpected situations. In law, there is a similar combination of skill, practice, and experience. Some may have stronger natural ability or backgrounds upon beginning the study of law. It is through study, practice, and hard work that law students improve, learning from more experienced lawyers and educators. A good squash match actually exemplifies conflict reso-lution. If I have a disagreement with my opponent, we aim to resolve it to the best of our abilities, fairly and hon-estly. During match play I have to keep out of the way of my opponent, and prevent potential obstruction. My opponent must do the same, and if either of us breaks
this freedom of movement pact, the game rules actually demand an end to the rally. This event is known as a let, and the point is replayed. When I first start playing against an opponent, we often get in each other’s way. We literally tread on each other’s toes. However, we adapt to each other, and eventually angle around each other, weaving in and out during the rally in a veritable dance on the squash court. At this level we do not have a referee or judge. It is up to both of us to judge calls, and more often than not we err on the side of caution rather than risk taking unfair advantage. We want to win, but facilitating a legitimate procedure takes precedence in both a court of squash and a court of law. With these ele-ments of fairness and professionalism and respect for the rules, the play of squash mirrors the ideal practice of law. Sometimes after fighting off several match points, I fi-nally succumb to a roll out shot from my opponent. Among the deadliest of low probability shots, a roll out shot is when the ball rolls down from a wall onto the floor and is impossible to return. Sometimes, despite all my training and preparation and effort, I do not succeed. That’s as true in squash as it is when trying to help a legal client. A lawyer has to be able to accept potential loss without becoming disillusioned, and remain com-mitted to the care and wellbeing of every new client. Squash has been around for a long time, and like the practice of law, the involved materials and strategy have adapted and improved over time. While wood was the material of choice in the past, graphite has replaced it. The balls are made from improved rubber. Analogously, legal resources have become increasingly, if still scantily, electronic and online. But all this new technology still re-quires versatile and improved players and practitioners. Squash was once restricted to the wealthy male elite of society, like law, but they are both now open to and seek a wide variety of participants. A diversity of backgrounds and experiences can only improve the sport of squash, and the practice of law. It is into this new era of law that I hope to enter, as a squash player and aspiring law student.
E
agle at vesuvius
Michael Coleman, Coleman Fraser Parcells
From a sturdy branch overhanging the harbour the imperious bird stares haughtily,
a stern Roman senator, piercing eyes
encased in a scalloped crown of strong white feathers. A sudden launch
and wide descending arcs target the beach.
Talons twist a fish head from the rocky shore amid raucous complaints of the frenzied feeding seagulls. Cacophonous crows
clustered on wires
above the grey ferry dock stridently applaud the show as the eagle soars aloft bearing its prize with nonchalant grace. (Curtain)
M
y grandmother
Sigh to cover pain
Comforting other patients Eroded within
with cancer
A Haiku
Tlell Raffard, UBC 2L
Portia:
“A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine.
The court awards it and the law doth give it.
Shylock:
“Most rightful judge!
Portia:
“And you must cut this flesh from off his breast.
The law allows it and the court awards it.
Shylock:
“Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!
Laing Brown
BLG LLP
Laing is a partner at BLG and a UBC Law alumnus. He practices corporate and commercial law. He has been deeply involved in Vancouver community activities, par-ticularly in the visual arts. He is former President of both the Vancouver Art Gallery and the Contemporary Art Society of Vancouver.
Michael Coleman
Coleman Fraser
Par-cells
Michael is married with three sons and four grandchil-dren. He practices law with Coleman Fraser Parcells in Duncan. Past president of Cowichan Valley and Nanaimo County Bar Associations, former Mayor of Duncan and President of the Federation of Canadian Municipalities, Mike’s poetry has been published internationally.
Joshua Dedora
UBC
Joshua Dedora was born in the dark golden age of Sas-katchewan from where he jumped the stubble to learn of life and the world and literature that lead to nothing and thus he is now studying the law.
Jordan Forsyth
UBC
Jordan Forsyth is a first year law student at the UBC. He has an undergraduate degree in English Literature from the University of the Fraser Valley
Ilia Korkh
UBC
In hits defense, Ilia would like to say that he is not that which he is, and everything else is a lie. But he still likes red wine, Romantic poetry and beautiful women.
Kyla Lee
UBC
Kyla grew up and honed her mind by learning the laws of Victorian trees before deciding to learn western law that is against nature.
Eric Laxton
UBC
Eric is a second year J.D. student at UBC. He holds a B.A. in Psychology and Business from the U of O. He has also studied Professional Writing and English at York. His varied legal interests include Corporate Fi-nance and Entertainment Law. He enjoys creative writ-ing and derives great pleasure from the beauty of words.
James Wilson Morrice
1865-1924
Having dropped out of his legal studies at UoT, James became an intrepid traveller and one of Canada’s best known Impressionist painters. His parents were still dis-appointed that he never made it to be a big time lawyer.
Tlell Raffard
UBC
Tlell received her BA in Theatre and Creative Writ-ing from UBC, has written and produced a couple of full-length plays, and has participated in other theatre projects in a variety of capacities. Her interests lie in stageplay, screenplay, and poetry, and she is explor-ing how these might coincide with the study of Law.
Aminollah Sabzevari
UBC
Aminollah Sabzevari is a 1st year student, with a back-ground in physics and philosophy. His interests include most racquet sports, etymology, and long walks on the beach.
Steven Wexler
UBC
The Artist Currently known as Professor Wexler has been at UBC for almost 40 years. If he ever retires, he will be known as The Artist Formerly Known as Profes-sor Wexler”.
Eric Wordsworth
UBC
Eric is an unfotrunate descendant of the famed Word-sworth of the Romantic Age. Eric’s life has been spent wandering lonely as a cloud among daffodils . seeking in-spiration to live up to his worthy and wordy last name.
C
ontributors
Esoteric
[e-sae’terik]: adjective
1. a: designed for or understood by the specially initiated alone b: requiring or
exhibiting knowledge that is restricted to a small group;
2. a: limited to a small circle b: private, confidential
3. of special, rare, or unusual interest
T
hank You
The Editor of Esoteric would like to thank: the Law Stu-dents’ Society for providing a platform for the magazine; Sharon Mah for her insights and guidance throughout the formative stages of this year’s issue; Borden Ladner Ger-vais for its generous financial support and continued in-volvement in student initiatives; All the contributors who submitted the fruit of their creative labours; The previous editors and contributors for creating the foundation upon which we have built this issue, and upon which we hope to continue a successful and interesting annual publica-tion; To all our readers, we thank you for your reader-ship and welcome your questions and suggestions. Please
help us continue the tradition of Esoteric magazine. We look forward to expansion and growth into the future.
Please, contact us with comments, submis-sions, and criticisms at:
Esoteric Magazine
Faculty of Law, University of British Columbia 1822 East Mall, Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z1
http://esoteric.wordpress.com [email protected]
And remember to sumbit your works for our next issue.
University of British Columbia
1822East Mall Vancouver BC V6T 1Z1 Canada Tel: 604-822-3151 Fax: 604-822-4781 www.law.ubc.ca T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F B R I T I S H C O L U M B I A Cover Photo: Russ Heinl University of British Columbia 1822 East Mall Vancouver BC V6T 1Z1 Canada Tel: 604-822-315 1 Fax: 604-822-4781 www.law .ubc.ca TH E UN IV ER SI TY O F BR IT IS H CO LU MB IA Cover Photo: Russ Heinl
Esoteric Magazine
University of British Columbia, Faculty of Law Publication
