I really enjoyed reading Canta No. 22, from cover to cover!
I am on side with Mr. Socks and loved Ben's interview with Hone Harawira, certainly had me laughing heaps. A great read to relax slightly, during exam prep.
Ka pai!
Marlene Estria Murray
Letter received on from Marlene Estria Murray
Dear Canta,
You and Uffindell ( well, Unfindell a lot, but that's because he bravely puts himself out there knowing he will have to take some hits ) get thumped quite a bit, but at the end of the day, you have been the one constant in a year of total inconsistency. I describe 2011 as 'the year we all went mad and the year we all survived' and through it all you have been something of a life preserver for me, well, you and booze, as I tried, sometimes spectacularly badly, to sew my uni life together again. your sometimes not so subtle, but always right on target 'fuck this shit' point of view kept me going when sometimes 'going' wasn't my deal. how you dudes managed to pump out a magazine in those crazy post quake days and up until now I can only wonder at, but pump it out you did and you rock. I'll be back in 2012, demoting myself from post grad to undergrad, there is still to much to do. Lets hope the new Canta posse can smash it out as well as you did.
David
Post a commentDear Shy guy
Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone
I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run
You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess
It's a love story, baby just say yes
T Swift
xo
Dear Man in the Green (and occasionally, black) Jacket,
I just wanted to tell you that you are perfect. Okay, I barely even know you besides the fact that we share two classes together— maybe you’re really bald under that wavy, dark, swept-back hair, maybe you have really smelly feet or yellow toenails, or maybe you have bad breath because of drinking too much coffee— but to me, for now at least, you’re perfect.
I can’t tell whether you have hazel or green eyes-- we haven’t really sat close enough to each other for me to tell, but all I know is that you have these deep dark eyes, eyes that I could fall into, eyes that I could drown into and never really find my way back.
You sat behind me once, and once in front of me with your friend with the blue-framed glasses, and when I heard you speak, with that smooth, deep voice, I swear I could just listen to the melody of your voice forever. And then I heard you laugh, I have to tell you it’s easily become one of my favourite sounds in the world. You write with your left hand too, which makes me wonder if you’re an artist, and if you are, that would only make sense because you have beautiful hands. You have long and slender fingers, and once I caught myself thinking how nice it must be to be able to slip my fingers against yours, and I’d just hold your hand and never let go, like a child clinging on to her mother for dear life.
You always seem to be alone when I happen to see you outside the four walls of the lecture theatre, earphones blasting music over your ears, a deep, contemplative look etched across your face and sometimes I wonder about what you’re thinking of: Is he thinking about what he’s going to say in today’s PHIL132 class? Is he thinking about the coming exams? Is he thinking about his life, his family, his friends, his girlfriend? But one thing I never, not even once, wonder about what you’re thinking of is whether or not you think of me. Because handsome, perfect boys like you never look at, or even remember, ugly, not-so-perfect, socially awkward girls like me who are too shy to even say hello to the next person. And another thought crosses my mind, and that’s handsome, perfect boys like you are never alone, because you always have someone.
I don’t exactly remember how I began to notice you, or how you became the one person who stood out to me in a class of 600 or so students, and the other of 225 students. All I know is that you’re stuck on my mind, and five seconds as you enter the room, I’m already captivated. And you know what? I hate it. I hate how you, a perpetual stranger, can have this effect on me. I hate how you make me want to be perfect too, just so that you’d look at me, notice me, spare me a second of your time. I hate how the term is almost ending, and I still can’t pin a name to your perfectly handsome face.
But for now, all you’ll ever be is the Man in the Green Jacket. The man I pretend I’m not looking for as I make my way to class. The man I’ll eventually forget about, or remember as one of the handsome, perfect boys I had a silly admiration for. The man I pretend I don’t care about, because he doesn’t even know I exist.
So stay perfect, Man in the Green Jacket, and know that someone you don’t even know exists, appreciates your existence in this world.
Shamelessly, hopelessly, but never creepily, admiring you from afar,
The Invisible Girl who's too terrified to say this to your face
P.S. Your girlfriend is one lucky bitch to have you. If you have one, that is.
P.P.S. I hope you’re not gay. Not that I care anyway.
Dear canta. I was going to review some of your content but going into depth is annoying. As such, here is a list of the things which should be removed / included to elevate your magazine.
Include:
More letters.
Angry rants from engineers, as out right insults seem to polarise arts students.
Profiles on post grads doing research, rather than this weeks wank who should be kicked into McDs asap.
The hippie, it was always funny to read him, as engineers hated him.
More interviews with relevant people. Hone was a good one So was Woods., some random band isn't.
Remove:
"Flat" profiles about Ilam residents.
Articles containing >50% pictures by page area.
Dick puzzles like a scribble join the dots or totally identical spot the differences.
Oh, and more 13 year olds and teddy bears getting drunk and going to brothels.
Signed Robert Rankin.
Post a commentDear "pro-lifers"
You are against abortion, because a foetus has the potential to be a human being. Vegetarians still eat eggs when they have the potential to be a chicken. We should really slander them some more. Murderers.
Sincerely,
Eeny Meenie Miney Moe
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