EXCLUSIVE
This Experimental Literature journal changed its middle name regularly.
EXCLUSIVE Monkeys Magazine
Fingers
Windows
Sheep
Leap
Towers
Trainrides
Sins
Birdnests
Rain ......
..... . .....
This magazine has completed its course, and ready to present to you its full self.
No more submissions are being accepted. Please enjoy the wonders within. Here you have issue one, and links in blue below for the other issues. Please note that issue 1 began its life as a way to present new work exclusive to this website, and grew up to become a magazine, to become more sophisticated with the later issues, which each have their own individual website. Please check them out by clicking the links to see Exclusive's adulthood.
EXCLUSIVE Magazine showcases texts that represent the possibilities within Experimental Literature (Avant-garde, Non-Traditional). The pieces are chosen to exemplify the genre of innovative fiction and poetry, with inspirational author commentary on how he or she explores new territory. Exclusive Monkeys Magazine addresses the theme of Innovation within literary works in a more meta-direct way, analyzing what the concept means at this point in history.
Click for Issue 2: The Elemental Mirror Oct 1 2010-March 31 2011
Click for Issue 3: Paradise Web April 1-September 31 2011
Click for Issue 4: Disjointed Walls October 1-March 31 2012
Issue 1: The Untamable Worlds
April 1 -Oct 1 2010
Essay by Sajith Sivaram, Poem by Shahara Picone, Fiction by Kathryn Burkett, Essay by Kyle Muntz, Auto-Review by John Moore Williams, Hybrid Story by Francis Raven, Fiction by Philip Toner, Fiction by Lewis Ellingham, Fiction by Justin McAffee, Fiction by Brian Hardie, and a Special to the Exclusive by Lynette Yetter
In this issue, Philip Toner was nominated for Best of the Web. In issue 2, Kathy Burkett has been nominated for Best of the Web.
Essay by Sajith Sivaram, Poem by Shahara Picone, Fiction by Kathryn Burkett, Essay by Kyle Muntz, Auto-Review by John Moore Williams, Hybrid Story by Francis Raven, Fiction by Philip Toner, Fiction by Lewis Ellingham, Fiction by Justin McAffee, Fiction by Brian Hardie, and a Special to the Exclusive by Lynette Yetter
In this issue, Philip Toner was nominated for Best of the Web. In issue 2, Kathy Burkett has been nominated for Best of the Web.
Essay by Sajith Sivaram
"Sajith Sivaram spends a lot of time with dead comedians and authors; and, ironically, has learned a lot about life from them."
UNRAVELLING CALVINO
The writing of Italo Calvino pushes and breaks apart the reader's sense of uniform, inflexible reality into fragments that are analyzed minutely to reveal deeper inner realities.
Often characters in Calvino's work ponder philosophical questions, and they don't perform any overtly noticeable actions, but subtle movements that aren't registered unless the reader himself takes the time to be in the character's particular mindset. Caught in a world ill-understood, they perform everyday activities rife with inner meanings and messages that are lost in the everyday flow of consciousness.
By ignoring the norms in mainstream literature, Calvino portrays a universe that is chaotic inside as well as outside organism, and he tries to find the balance between the two spheres with meditations on the nature of being.
His wry humor, much like Kafka's, shocks the reader into parallel worlds where things aren't what they seem to be but distorted echoes of normality; but unlike his mentor, whose works are claustrophobic, Calvino's work is more hopeful and open. But they both share the same multi-layered qualities which makes for multiple interpretations.
Categorizing his stories is hard work, since they reshape themselves and come under a broad array of genres that include fantasy and science fiction. But he is considered a Fabulist, a writer of uncommon scenarios in which characters try to find a rational meaning to their psychological, or physical, dilemmas. Characters find themselves in existential problems whose answers may lie deep within themselves, in areas of the mind that are usually cut off from their surroundings.
Being a postmodern writer, Calvino plays with space-time by inflating or deflating it to encapsulate everything from macroscopic to microscopic phenomena, and has great pleasure in treating his readers with odd experimental points of view.
I have read a few Slipstream books, and it is quite obvious that Calvino's works uses some of the same literary devices present in that particular genre; that is, by making the reader as important as the text, by making him interact with it, and allowing him to augment his consciousness.
Often characters in Calvino's work ponder philosophical questions, and they don't perform any overtly noticeable actions, but subtle movements that aren't registered unless the reader himself takes the time to be in the character's particular mindset. Caught in a world ill-understood, they perform everyday activities rife with inner meanings and messages that are lost in the everyday flow of consciousness.
By ignoring the norms in mainstream literature, Calvino portrays a universe that is chaotic inside as well as outside organism, and he tries to find the balance between the two spheres with meditations on the nature of being.
His wry humor, much like Kafka's, shocks the reader into parallel worlds where things aren't what they seem to be but distorted echoes of normality; but unlike his mentor, whose works are claustrophobic, Calvino's work is more hopeful and open. But they both share the same multi-layered qualities which makes for multiple interpretations.
Categorizing his stories is hard work, since they reshape themselves and come under a broad array of genres that include fantasy and science fiction. But he is considered a Fabulist, a writer of uncommon scenarios in which characters try to find a rational meaning to their psychological, or physical, dilemmas. Characters find themselves in existential problems whose answers may lie deep within themselves, in areas of the mind that are usually cut off from their surroundings.
Being a postmodern writer, Calvino plays with space-time by inflating or deflating it to encapsulate everything from macroscopic to microscopic phenomena, and has great pleasure in treating his readers with odd experimental points of view.
I have read a few Slipstream books, and it is quite obvious that Calvino's works uses some of the same literary devices present in that particular genre; that is, by making the reader as important as the text, by making him interact with it, and allowing him to augment his consciousness.
Poem by Shahara Picone
"My muse tends towards the extremes though. It carries the very mystic Appolic influences on the one hand, that is indicated in my screenname (manus). Then the dark side of the Dionysic god of the hidden mysteries of life and death on the other."
Corpora
Hollow men fall and jump. Ride tethered horses through
the heated regions of their own souls. Fires and
explosions of flesh make the earth shake quake take
shape as it moves to fill the void. Shovel in the earth
to fill the hole of existence. And so die.
Boxes and structures give way and collapse inward.
Sway, move, make noise. Listen, feel, vibrations of
flesh upon flesh. Intensity. Heat. Burning together
upon the knitted quilt of lives. Lives of flesh and
blood.
Spaces of meaning that crisscross in the void. The
thread is pulled loose to dissolve. The truimph of the
soul is in the impressions. The body is the soul
transposed. Yearnings and triumphs built in the spaces
between. Essences interchanged like the touch of a
lover. Merging substances obliterate conflict. Spiraled
and intersected matter.
Juxtaposition of flesh upon flesh. Bonds of blood.
Weaving through flesh to bring life flowing from the
inward chamber. Doors of life...
Shahara's Commentary
Corpora, is of course, the plural for corpus or bodies that are dead. For the purposes of this poem it can also refer to a collective body of knowledge or evidence; also known to be recorded utterances used as a basis for the descriptive analysis of a language.
This poem is a loose tribute to t.s. elliot's "Hollow Men". He is one of my favorite poets.
Note its absence of weight and reflective language seems to go with much traditional poetry. It's more a bunch of fragmented actions that kind of pierce the page.
Fire tends to be one of the things that comes out in one way or the other in my writing as well. The twist on Hollow Men by Elliot is an example of this. It seems to be always in the context of some kind of cyclical act...purification, destruction, light in a dark place or even suffering for the purpose of renewal. Jung is someone that I appreciate, admire and reflect on in terms of his approach to the psyche as containing universal archetypes. Much of his work in this vein supports mythological imagery and the power/energies that they bring to the world. That is my philosophical approach to all types/forms of literature in a nutshell. I have not attempted to reconceptualize myths in terms of their basic meaning as stories or narratives; however, I would venture to say that narrative is only a frame or container of something deeper that is passed on when an archetype is recognized and consciously integrated.
I have been inspired at points to allow my dreams to flow out into an action or feeling on first waking. My dream state used to be a lot more lucid and lively and I would like to try to remain clear for that to happen again. I have also been inspired to movement in my quiet time of meditation, although this is nothing regular or that estatic. It is definitely something I will try to remain open to.
This poem is a loose tribute to t.s. elliot's "Hollow Men". He is one of my favorite poets.
Note its absence of weight and reflective language seems to go with much traditional poetry. It's more a bunch of fragmented actions that kind of pierce the page.
Fire tends to be one of the things that comes out in one way or the other in my writing as well. The twist on Hollow Men by Elliot is an example of this. It seems to be always in the context of some kind of cyclical act...purification, destruction, light in a dark place or even suffering for the purpose of renewal. Jung is someone that I appreciate, admire and reflect on in terms of his approach to the psyche as containing universal archetypes. Much of his work in this vein supports mythological imagery and the power/energies that they bring to the world. That is my philosophical approach to all types/forms of literature in a nutshell. I have not attempted to reconceptualize myths in terms of their basic meaning as stories or narratives; however, I would venture to say that narrative is only a frame or container of something deeper that is passed on when an archetype is recognized and consciously integrated.
I have been inspired at points to allow my dreams to flow out into an action or feeling on first waking. My dream state used to be a lot more lucid and lively and I would like to try to remain clear for that to happen again. I have also been inspired to movement in my quiet time of meditation, although this is nothing regular or that estatic. It is definitely something I will try to remain open to.
Fiction by Kathryn Burkett
"Kathryn Burkett eats, breathes, sleeps, and does other things somewhere in central Florida. She is married to a wonderful man, and they are both owned by two amazingly cute Dachshunds. Her passions in life include her family, writing, reading, collage, altered art, singing, and playing the Kazooka for audiences of stuffed animals and odd dolls.
"I'm shifting to something else--to questioning what reality is & maybe even reshaping it/realizing that there is more than this physical place"
See more of her work:
Ragdoll Poet and Picture Trail Ragdoll Poet
The Odd Factory
Seven Rooms
Room 1:
Never mind how you find yourself here. There is a child cooing softly. That’s what you notice first, the gentle gurgling sound and the scent of fresh air. The room is white—white peeling painted walls, a large white wooden dresser on the far wall. Sheets of sheer fabric cascade from the ceiling, and it’s from within these layers of gently blowing fabric that you hear the cooing sounds. You move closer, drawing the thin layers of fabric aside. There is a cage, a beautiful black cage of wrought iron. Little designs of silent birds adorn the sides. There is plush white pillow where an infant lies on its back, grasping its feet and gurgling happily. You could take the child out of the cage, hold it in your arms, take it from this place to somewhere else, you think to yourself. You could, but you don’t.
Room 2:
You are sitting in the corner of a room painted pale pink with garden green trim. Sitting in a wooden chair against your will. Your hands and ankles are bound to the chair with a child’s jump rope. In the center of the room, three little girls sit cross-legged having a tea party with plastic cups. They wear yellow, pink, and blue pastel dresses. They each sit with a doll at their side. Their hair is long and stringy and looks in need of washing. Two of them are huddled together laughing at the brown haired girl in the blue dress. The girl in pink points at her. “You’re so ugly!” she laughs. “Yeah,” agrees the girl with pale yellow hair that matches her dress. The girl in pink knocks over the tea set and throws her doll at the tiny girl in blue who begins whimpering.
“Stop it!” you yell at the girl in the pink dress.
“Sissy poo-poo eater! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” laughs the little girl in pink. She flashes an evil smile at you with pointed yellow teeth.
Room 3:
You’re sitting in the middle of dozens of faucets that hang from the ceiling and protrude oddly from the walls. They’re all dripping on your head in an unsteady rhythm, insistently knocking on your skull. You look up, and drops of water splash your eyes. You clamp your eyes shut, pawing at them. When you open your eyes, the water has stopped dripping. The faucets have stopped, but you are crying. Just gently at first, a single tear dripping down each cheek, but then
the tears being to flow freely. You clutch your knees to your chest, roll to your side, and the water begins to drip again, falling all around you.
Room 4:
You’re in an enormous bed, sinking down into a plush feather mattress. Large floral quilts cover your entire body, even your head. Muted light peeking in from outside illuminates your quilted cocoon with a soft glow. “Get out of bed! Get out of bed!” a voice squawks incessantly. You think of getting up, but you cannot move. You’re surrounded by the softness of the feather mattress, unable to roll out of the crevasse your body has made. You are not alarmed by this. You decide to stay here, trying to fall asleep as the voice continues to cackle “Get out of bed! Get out of bed!” You cover your mind with your eyelids.
Room 5:
You’re standing in a spotlight on a small wooden stage in a tiny room filled with empty velvet seats. A tall, thin man in a black cape and top hat is staring at you intently. “Ladies and gentleman,” he announces to no one “This individual has the magic touch.” He takes off his top hat and two doves fly out from under it. They land in one of the seats and nestle together. The man in the cape extends a long arm toward you, his hand in the shape of a gun. “Pull my finger!” he booms at you, and you’re so shocked that you do as he commands. You hear a loud pop, and the man disappears.
Room 6:
You are in a room lined with rows of beds filled with dying people. Their old, wrinkled hands reach out to you as they moan. You can hear their labored breathing as you walk slowly by the head of each bed. An old woman opens her eyes wide, bright blue eyes bulging out at you. “You must be an angel,” she says, weakly extending her arms toward you. “No,” you say softly. “I’m not an angel” you reply. “Oh,” she says weakly. “Then this is it?” Her arms drop and dangle at the sides of her bed, her dead blue eyes still staring into you.
Room 7:
You wake on a plush white pillow in a room filled with sunlight and the scent of fresh air blowing on your skin. You sit up slowly and realize you’re trapped inside an enormous cage with black bars crisscrossing you like a transparent checkerboard. Your eyelids feel invisible, like they’ve been removed so you have to see everything all the time. You hear the soft sound of gurgling. A baby in a white cloth diaper crawls on the floor outside the cage. You grab the bars at the front of the cage, your eyeballs burning with the fury of white light. You begin singing softly, wordlessly, and the longer you sing, the brighter the light becomes until the bars, the baby, the room, everything is gone.
Vacuuming the Void11
Commentary on Seven Rooms
"Seven Rooms" was my attempt to play with form. I wanted to walk the line between prose and poetry. I also used second person to place the reader directly in the story. It's an attempt to explore subconscious states of mind using the idea of physical places to create a feeling of movement. As the reader moves from room to room, the external changes of circumstance are meant to mirror the invisible internal movement that occurs in the mind.
"Kyle Muntz is an American author whose work combines elements of postmodernism, surrealism, and the avant-garde with complex philosophical concepts: a distillation of images, language, and ideas. Voices is his first novel."
Essay About Crossing Chaos Press by Kyle Muntz
The (Next) Enigmatic Polygeneration
With these three new releases, Enigmatic Ink continues to offer more of its extremely adventurous brand of the avant-garde—material rich in textual, aesthetic, and conceptual ambiguity, emphasizing exploration of transgressive philosophical spaces overlooked even in the majority of experimental fiction. Irrelevant of genre, each of these pieces unfolds within discursive zones as unfamiliar as they are vital and necessary, often tending to the surreal, the meta-temporal, the postmodern, utilizing language in its most meaningful capacity, as embodied within the virtuosic, without ever departing from another of its most essential elements: beauty.
The Unwelcome Guest plus Nin and Nan is the new (double) release from Eckhard Gerdes, author of some of the most accomplished experimental fiction of all time, including Cistern Tawdry, Truly Fine Citizen, and, more recently, My Landlady the Lobotomist. His work is as versatile in its command of rhetoric as it is anchored in the fundamental language of human feeling. Ignoring all previous constraints of narrative, these two short novels give us the human interior as refracted in experience, reaffirming Eckhard’s position as THE author of contemporary experimental fiction. Every time I pick up one of his books, I feel like he’s giving a gift to the world.
Michael Moorcock, an extremely accomplished author himself, evidently feels the same. He says Eckhard is:
A writer clearly impatient with the currently devalued conventions of modern fiction. His work is a fresh wind. I congratulate Gerdes on raising this particular storm!
Here’s an excerpt from the text emphasizing his delicate control of language and imagination:
A fish was swimming in the sunstreams. He’d surface in the epicenter of flashes. He sewed the ocean shut.
The birds cried out, “Oh tailors of fish, come to us so we might save our friends the fish from suffocation.”
The tailors honored the request and opened the ocean. The birds began to dive and catch the fish. Coleridge betrayed the albatross.
If fifteen men ate eggs for breakfast, not one would have praised the albatross.
Kane X. Faucher is the esteemed author of Jonkil Dies: (A Mesophysical Eulogy), Codex Obscura, and now, The Vicious Circulation of Dr. Catastrope: A Polemical Ensemble. Kane is an intellectual giant, utilizing complex theory and impossibly unique prose to create this most recent masterwork, in which he seeks to denounce, through language, everything that anyone, anywhere, has ever held dear. Utilizing a shifting array of narrators (separate pieces of a scatological “anti-self”), he treats bitterness as parallax, exploring the relation of perspective to society—banal, oppressive, destructive, but ultimately inescapable. This is a magnificent work of art, hilarious and virtuosic.
In his own words:
The exuberance of language, impassioned to the point of rupturing its own bounds, can sometimes lead to toxic, inflammatory utterances that form a contour for a speaking to come. Following that tangential vector from reasoned discourse to its extreme limit, a literary polemic devises new zones of speech that unapologetically emancipate expression from the demands of order, logical sequence, and rational repartee. It is language becoming-mad, the vicious decentralization of sense.
There are only points of departure in polemical speech. When inner experience goes into crescendo, into those perilous domains of the highest pique and pitch, this is where these five characters can be said to spill over the fragile constructs of selves by means of becoming discursively febrile, martial, ornery, a critical assault that lashes out-wards like an explosive object. This is the very core of "voxplosive" language.
Or, according to Mark Spitzer, author of the transgressive novel CHODE!--
Kane X. Faucher’s schizographic Dr. Catastrope is a bizzaro-charged scrabblific shrap-spray of apocalyptic logos and Célinian infospection that leaves you raw and gasping as if you’ve just been donkey-punched from Timbuktu to Duluth. Which is a good thing. The poetics of provocation have never prosed so piercingly.
Voices is my first published novel: an attempt to manifest, to make visual, the most minute components of thought and experience. Taking place in a kind of "internal space," populated by living ideas, it utilizes broken typography within the context of an equally broken narrative to examine an existence in which identity and self have become, themselves, imaginary, but have allowed human thought and feeling to reshape the very nature of perceptual reality. Language is given a new, unfamiliar shape: complete freedom to explore the framework of an intricate semiotic landscape.
An excerpt that illustrates the treatment of typographical space:
I remember
once, back in a place that wasn’t quite like this, I thought maybe I wasn’t doing everything right. I’ve always been like that, saying strange things to myself. My friends say I’m not the same anymore, but that’s not true. They just don’t know what it means to hear at an angle.
If a clown tosses a ball into the air, sometime soon it has to fall. The world is a theater of gravitation. In school they teach us to believe what we hear. Then
they tell us to speak clearly.
Some of the things that have been said about Voices so far:
The narrator of Kyle Muntz's “Voices” remarks of his friends as follows:
“They just don’t know what it means to hear at an angle.”
Then he proceeds to demonstrate exactly what it means to hear—and to see, think and feel—at an almost incredible number of new, oblique and affecting angles. This is a remarkable display of narrative suppleness and vitality, pleasurable all the way through. Kyle Muntz should be hailed on such an auspicious debut, and Enigmatic Ink should be congratulated for publishing it.
—Tom Bradley, author of Lemur and Put It Down in a Book
At a time when influence can be so easily dampened by the persuasiveness of the periphery and the use of the written word is so often utilized not to assert a message but only to enforce an author’s opinion, the creative perspective is the first to perish. In “Voices,” authenticity is enabled in the only way it can – through the terminal phase of space and personal signature, where one’s pitch may seem minuscule and muffled by setting and the sequencing. Lines dart across the page and threaten to surpass its margins. Kyle Muntz has created a mesmerizingly catastrophic evening of discourse through a meticulously spare, radiantly experimental prose; the sequencing of words are denotative and interpretive opening a forum, as suspected, where the solitary space can safely enclose the individual voice from the punishing media impression of commentary and invasive celebrity.
—Michael J. Seidlinger, author of Imprecise Aim, co-founder of Civil Coping Mechanisms Press
Check out the catalog, here:
http://www.crossingchaos.com/
Auto Review by John Moore Williams of his
This is Visual Poetry chapbook
Perhaps unusually for a chapbook, which, as a genre, tends to rely upon strict thematic unity as justification for its brevity—rather like the short story, vignette, and comic strip—my collection for Dan Waber’s excellent this is visual poetry series is rather eclectic. In that it sacrifices the natural advantages of thematic unity in favor of general reference to the form of concrete poetry in general. Its concerns are thus somewhat universal, focusing in their diverse way upon the central meditation and problematic inherent to visual poetry—namely, to treat a form which is not considered visual in a visual manner, to force a hieratic or pictographic nature upon an alphabetic language, a language which relies upon the versatility of abstraction rather than the force of abstraction. That said, the progression of works in the series is carefully considered. In diversity there is created a unity both visual and thematic.
The opening piece, outinto, is, in a sense, a classical concrete piece. Here, words commonly conjoined in an unthinking idiomatic structure we never think to question (“we moved out into”) is forced to enact its paradox, the obscured phrasings “out into,” “the unknown,” and “we go inside” weaving in and out of each other in a manner that blurs their obvious semantic content via a complex visual structure. The movement implied by these phrases is set against the static clarity of expression they encapsulate, using the graphic element of the letterforms to contrast with the transparency of the semantic content thereof.
textNOMANisANISle, the second piece, engages with cliché created via poetic expression, a classic irony of a world that is constantly forgetting its poetry even as some struggle, valiantly or otherwise, to retain it. It also relies on the metaphor that underlies the very term text itself, which arises from the Latin for cloth, relating writing back to the far more fundamental act of weaving cloth. In this relation between metaphor and reality—in the image itself, fore- and background—is revealed the fact that, for many who relate to language as strongly as to human beings, writing and reading become acts of survival, attempts to reach across the gap from body to body, from blood red to bone white to dried-blood-black … from ink to page.
Ti(e)me: the ties that bind are time; time expressed as text/ure; the cross embracing arms (the em) form E; ex stasis of moments ex pressed, again, the blood, bone, flesh that become concrete expressions of the in/visible metaphor (the carrying over) that is time. Time is an intrinsic element of text, read from beginning to end, here made extrinsic in the image which is im.mediately digest.ed.
mISs: This, like many of my works, is a meditation upon presence and absence, particularly upon the peculiar former of the latter. The piece began as a simple monochromatic, which employed gradients to make the m and s (the standard abbreviation for manuscript, interestingly) disappear, thereby bring is to the forefront. Through elaboration in a program I don’t often use due to its suitability for photographs, a kind of movement entered the piece, an emanation from the blank center of the page.
Another piece: ionononoi: i.on: the atom, the I, stripped, anon and on, second after second, with the intensity and relentlessness of the heartbeat, stripping, each second a flood of heated electrons, an ionic storm scathing away a galvanic skin.
The rest … well, I leave the rest to you.
The opening piece, outinto, is, in a sense, a classical concrete piece. Here, words commonly conjoined in an unthinking idiomatic structure we never think to question (“we moved out into”) is forced to enact its paradox, the obscured phrasings “out into,” “the unknown,” and “we go inside” weaving in and out of each other in a manner that blurs their obvious semantic content via a complex visual structure. The movement implied by these phrases is set against the static clarity of expression they encapsulate, using the graphic element of the letterforms to contrast with the transparency of the semantic content thereof.
textNOMANisANISle, the second piece, engages with cliché created via poetic expression, a classic irony of a world that is constantly forgetting its poetry even as some struggle, valiantly or otherwise, to retain it. It also relies on the metaphor that underlies the very term text itself, which arises from the Latin for cloth, relating writing back to the far more fundamental act of weaving cloth. In this relation between metaphor and reality—in the image itself, fore- and background—is revealed the fact that, for many who relate to language as strongly as to human beings, writing and reading become acts of survival, attempts to reach across the gap from body to body, from blood red to bone white to dried-blood-black … from ink to page.
Ti(e)me: the ties that bind are time; time expressed as text/ure; the cross embracing arms (the em) form E; ex stasis of moments ex pressed, again, the blood, bone, flesh that become concrete expressions of the in/visible metaphor (the carrying over) that is time. Time is an intrinsic element of text, read from beginning to end, here made extrinsic in the image which is im.mediately digest.ed.
mISs: This, like many of my works, is a meditation upon presence and absence, particularly upon the peculiar former of the latter. The piece began as a simple monochromatic, which employed gradients to make the m and s (the standard abbreviation for manuscript, interestingly) disappear, thereby bring is to the forefront. Through elaboration in a program I don’t often use due to its suitability for photographs, a kind of movement entered the piece, an emanation from the blank center of the page.
Another piece: ionononoi: i.on: the atom, the I, stripped, anon and on, second after second, with the intensity and relentlessness of the heartbeat, stripping, each second a flood of heated electrons, an ionic storm scathing away a galvanic skin.
The rest … well, I leave the rest to you.
Hybrid Story by Francis Raven
"My books include the volumes of poetry, Provisions (Interbirth, 2009), Shifting
the Question More Complicated (Otoliths, 2007) and Taste: Gastronomic
Poems (Blazevox, 2005) as well as the novel, Inverted Curvatures
(Spuyten Duyvil, 2005). Poems of mine have been published in Bath
House, Chain, Big Bridge, Bird Dog, Mudlark, Caffeine Destiny, and
Spindrift among others. My critical work can be found in Jacket,
Logos, Clamor, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, The
Electronic Book Review, The Emergency Almanac, The Morning News, The
Brooklyn Rail, 5 Trope, In These Times, The Fulcrum Annual, Rain Taxi,
and Flak."
the Question More Complicated (Otoliths, 2007) and Taste: Gastronomic
Poems (Blazevox, 2005) as well as the novel, Inverted Curvatures
(Spuyten Duyvil, 2005). Poems of mine have been published in Bath
House, Chain, Big Bridge, Bird Dog, Mudlark, Caffeine Destiny, and
Spindrift among others. My critical work can be found in Jacket,
Logos, Clamor, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, The
Electronic Book Review, The Emergency Almanac, The Morning News, The
Brooklyn Rail, 5 Trope, In These Times, The Fulcrum Annual, Rain Taxi,
and Flak."
Affective Convention
October 30th, 2009
I think he said that the moment of philosophy was the moment of thought feeling itself think
(I was being supportive and went to hear his paper at a recent conference[i],
the annual meeting of the Society for Phenomenology and Existential Philosophy, the main continental philosophy (a marginalized school; as opposed to analytic philosophy) symposium (I always enjoyed meetings out of my field more than those in it, so this one was perfect for a couple of hours))
and, of course, this is all from memory, since I don’t have the paper, so it’s sort of like the feeling of remembering here if I can give into it
and one of the questions was “what does it feel like?”
There is a pulling from within and you lose it.
Is it the feeling of being lost in music or the organizational completeness of talking to yourself in a silent room?
The title of his talk was something like
“Lyotard’s Sublime and the Onto-Aesthetics of Auto-Affective Thinking”
but I misheard and thought it was auto-effective thinking…
That is, I thought it was about really effective thoughts, really efficient ones (talk about having a bias towards the economic).
Afterwards, I had to draw this little concrete poem:
a
A U T O F F E C T I V E
e
But I wasn’t sure what it meant, except that I misheard an emotional state for an economic one.
Anyway, this auto-affective state was prior, perhaps not in time, but phenomenologically, and perhaps logically,
to philosophy,
but I also remember that logic was not necessarily one of the types of thoughts that had a feeling associated, which brought to mind the question:
Do different thoughts feel different inside the head?
Maybe we think too much about thinking and feel too little about it?
However, all of this reminded me of something Hegel had written about Novalis (but what was it that had reminded me?), “The extravagances of subjectivity constantly pass into madness; if they remain in thought they are whirled round and round in the vortex of reflecting understanding, which is ever negative in reference to itself.” And I just couldn’t figure out what this auto-affective thinking was supposed to hang onto. That is, I couldn’t deduce a normative structure from the feeling of thinking my own thoughts, but it
was
supposed to be
before
rigorous thought
which placed it in the category of “thin slicing”
popularized in Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink
“which says that as human beings we are capable of
making sense of situations
based on the thinnest slice of experience.”
But this in itself wasn’t science, wasn’t philosophy,
this auto-affective thinking was propaedeutic,
which I had always thought of as the vestibule
where my sister cracked her head before the water from the tub rushed down;
an entryway before the tide.[ii]
[i] They read their papers word for word, as did I when I was a wannabe philosopher (I had recently given up on my PhD program and sometimes felt strange about the decision) but I was proud of my friend; that was the feeling in my head (of course, this was mixed with the feeling of having to pee and the feeling of listening too long). It was the perfect level of a talk: I was impressed (for it showed great mastery and originality), but not jealous. Like if, for instance, he had been giving the keynote speech, my emotions might have been mixed between admiration and jealousy, but they weren’t; it’s a nice thing to know about yourself, that you’re not an asshole. This is the feeling of what I was thinking, part of it.
We wish our friends the best, but only within certain parameters. I assume that this is why I at least think of the people I know as being at around the same level of success/performance. But it’s something I’m working on; I’d like to feel differently, but am not quite sure how I go about this.
There’s this other problem, which is that we don’t really know how successful our friends are. We don’t have access to the criteria, like I’m a poet and I have a book come out every year from some small publisher or another, does that mean I’m successful? There’s no way to know from the outside. In some fields publishing one paper means you’re a rockstar; in others, that’s what you’d better be doing or you’re not even really in that field. Of course, it shouldn’t matter; what should matter is to help our friends with their own struggles where they are, but I often find myself being petty, or just plain interested.
[ii] And speaking of the tide, the last time we were with these particular friends we were coming back from a weekend at the Jersey shore when they put on a CD of this comedian, Mitch Hedberg, and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to laugh. I knew I was supposed to laugh. It was even really funny. I saw myself laughing, but I wasn’t laughing. I just couldn’t laugh in front of these other people when I was basically having a private experience. It just wasn’t going to happen. Somehow self-consciousness put out the fire of laughter. I was blocked and embarrassed by this awful fact. This was the feeling of my thoughts: I stalled.
[1] They read their papers word for word, as did I when I was a wannabe philosopher (I had recently given up on my PhD program and sometimes felt strange about the decision) but I was proud of my friend; that was the feeling in my head (of course, this was mixed with the feeling of having to pee and the feeling of listening too long). It was the perfect level of a talk: I was impressed (for it showed great mastery and originality), but not jealous. Like if, for instance, he had been giving the keynote speech, my emotions might have been mixed between admiration and jealousy, but they weren’t; it’s a nice thing to know about yourself, that you’re not an asshole. This is the feeling of what I was thinking, part of it.
We wish our friends the best, but only within certain parameters. I assume that this is why I at least think of the people I know as being at around the same level of success/performance. But it’s something I’m working on; I’d like to feel differently, but am not quite sure how I go about this.
There’s this other problem, which is that we don’t really know how successful our friends are. We don’t have access to the criteria, like I’m a poet and I have a book come out every year from some small publisher or another, does that mean I’m successful? There’s no way to know from the outside. In some fields publishing one paper means you’re a rockstar; in others, that’s what you’d better be doing or you’re not even really in that field. Of course, it shouldn’t matter; what should matter is to help our friends with their own struggles where they are, but I often find myself being petty, or just plain interested.
[1] And speaking of the tide, the last time we were with these particular friends we were coming back from a weekend at the Jersey shore when they put on a CD of this comedian, Mitch Hedberg, and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to laugh. I knew I was supposed to laugh. It was even really funny. I saw myself laughing, but I wasn’t laughing. I just couldn’t laugh in front of these other people when I was basically having a private experience. It just wasn’t going to happen. Somehow self-consciousness put out the fire of laughter. I was blocked and embarrassed by this awful fact. This was the feeling of my thoughts: I stalled.
Short Story by Philip Toner
Story nominated by this magazine for Best of the Web
"Philip Toner is a graduate of the creative writing program at Houghton College , and also has a Master´s degree in American Literature from SUNY Brockport. He has lived in Japan , England , Italy , and Belgium where he currently resides with his wife Diana."
Advanced Story Catalog
Welcome to the 2010 Advanced Story Catalog! We´re pleased that you have expressed an interest in what we do. Since our humble beginnings at a SUNY Buffalo research facility in 1974, we have grown to become the largest producer of advanced story products in the world. Our products, largely imitated, but never duplicated, combine the most creative insights of novelists, anthropologists, cognitive scientists, time-management specialists and other disciplines to provide you, the customer, with satisfying story experiences. You see, at Advanced Story, we learned some time ago that humans need stories in order to make sense of their existence. And by linking these stories in a scientific fashion with one of our story coaches, our customers are able to move much more rapidly through various phases of human potential than others. Before you ever purchase an Advanced Story product, we will provide you, free of charge, a story baseline, which will show you what areas of your story pattern you will need to work. Perhaps you will find that you don´t need our products at all! But most people find that there are certain areas of their story patterns, and how those stories connect to other stories, that require considerable work. You will be absolutely amazed at how quickly you will move through the deleterious effects of job loss, divorce, and many other of the unpleasant events of life. But as our customers know, our products are really aimed not to simply get over issues, but to thrive in new re-imagined existences. Each story comes with its own workbook, and web-tutorial to allow you to better assimilate the particular story you purchase into your own Story Pattern ®. Enjoy! As always, our customer service representatives are standing by to help you, ¨Make a better story for your life.¨
Episodes. New This Year!!
For the budget conscious customer. All of these products carry our famous workbooks, and web-tutorials. The only difference is in the length, and breadth of the stories. Many of our customers report that these products are just what they needed to get unstuck, and move on to better lives!
AS 2010-001: Rio
Samba Class. In this story, the protagonist has been leading a drug-addled existence in Brazil
when he meets Gloria at the fruit juice stand. A series of random encounters leads the couple together to Samba lesson in a h Till-top apartment overlooking the lights of Rio
. Recommended for those with direction, and relational issues in their Story Pattern ®.
AS 2010-002 Mexican Pick-up Team. A chance encounter in a Mexican bar leads the U.S.
tourist John Magliardidi to a pick-up soccer game on the edge of town. There he is surprised to meet an old class mate from his grade school days. The soccer game leads to a profound exploration of the character´s values as they contrast with those of his old class mate. Explosively powerful. Highly recommended for our advanced story pattern ® practicioners for their own personal growth.
AS 2010-003 New York City
Rock Concert. Casual conversations at a New York City rock concert lead the main character to an after hours party in the heart of Harlem
. There he meets an off-duty detective who outlines an alternative history of the city, and of the main character´s own life. Recommended for those with identity fixation story pattern ® issues.
AS 2010-004 Secrets of London
Thrift Shops. The story´s main character has returned to his hotel from a day shopping at London
thrift stores when he finds that the camera he´s picked up has surveillance photos on it of himself from his days in the government 5 years ago.
AS 2010-005 The Colombian Flower Girl. A Colombian woman with graduate degrees in computers and math is forced to take employment selling flowers when her job as a project manager in Paris
is made redundant. During a typical Saturday at the market she finds comfort in the companionship of other sellers that surround her. Highly recommended for those identity grounding story pattern issues.
Epic Journeys
These products require considerable effort, and time investment on the part of our customers. Those who are able to do so are highly recommended to take advantage of these unique products. They are the heart and soul of Advanced Story Products! Many of our customers have gone through all 25 of our epic journeys. Be prepared for amazing results! When you utilize our epic journey products, you will find that the stories of your life come together in a much more meaningful whole than they did previously, allowing vital energies to act more constructively. After story work with our coaches, you will find that your own story starts to make much more sense than it may have previously. That´s because, in our society today, we don´t have stories, we have fragments of stories, bits of information. We don´t have these large story constructs that serve to hold our own personal narratives. Continue to look to this catalog for products we are currently developing in a new meta-story line. With these products, you will soon be able to experience how your own story patterns interact with other story patterns, on-line!
AS-EPIC-001 The Silent Soldier. During the second world war, the main character is inserted into Sicily where he discovers that the U.S.
government is acting in concert with local Mafioso to secure the ports. Recommended for those dealing with identity issues related to their nationality aspects of their story pattern ®.
AS-EPIC-002 The Concert Janitor. A Julliard trained concert pianist is forced to take work as a janitor in Buffalo, NY
. Expands the themes of The Colombian Flower Girl, and incorporates aspects of New York City Rock Concert.
AS-EPIC-003. Answer in the Grassy Knoll. A Dallas
tourist discovers he holds answers to the death of JFK that he did not realize he had. How should he act? Highly recommended for those working with resource scarcity issues in their story pattern ®, as well as those working with identity myth issues.
Episodes. New This Year!!
For the budget conscious customer. All of these products carry our famous workbooks, and web-tutorials. The only difference is in the length, and breadth of the stories. Many of our customers report that these products are just what they needed to get unstuck, and move on to better lives!
AS 2010-001: Rio
Samba Class. In this story, the protagonist has been leading a drug-addled existence in Brazil
when he meets Gloria at the fruit juice stand. A series of random encounters leads the couple together to Samba lesson in a h Till-top apartment overlooking the lights of Rio
. Recommended for those with direction, and relational issues in their Story Pattern ®.
AS 2010-002 Mexican Pick-up Team. A chance encounter in a Mexican bar leads the U.S.
tourist John Magliardidi to a pick-up soccer game on the edge of town. There he is surprised to meet an old class mate from his grade school days. The soccer game leads to a profound exploration of the character´s values as they contrast with those of his old class mate. Explosively powerful. Highly recommended for our advanced story pattern ® practicioners for their own personal growth.
AS 2010-003 New York City
Rock Concert. Casual conversations at a New York City rock concert lead the main character to an after hours party in the heart of Harlem
. There he meets an off-duty detective who outlines an alternative history of the city, and of the main character´s own life. Recommended for those with identity fixation story pattern ® issues.
AS 2010-004 Secrets of London
Thrift Shops. The story´s main character has returned to his hotel from a day shopping at London
thrift stores when he finds that the camera he´s picked up has surveillance photos on it of himself from his days in the government 5 years ago.
AS 2010-005 The Colombian Flower Girl. A Colombian woman with graduate degrees in computers and math is forced to take employment selling flowers when her job as a project manager in Paris
is made redundant. During a typical Saturday at the market she finds comfort in the companionship of other sellers that surround her. Highly recommended for those identity grounding story pattern issues.
Epic Journeys
These products require considerable effort, and time investment on the part of our customers. Those who are able to do so are highly recommended to take advantage of these unique products. They are the heart and soul of Advanced Story Products! Many of our customers have gone through all 25 of our epic journeys. Be prepared for amazing results! When you utilize our epic journey products, you will find that the stories of your life come together in a much more meaningful whole than they did previously, allowing vital energies to act more constructively. After story work with our coaches, you will find that your own story starts to make much more sense than it may have previously. That´s because, in our society today, we don´t have stories, we have fragments of stories, bits of information. We don´t have these large story constructs that serve to hold our own personal narratives. Continue to look to this catalog for products we are currently developing in a new meta-story line. With these products, you will soon be able to experience how your own story patterns interact with other story patterns, on-line!
AS-EPIC-001 The Silent Soldier. During the second world war, the main character is inserted into Sicily where he discovers that the U.S.
government is acting in concert with local Mafioso to secure the ports. Recommended for those dealing with identity issues related to their nationality aspects of their story pattern ®.
AS-EPIC-002 The Concert Janitor. A Julliard trained concert pianist is forced to take work as a janitor in Buffalo, NY
. Expands the themes of The Colombian Flower Girl, and incorporates aspects of New York City Rock Concert.
AS-EPIC-003. Answer in the Grassy Knoll. A Dallas
tourist discovers he holds answers to the death of JFK that he did not realize he had. How should he act? Highly recommended for those working with resource scarcity issues in their story pattern ®, as well as those working with identity myth issues.
Commentary on Advanced Story Catalog
Advanced Story Catalog is a piece that is working on a couple levels at once. First, there is a comic aspect to it that spoofs all the junk mail catalogs that come to the house every day promising a more balanced, more successful, more aware me if I will only pull out the plastic. But the thing that Advanced Story Catalog spoofs is not just the mass market society, but the place of writing within it. If we take a look at writing as a product instead of art, do we see it differently? I am also using experimental methods as a means of examining experimental methods. In the catalog, you will read that customers need longer story arcs to guide their lives. And of course, this is a dig at the experimental idea that plot is dead. This piece looks at how stories are used, and why people need them. I hope I have done it in a vital way that resonates with readers. Paul saw the light on the way to the Damascus , and felt compelled to tell the
tale. There was no thought of pay or position nor problem putting pen to paper. He told his version of the great unvarnished truth. That is what I am after.
tale. There was no thought of pay or position nor problem putting pen to paper. He told his version of the great unvarnished truth. That is what I am after.
Short Story by Lewis Ellingham
"Born long ago, out of sight of memory for most now, I’ve only been an active writer at times in my life, a slice when young (poetry), middle aged (prose) and old (poetry, fantasy narratives), while always thinking of myself as a writer, or at least one of those people one sees in bohemias or some edges of rural life. Though I’ve had some experience as an editor, I’ve not been a professional in that or anything else throughout life. Just getting by. Politically to the left, strongly influenced by the environmental movement early on, for both it and me, the idea I should somehow ‘participate in the American Dream’ never seemed closer than funny to me. Yet I’ve always led a rather cautious life, concerned with engaging with what’s around me, socially and physically, but not so much so that I’ve not had plenty of time to do what I want, serving a curious mind. Of course I am poor. My life seems better to me towards its end than it ever has at earlier times."
Il Cenacolo
BRAZIL -- Sãn Paolo — A Roman Catholic
priest who floated off under hundreds of
helium party balloons was missing off the
southern coast of Brazil.
The Rev. Adelir Antonio de Carli lifted off
from the port city of Paranagua on Sunday
afternoon, wearing a helmet, thermal suit
and a parachute. He wanted to break a 19-
hour record for the most hours flying with
balloons to raise money for a spiritual rest
stop for truckers in Paranagua.
Her soft eyes straining, she peered first toward the
roiling clouds on the horizon, low to the south and
west, then at her companion, Giraffe Alpha, saying,
“It looks like a hominid floating in eggs, but that
seems too strange.”
“My God, you keep resisting getting glasses! I’m tired
of telling you!”
“I’m wearing my contacts now—how can you!”
“Hominid floating in eggs, my dear?”
“You look!”
And there it was. He paused. “Maybe we could pair it
up with that woodpecker from Louisiana we’ve
tethered in the map room all these years, and solo,
who knows?”
“Who knows what? That woodpecker wouldn’t sit on
hominid eggs; it’s so nervous now, it jumps around
every time someone goes near it even though it’s been
there 50 years at least. So tiresome.”
“Better call the bridge. The eggs couldn’t be hominid;
they make other arrangements. Say something like
‘unidentifiable biomass approaching from southwest
in unsettled skies. Should we collect?’
“You say it. You call.” Giraffe Beta stared ahead,
pointedly. “If that’s what you think we should do,
you …”
“All right. All right!” And, “Bridge! Magnify and
identify items west southwest near horizon running
before storm clouds,” he unnecessarily shouted into
his cell phone. “Looks like mammalian primate,
maybe clothed hominid, flailing within cluster of egg-
shaped spheres. Approaching rapidly as we speak.”
Father De Carli farted. It was the first
coherent thing he’d felt. Otherwise it
was the wrapping, ‘pheromones of love’
came to him as if from sleep, and he felt
the language too, ‘Shall I compare thee
to a summer’s day? Thou art more
lovely …’ and in the great distance,
beyond the Malvinas, glimmering on
the Ross Ice Shelf he had ‘seen’ them,
not ‘seen’ exactly, like pheromones to
the ticks and lice he sometimes felt
when he was a kid, ‘mamma ‘s puppy’
she had called him, splashing in the
open sewer behind the corrugated wall
of their cabin in the weeds tangled
ooooooooohhhhhhh! And he screamed,
wrapped in his space suit, goggles tight
to his eyes like coins pressed into…
another fart, eeeeeeeeehhhhhhh!!! ‘Nor
shall death brag thou wand’rest in his
shade …‘
Old Mrs Noah was still drunk in bed, drooling
sideways, snot on the pillow, or what was that old
rag? — she’d been drunk on mead out of memory
— you’d think her jaundice-face husband’s amber corpse
propped in the stairwell to the bridge would chill her
out — she could see him glassy staring at her through
the doorway but no matter — Kapybara Alpha had
too much to do to look again, the green and gold
parachute of the crazy hominid struggling to open,
and maybe it would but it was caught in its strings,
well — Kapybara fumbled the dial to focus the wavy
image, somehow stuck in the green-blue color range
and blurry, ah! there it is! eggs, no, fat plastic balls,
jillions of them tethered to the crazy flailing — and I’d
volunteered this shift, what fucking luck! --
‘It’s gonna fall on that yacht! No! the Sydney Opera
House, can you believe it, there’s the
Harbour Bridge!’ the choppy water only mildly disturbed, the shipping
traffic frozen in place and the balloons separating
now, away from the toppling creature tumbling
downward shivering clothing fluttering you could
almost hear the snap of the glossy fabric, well, the
balloons would survive, floating freely --
But it was not to be.
To the east the haze of the Blue Mountains,
the heat shimmering outback and, now
high, fast and high, the
pearl-ocean shimmer of the sea,
the huge eyes of Malagasy’s lemurs
stared as the tumbling Adelir Antonio
glowed a stellar-brightness,
a pulsing trapery of parachute,
green, gold, enmeshed in
jolly orbs stringed in
gesturing masses.
A haze
of Africa loomed, low but rugged,
growing, cities nested in beach-side
valleys, green and brown, human yielding
to promethean grandeur, roiled
crocodile ridges over serpentine
landscapes of the glow of sunset.
The guests sprawled mostly, chin cupped in nesting
hand or hands, and some disposed themselves with
togas so loose at neck or falling open they seemed
barely dressed. A few were bleary with wine, but
most seemed startled to full awareness, and all peered
at the centered figure, a somber sloe-eyed Byzantine
Christos Pantocrator, though younger, beautiful in the
serious way of a saint in majesty.
Andrew’s arm was raised in horror, ‘No!
We are your friends! None of us would ever turn
against …’ but then the pause; it was there. A
few still stirred their lobster bisque, but already the pasta with shrimp, scallops,
mussels and a thick marinara sauce had been
served, and some were caught, eyes wide,
twirled tines or spoons to their mouths.
Thomas said, “Wow!” Peter said, “Shit!”
Table Mountain, while sufficiently capacious for the thirteen guests, required the
grill cooks to be stationed almost dimly to the rear, though a helper,
nearly nude, stacking the thick lamb chops at one side
of the red-bright grill was certainly prominent. The
sommelier, too, stood out, dividing Peter and John,
pitchers of different sizes in either hand, gaze alert to
his task. But no one seemed to need more wine.
At this moment Adelir Antonio de Carli
arrived. As the cords that bound him settled and balloon cortege subsided,
most of Capetown disappeared under
their wide swath. It was a moment
before servants standing with towels
and basins, clustered near the plateau’s
higher end, seemed to notice them, and
only Simon, at the table, turned to
glance. The priest removed his helmet
and then stood to remove his thermal suit, which he did quickly.
Only thin jogging clothes remained. He produced a comb
and attempted to tidy himself, but at this point a servant arrived
from the table and asked him, “Would you like to join us?
We are curious about you.” Father de Carli smiled self-deprecatingly,
gesturing with his hands to indicate his ‘informal’ appearance,
and the servant smiled in return, reassuringly.
They went on to table. James the Lesser waved
to a place he had made by scooting, with a servant’s
aid, his chaise lounge to one side; another was found
for the priest. Thaddeus, nearby, remarked, “You must
be hungry,” and at once a wide ceramic bowl of lobster
bisque was placed before him. The sommelier, too, arrived
and said, “With that, let me suggest a chenin blanc --
or perhaps a semillon — Stellenbosch in both cases would
be preferred, and I do have them.” To which Father de Carli
answered, “This is a new experience for me. Please make
the choice,” and began ladling the soup to his mouth.
Christos Pantocrator yawned, then interrupted Philip,
who was rounding the bend on some shaggy dog tale
one sensed he had been improvising. Asking Father de Carli,
“What’s in those bladders?” he went on without waiting
for an answer, “They smell.”
“I’ve not smelled them,” said the priest, “and it’s
helium that’s in them.” And at that moment
the atmosphere was suffused with fragrance,
at first sweetly subtle, but soon cloying.
“Dear God!” and “Sweet Jesus!” came from various
quarters, bringing a smile to the Pantocrator’s face. “It
does smell awful.”
The balloons began a synchronized tremor, then rumble,
some of them rising, then all, struggling at first, but soon
collectively. The parties at the table, servants as well as
guests, found themselves tethered. Adelir Antonio de
Carli was no longer alone.
“Damn!” shouted Peter, but it was too late for anyone
to object; they all rose.
Balloons linked to other hapless souls, passers-by and many
more distant, began a general drift.
Soon all were at sea. It was already nighttime, and now
an array of stars, the Milky Way at its brightest, the
Southern Cross dancing, myriad balloons and their
tethered guests but dots interrupting the light.
Soundless they drifted, the configurations of stars
changing, the galaxy dimming, but others brightening
until no image was familiar, and even space itself
became more an intense feeling than a visual presence.
Then light concentrated and overwhelmed. Only the balloons,
clustered now, seemed a darkness, while the brightness
was a roar, and then again a quietness, a centripetal
shuddering as movement seemed to stop.
BRAZIL -- Sãn Paolo — A Roman Catholic
priest who floated off under hundreds of
helium party balloons was missing off the
southern coast of Brazil.
The Rev. Adelir Antonio de Carli lifted off
from the port city of Paranagua on Sunday
afternoon, wearing a helmet, thermal suit
and a parachute. He wanted to break a 19-
hour record for the most hours flying with
balloons to raise money for a spiritual rest
stop for truckers in Paranagua.
Her soft eyes straining, she peered first toward the
roiling clouds on the horizon, low to the south and
west, then at her companion, Giraffe Alpha, saying,
“It looks like a hominid floating in eggs, but that
seems too strange.”
“My God, you keep resisting getting glasses! I’m tired
of telling you!”
“I’m wearing my contacts now—how can you!”
“Hominid floating in eggs, my dear?”
“You look!”
And there it was. He paused. “Maybe we could pair it
up with that woodpecker from Louisiana we’ve
tethered in the map room all these years, and solo,
who knows?”
“Who knows what? That woodpecker wouldn’t sit on
hominid eggs; it’s so nervous now, it jumps around
every time someone goes near it even though it’s been
there 50 years at least. So tiresome.”
“Better call the bridge. The eggs couldn’t be hominid;
they make other arrangements. Say something like
‘unidentifiable biomass approaching from southwest
in unsettled skies. Should we collect?’
“You say it. You call.” Giraffe Beta stared ahead,
pointedly. “If that’s what you think we should do,
you …”
“All right. All right!” And, “Bridge! Magnify and
identify items west southwest near horizon running
before storm clouds,” he unnecessarily shouted into
his cell phone. “Looks like mammalian primate,
maybe clothed hominid, flailing within cluster of egg-
shaped spheres. Approaching rapidly as we speak.”
Father De Carli farted. It was the first
coherent thing he’d felt. Otherwise it
was the wrapping, ‘pheromones of love’
came to him as if from sleep, and he felt
the language too, ‘Shall I compare thee
to a summer’s day? Thou art more
lovely …’ and in the great distance,
beyond the Malvinas, glimmering on
the Ross Ice Shelf he had ‘seen’ them,
not ‘seen’ exactly, like pheromones to
the ticks and lice he sometimes felt
when he was a kid, ‘mamma ‘s puppy’
she had called him, splashing in the
open sewer behind the corrugated wall
of their cabin in the weeds tangled
ooooooooohhhhhhh! And he screamed,
wrapped in his space suit, goggles tight
to his eyes like coins pressed into…
another fart, eeeeeeeeehhhhhhh!!! ‘Nor
shall death brag thou wand’rest in his
shade …‘
Old Mrs Noah was still drunk in bed, drooling
sideways, snot on the pillow, or what was that old
rag? — she’d been drunk on mead out of memory
— you’d think her jaundice-face husband’s amber corpse
propped in the stairwell to the bridge would chill her
out — she could see him glassy staring at her through
the doorway but no matter — Kapybara Alpha had
too much to do to look again, the green and gold
parachute of the crazy hominid struggling to open,
and maybe it would but it was caught in its strings,
well — Kapybara fumbled the dial to focus the wavy
image, somehow stuck in the green-blue color range
and blurry, ah! there it is! eggs, no, fat plastic balls,
jillions of them tethered to the crazy flailing — and I’d
volunteered this shift, what fucking luck! --
‘It’s gonna fall on that yacht! No! the Sydney Opera
House, can you believe it, there’s the
Harbour Bridge!’ the choppy water only mildly disturbed, the shipping
traffic frozen in place and the balloons separating
now, away from the toppling creature tumbling
downward shivering clothing fluttering you could
almost hear the snap of the glossy fabric, well, the
balloons would survive, floating freely --
But it was not to be.
To the east the haze of the Blue Mountains,
the heat shimmering outback and, now
high, fast and high, the
pearl-ocean shimmer of the sea,
the huge eyes of Malagasy’s lemurs
stared as the tumbling Adelir Antonio
glowed a stellar-brightness,
a pulsing trapery of parachute,
green, gold, enmeshed in
jolly orbs stringed in
gesturing masses.
A haze
of Africa loomed, low but rugged,
growing, cities nested in beach-side
valleys, green and brown, human yielding
to promethean grandeur, roiled
crocodile ridges over serpentine
landscapes of the glow of sunset.
The guests sprawled mostly, chin cupped in nesting
hand or hands, and some disposed themselves with
togas so loose at neck or falling open they seemed
barely dressed. A few were bleary with wine, but
most seemed startled to full awareness, and all peered
at the centered figure, a somber sloe-eyed Byzantine
Christos Pantocrator, though younger, beautiful in the
serious way of a saint in majesty.
Andrew’s arm was raised in horror, ‘No!
We are your friends! None of us would ever turn
against …’ but then the pause; it was there. A
few still stirred their lobster bisque, but already the pasta with shrimp, scallops,
mussels and a thick marinara sauce had been
served, and some were caught, eyes wide,
twirled tines or spoons to their mouths.
Thomas said, “Wow!” Peter said, “Shit!”
Table Mountain, while sufficiently capacious for the thirteen guests, required the
grill cooks to be stationed almost dimly to the rear, though a helper,
nearly nude, stacking the thick lamb chops at one side
of the red-bright grill was certainly prominent. The
sommelier, too, stood out, dividing Peter and John,
pitchers of different sizes in either hand, gaze alert to
his task. But no one seemed to need more wine.
At this moment Adelir Antonio de Carli
arrived. As the cords that bound him settled and balloon cortege subsided,
most of Capetown disappeared under
their wide swath. It was a moment
before servants standing with towels
and basins, clustered near the plateau’s
higher end, seemed to notice them, and
only Simon, at the table, turned to
glance. The priest removed his helmet
and then stood to remove his thermal suit, which he did quickly.
Only thin jogging clothes remained. He produced a comb
and attempted to tidy himself, but at this point a servant arrived
from the table and asked him, “Would you like to join us?
We are curious about you.” Father de Carli smiled self-deprecatingly,
gesturing with his hands to indicate his ‘informal’ appearance,
and the servant smiled in return, reassuringly.
They went on to table. James the Lesser waved
to a place he had made by scooting, with a servant’s
aid, his chaise lounge to one side; another was found
for the priest. Thaddeus, nearby, remarked, “You must
be hungry,” and at once a wide ceramic bowl of lobster
bisque was placed before him. The sommelier, too, arrived
and said, “With that, let me suggest a chenin blanc --
or perhaps a semillon — Stellenbosch in both cases would
be preferred, and I do have them.” To which Father de Carli
answered, “This is a new experience for me. Please make
the choice,” and began ladling the soup to his mouth.
Christos Pantocrator yawned, then interrupted Philip,
who was rounding the bend on some shaggy dog tale
one sensed he had been improvising. Asking Father de Carli,
“What’s in those bladders?” he went on without waiting
for an answer, “They smell.”
“I’ve not smelled them,” said the priest, “and it’s
helium that’s in them.” And at that moment
the atmosphere was suffused with fragrance,
at first sweetly subtle, but soon cloying.
“Dear God!” and “Sweet Jesus!” came from various
quarters, bringing a smile to the Pantocrator’s face. “It
does smell awful.”
The balloons began a synchronized tremor, then rumble,
some of them rising, then all, struggling at first, but soon
collectively. The parties at the table, servants as well as
guests, found themselves tethered. Adelir Antonio de
Carli was no longer alone.
“Damn!” shouted Peter, but it was too late for anyone
to object; they all rose.
Balloons linked to other hapless souls, passers-by and many
more distant, began a general drift.
Soon all were at sea. It was already nighttime, and now
an array of stars, the Milky Way at its brightest, the
Southern Cross dancing, myriad balloons and their
tethered guests but dots interrupting the light.
Soundless they drifted, the configurations of stars
changing, the galaxy dimming, but others brightening
until no image was familiar, and even space itself
became more an intense feeling than a visual presence.
Then light concentrated and overwhelmed. Only the balloons,
clustered now, seemed a darkness, while the brightness
was a roar, and then again a quietness, a centripetal
shuddering as movement seemed to stop.
Commentary
Early exposures to sci fi writing, especially that of Philip K. Dick, accounts for some of my taste for what distinctly seemed experimental to me in the 1960s and ‘70s, but perhaps more fundamental is that my circle of artists and writers in San Francisco’s North Beach was centered on poets, Jack Spicer notably. All this involved writing in a freely vernacular language and easy form by often well-educated people so that the notion that writing this way was anything but ordinary never came to mind. Admission to the ranks of writers had more to do with being there and writing than with any qualification. Some came from college backgrounds, some did not; friendship and the act of writing was the bond.
Why might poetry link to experimental writing with particular force? Both focus on concision and imagination to keep them moving along, both are at ease with forms revealing intimacy and wonder, as in a child’s world. “Tiger, tiger burning bright…” Blake spells it ‘tyger’ and we see something extraordinary, at once. Once one starts writing in this spirit and manner, writing formal prose seems something else again, an activity hardly related.
Why might poetry link to experimental writing with particular force? Both focus on concision and imagination to keep them moving along, both are at ease with forms revealing intimacy and wonder, as in a child’s world. “Tiger, tiger burning bright…” Blake spells it ‘tyger’ and we see something extraordinary, at once. Once one starts writing in this spirit and manner, writing formal prose seems something else again, an activity hardly related.
Short Story by Justin McAfee
Justin McAfee is an aspiring writer of experimental surrealist fiction. He is attending the University of Iowa for Literary Theory and Philosophy.
Meditations on Sorrow
Along the lower concavity of her
tear, the reflection of a spider web is seen.
There are fourteen strands
spreading out from a center with a collection of concentric circles connecting
these strands, within which are a variety of quadrilateral shapes. The
innermost circle broke the pattern by hosting triangular shapes (each triangle
having the same vertex as the next with the two outer-points being connected by
the line of the quadrilateral following it). There are forty five
quadrilaterals: 14 strands with roughly nine or eight or ten quadrilaterals
within each row. Eighteen triangles are derived from the web; the center holding
fourteen, plus four individual triangles randomly placed with the corners of
the quadrilaterals.
The spider web is in the
furthest corner of the room, where the north and west walls meet the ceiling.
The strands of web stretching out from the core of the configuration are stuck
to the walls and ceiling. Four strands connect to the northern wall, six
strands to the eastern wall, and the remaining four to the ceiling. This uneven
series of connections makes the web curve slightly outward from its own weight.
The walls are a dark wood which
brings out the glowing silver of the fragile fibers. A light hanging in the
center of the room reflects along the lowest most portion of the gossamer. A
vent makes the mesh of shapes blow in the wind so that, it would seem, at any
moment its destruction would occur. The vent protruded from the northern wall
underneath a window. It had two sets of nine rectangular slits divided by a
middle barrier. This reflected, in the very same manner, the division of the
window into four equal squares, which were then divided by four smaller squares
in order to create a total of sixteen frames.
In the window, a reflection of
the opposite wall can be made out. The left side of the wall reveals a door
which leads into the hallway. The door is of a solid, dark-stained wood with a
shining brass doorknob. Situated almost six inches above the knob is the lock. The
door can be opened by turning the knob either forty-five degrees to the left,
or forty-five degrees to the right. The door closes with a thud.
The thud rattles a picture
hanging on the wall to the left of the door. It is encased in a fine,
decorative frame. The picture is of a woman standing alone in a room with a
tear in her eye. She is in front of a window directly opposite the door and the
faint shadow of a hand closing the door can be seen. It can be assumed by the
rigidity and calluses that the hand belongs to an adult male. In the corner of
the room is a spider web.
The spider web is an elaborate
series of connected strands arranged in an almost kaleidoscopic sequence. It
was constructed by a meticulous organism keen to detail and absent from the web.
It is hidden somewhere in the cracks of the room.
The woman looks to the spider
web, then to the window, and finally back to the door, now shut.
The
artist pays particularly close attention to the way in which the light reflects
off of her tear situated in the corner of her eye. His craftsmanship allows for
the observer to play the scene out in their mind’s eye without straying from
the canvas itself. The painting borders on life; even the spider’s presence can
be felt in the hollow cracks of the room.
Air comes out of the lungs, through the
trachea, and into the larynx causing a vibration in the vocal folds. A process
of alternately trapping air and releasing it begins. Each release sends a
little puff of air into the pharynx; each puff of air is the beginning of a
sound wave. The sound wave is enhanced as it travels through the pharynx; by
the time it leaves the mouth, it sounds like a voice. A voice that trails off
within the room, filling the crevices and cracks and corners.
A door shuts. Silence. A spider wheels back.
The empty web blows from the vent.
A tear falls from her cheek, the image
vanishes.
Justin's Commentary
Meditations on Sorrow is an experiment of two sorts - the first being an attempt to narrate the entirety of a story through the objects within the setting; the second being an attempt to create a sense of alienation in the reader through existential despair.
The plot of the story, which is ambiguous, is told by looking into the reflection of a tear on a young woman's face. The reflection focuses the most upon two important objects within the room - a spider-web and a painting. The spider-web represents a connectivity, which is certainly elaborated on, which is again seen within the picture. The picture is inherently the same scene described which creates a recursion-a connection between two worlds: the 'real' world and the objective world of the painting.
The recursion mentioned aims at another task as well. The sense of alienation instilled in the reader by the objects described to the point of destruction is intensified by the recursive property of the painting. Not only does the reader lose sight of the original world but they also become lost in its multiple incarnations.
The plot of the story, which is ambiguous, is told by looking into the reflection of a tear on a young woman's face. The reflection focuses the most upon two important objects within the room - a spider-web and a painting. The spider-web represents a connectivity, which is certainly elaborated on, which is again seen within the picture. The picture is inherently the same scene described which creates a recursion-a connection between two worlds: the 'real' world and the objective world of the painting.
The recursion mentioned aims at another task as well. The sense of alienation instilled in the reader by the objects described to the point of destruction is intensified by the recursive property of the painting. Not only does the reader lose sight of the original world but they also become lost in its multiple incarnations.
Short Story by Brian Hardie
(Brian is in the red hat.)
"I am 25 years old and I have been writing passionately since
the age of seven. I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. I now
reside in southeast Portland. I have been published in over 50 small
press journals/E-zines including The Pebble Lake Review(Houston, TX)
and Conceit Magazine(San Fransisco, CA). I read annually at the 3 day
Unregulated Word Poetry Festival in Kansas City alongside S.A.
Griffin, and Scott Wannberg, among others. I will be starting a year
long study with poet Mathew Dickman at the Independent Publishing
Resource Center in September. I have been a musician for 16 years,
recorded and released 4 records, one noise/spoken word album, and
tour the States playing music. You can listen to my band Fair Stand
The Fields Of France at
http://www.myspace.com/farestandthefieldsoffrance. My favorite color
is red, I guess."
Naked Drunk People Swimming
where stockings end and flesh begins the wheels begin to turn, converting
hellos to farewells to stick and pokes honoring your losses, snapping
sandals pan through speakers silent, traffic jamming louder with mobile
strings, the composer threatens all in accord, older hips greased with
fatty oils are machines working our deflation of life, ten lines written
on this confusion biding time, long clockwork i am thankful to not do,
the smashing of grapes i honor night after night, man made waterfalls in
the heart of downtown carry piss and shit to the bottles i pull from in
the lonesome, but do not go wrong in your calculated observance, a
soldier that had been shared with the wind let a storm fantasize in the
mist, blowing out the air raids, keeping cities at home surrounded...
these plans of camera lens mania, the crowded porches of bleeding
brothels...
enough of that
Brian's Commentary
my style of writing would for sure fall under the experimental abstract avant garde label. though i have been writing since the age of seven or eight in this... way. so it feels as if i didnt really choose to write like this (or i guess, that). all of my published work, or i suppose all of my work in general, is just stuff i write in my journals. i saw "the basketball diaries" when i was ten or eleven and fell in love with how jim carroll(or leo, i guess) was always frantically writing down everything before he forgot it. i thought, 'i wanna do that.' so i started doing that, and it felt really good. and over the years (i'm 26 now) this wierd 'style' or 'formula' to my writing has been molded together into some strange beast of a thing. the one question i believe will never be able to answer is, "why do you write the way you do?"
whish i could answer that...
whish i could answer that...
Special to Exclusive! Lynette Yetter's Experimental Book Tour Updates
Along the bike book tour for Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace, with Lynette Yetter
What happens when a fat old lady decides to follow her dreams, in order to inspire other people that nothing is impossible?
That is the journey I am on. After following the sound of the panpipes to Bolivia and Peru, seeking the ideal society of which they sing, I stayed and wrote the novel "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" based on my experiences.
In this Do-It-Yourself era, I self-published and self-organized a Book Tour on the West Coast from Vancouver, BC, Canada to Southern California, and am traveling by bicycle (with help from public transit).
Mainstream and even many independent bookstores don't want to touch something experimental and self-published. So, I am presenting "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" in select independent bookstores, Unitarian Churches, Art Galleries, Cultural Centers, Universities, small town Libraries, and even in private homes.
The quest to find the ideal society of which the panpipes sing has inspired me to live a simpler life. The thought (and expense) of renting a car to do the tour felt very uncomfortable to me, deep in my gut.
Here in the Andes I do not drive - even though I worked in California as a professional tour bus driver for many years, and loved it. It's just that here there is no need to drive. Towns and cities are set up for people walking. And there is a lot of public transportation at low prices.
In Bolivia, even in the middle of nowhere (as long as you can get to a main road) if you stand there long enough flagging down buses, one will stop for you. They will even drop you off whenever you say. No need to wait until arriving at a station, if that is not where you want to go.
Oh, if only there was a plethora of buses rumbling down America's highways that we could flag down and for a dollar or two they would take us to the next city, four hours away.
After eight years of not driving here in the Andes, it rubbed against the grain to think that I needed to rent a car in order to move about on the West Coast. How could I do it in a way that would please my sense of living more in harmony with the Pachamama?
There is public transit, such as Amtrak, Greyhound and local busses. But, how would I get from one to the other?
A bicycle.
Even though I am over 50 years old and overweight (some would say obese), this is what truly feels like the right thing to do.
So there you are. With a backpack and a bicycle I am embarking on this Book Tour journey, starting 6:30 pm, October 7, 2010 at Simon Fraser University-Vancouver, BC, Canada, doing author readings/improv music/Q&A dialog/book signings of my novel "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" to inspire you to live your dreams.
The constantly updated schedule is on http://musicandes.com/
If I can do it, so can you.
(Below: Excerpt of the screenplay adaptation of "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace, a novel" by Lynette Yetter)
Script created with Final Draft by Final Draft, Inc.
[ bottom ]
SITTING ROOM - DAY
LUCY
The next day I went out and bought
myself a bag of coca leaves. The
coca vendor was so cool, I wrote a
poem about her.
(Beat)
High in the Andes,
Elina the coca vendor sits
in her tiny market-stall
like a regal matriarch,
like a meditating Buddha,
or a sentient landform.
Aware.
Serene.
At-one
with her surroundings.
The hard wooden plank bench
padded
with a folded hand-woven llijllay
that once carried
her nursing baby.
The sky-blue metal walls
of her stand open out
to display an overflowing
cornucopia
of coca.
It all is an extension
of her body,
of her spirit.
For here is
her life.
Everyday,
she inhales
the rust
of the oxidizing stall
which reddens her blood,
pulsing with every heartbeat.
Every exhale,
her coca-moistened breathe
ch'allas, or blesses, the
environment.
In.
Out.
Breath after breath,
moment after moment,
for days,
weeks,
years,
decades,
a lifetime.
Till there ceases to be
a separation
between the coca vendor
and her coca stand.
Naked light bulb dangles,
illuminating her
like a sacred relic,
like an enshrined deity
surrounded by offerings.
But her offerings
are to the people.
Glistening green translucent bags
of buoyant coca leaves.
A bounty
of sacred plant
that connects the generations
and the land.
I approach.
The coca vendor smiles,
revealing a wad of coca leaves
stored guinea pig-like
in one cheek.
A knowing twinkle dances in her
ancient eyes
as she adds a couple more handfuls
of leaves
to the two peso bag
and snaps off
a hunk of ashes.
Coins exchange hands.
Molecules mingle.
Transformation occurs
in the coca vendor stand
in Oruro, Bolivia.
That is the journey I am on. After following the sound of the panpipes to Bolivia and Peru, seeking the ideal society of which they sing, I stayed and wrote the novel "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" based on my experiences.
In this Do-It-Yourself era, I self-published and self-organized a Book Tour on the West Coast from Vancouver, BC, Canada to Southern California, and am traveling by bicycle (with help from public transit).
Mainstream and even many independent bookstores don't want to touch something experimental and self-published. So, I am presenting "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" in select independent bookstores, Unitarian Churches, Art Galleries, Cultural Centers, Universities, small town Libraries, and even in private homes.
The quest to find the ideal society of which the panpipes sing has inspired me to live a simpler life. The thought (and expense) of renting a car to do the tour felt very uncomfortable to me, deep in my gut.
Here in the Andes I do not drive - even though I worked in California as a professional tour bus driver for many years, and loved it. It's just that here there is no need to drive. Towns and cities are set up for people walking. And there is a lot of public transportation at low prices.
In Bolivia, even in the middle of nowhere (as long as you can get to a main road) if you stand there long enough flagging down buses, one will stop for you. They will even drop you off whenever you say. No need to wait until arriving at a station, if that is not where you want to go.
Oh, if only there was a plethora of buses rumbling down America's highways that we could flag down and for a dollar or two they would take us to the next city, four hours away.
After eight years of not driving here in the Andes, it rubbed against the grain to think that I needed to rent a car in order to move about on the West Coast. How could I do it in a way that would please my sense of living more in harmony with the Pachamama?
There is public transit, such as Amtrak, Greyhound and local busses. But, how would I get from one to the other?
A bicycle.
Even though I am over 50 years old and overweight (some would say obese), this is what truly feels like the right thing to do.
So there you are. With a backpack and a bicycle I am embarking on this Book Tour journey, starting 6:30 pm, October 7, 2010 at Simon Fraser University-Vancouver, BC, Canada, doing author readings/improv music/Q&A dialog/book signings of my novel "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" to inspire you to live your dreams.
The constantly updated schedule is on http://musicandes.com/
If I can do it, so can you.
(Below: Excerpt of the screenplay adaptation of "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace, a novel" by Lynette Yetter)
Script created with Final Draft by Final Draft, Inc.
[ bottom ]
SITTING ROOM - DAY
LUCY
The next day I went out and bought
myself a bag of coca leaves. The
coca vendor was so cool, I wrote a
poem about her.
(Beat)
High in the Andes,
Elina the coca vendor sits
in her tiny market-stall
like a regal matriarch,
like a meditating Buddha,
or a sentient landform.
Aware.
Serene.
At-one
with her surroundings.
The hard wooden plank bench
padded
with a folded hand-woven llijllay
that once carried
her nursing baby.
The sky-blue metal walls
of her stand open out
to display an overflowing
cornucopia
of coca.
It all is an extension
of her body,
of her spirit.
For here is
her life.
Everyday,
she inhales
the rust
of the oxidizing stall
which reddens her blood,
pulsing with every heartbeat.
Every exhale,
her coca-moistened breathe
ch'allas, or blesses, the
environment.
In.
Out.
Breath after breath,
moment after moment,
for days,
weeks,
years,
decades,
a lifetime.
Till there ceases to be
a separation
between the coca vendor
and her coca stand.
Naked light bulb dangles,
illuminating her
like a sacred relic,
like an enshrined deity
surrounded by offerings.
But her offerings
are to the people.
Glistening green translucent bags
of buoyant coca leaves.
A bounty
of sacred plant
that connects the generations
and the land.
I approach.
The coca vendor smiles,
revealing a wad of coca leaves
stored guinea pig-like
in one cheek.
A knowing twinkle dances in her
ancient eyes
as she adds a couple more handfuls
of leaves
to the two peso bag
and snaps off
a hunk of ashes.
Coins exchange hands.
Molecules mingle.
Transformation occurs
in the coca vendor stand
in Oruro, Bolivia.
*Experimental. My life has been experimental. From the moment in 1978 whe I picked up a hitch hiker on a freeway onramp in the San Fernando Valley, vowing to take him where ever he was going and left Southern California for the next 18 years, I continue to take the path less chosen, or create my own path out of seeming chaos. As a longtime practitioner of Nichiren Buddhism with the Soka Gakkai International (SGI) I embrace the concept of "continuity from beginning to end". Life and literature are inseparable. For me it all is experimental.
Lynette Prepares for Her Book Tour
Hello Tantra,
Greetings from the foggy coast of Lima, Peru where jackhammers break up concrete build highrises where adobe mansions once stood and car alarms shriek their programmed cries. Deisel buses blare airhorns as they floor it through an intersection. And American Airlines growls in the grey as it takes off from Callao.
The huaca, meanwhile, is being resurrected - what is left of this 2,000 year-old adobe pyramid temple to the sea. Workers mold the moist earth into slabs to dry in the sun that filters through the ever-present marine layer. Restoring a ceremonial platform, its yellow pigment covered clay walls still intact from several cultures ago.
Geological time, sea time, moon and sun time, slowly and steadily click the cosmic clock of swirling gases and zipping electrons.
Poised between these two realities, a spinster, a fat old lady with a bit of neurosis that she carries with her as a souvenier of this incarnation, remembers being the sea herself. Remembers being the moon and all of the heavens.
She spins the threads of Western Industrialized society with the fibers of ancient wisdom, weaving a new tapestry of stories.
"Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" she names the novel. To North America she carries it, in backpack, to bicycle/train/bus a journey to meet and re-encounter seeking minds and hearts who long to be part of a new reality, a new future, of peace.
Nam myoho renge kyo she chants, to meld her mind with the teachers Nichiren and Ikeda, in this rebirth of life some call kosen rufu.
Love, Lynette
Greetings from the foggy coast of Lima, Peru where jackhammers break up concrete build highrises where adobe mansions once stood and car alarms shriek their programmed cries. Deisel buses blare airhorns as they floor it through an intersection. And American Airlines growls in the grey as it takes off from Callao.
The huaca, meanwhile, is being resurrected - what is left of this 2,000 year-old adobe pyramid temple to the sea. Workers mold the moist earth into slabs to dry in the sun that filters through the ever-present marine layer. Restoring a ceremonial platform, its yellow pigment covered clay walls still intact from several cultures ago.
Geological time, sea time, moon and sun time, slowly and steadily click the cosmic clock of swirling gases and zipping electrons.
Poised between these two realities, a spinster, a fat old lady with a bit of neurosis that she carries with her as a souvenier of this incarnation, remembers being the sea herself. Remembers being the moon and all of the heavens.
She spins the threads of Western Industrialized society with the fibers of ancient wisdom, weaving a new tapestry of stories.
"Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" she names the novel. To North America she carries it, in backpack, to bicycle/train/bus a journey to meet and re-encounter seeking minds and hearts who long to be part of a new reality, a new future, of peace.
Nam myoho renge kyo she chants, to meld her mind with the teachers Nichiren and Ikeda, in this rebirth of life some call kosen rufu.
Love, Lynette
Article in Seattle Post Intelligencer - http://www.seattlepi.com/books/426804_144021-blogcritics.org.html?source=rss
Tour Homepage - http://musicandes.com/
Tour Homepage - http://musicandes.com/
Updates Oct 29th 2010
"... and as a result they folded themselves up like origami puzzles and collapsed in on themselves until they were so small that they rode on an electron and started a sub-atomic amusement park."
Who would have thought that a book signing tour would lead to a story-telling family parlor game?
A sub-atomic amusement park fits right in with the "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" book tour. Each city, each venue I visit is like another reality. I feel like I am entering portals of new dimensions, of alternate realities, with each group of people. Some friends (old and new) invite me into their homes to stay for a night or two.
Vanvouver, BC, Canada: Pink princess bedroom where plastic castles thrust turrets in the centrally heated air of a sixth floor apartment with a view of infinity.
Seattle: Cabin in a wooded backyard. Hens strut their psychedelic plumage and plop out blue and green eggs. Goth mansion, bedecked with skulls, serves Dutch Babies for
breakfast. (Dutch Babies are a type of pancake - no cannibalism whatsoever is involved).
Port Townsend, WA: Hanging out in a forest haven of brilliant creative people who retired to paradise (at least it is paradise until the freeze starts and the sun disappears for seemingly months at a time - but so long as you have light and heat, it is a great time to hunker down and create new work).
Portland, OR: I feel so at home in Dyke-land with the pick-up truck and the cozy kitchen in a now-urban forest where ancient trees remember a time when the only human-made sounds were strong brown people hunting, gathering, mourning, laughing and loving.
Eugene, OR: Taiko drums humming thunder surround the sofa bed in the music room of a dream-come-true sustainable farm that two strong women are creating with sheer vision and hard work.
Ashland (Medford), OR: An SGI Buddhist meeting where a movie star tells tales of hanging out for a few days earlier this month with two women Nobel Peace Prize Laureates. Then we all sip coffee and chat about Nam myoho renge kyo.
Next stop - Crockett Library in California on Saturday, October 30, 2-4 pm.
And on and on and on to new worlds of friends as we gather together around "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace, a novel" to inspire you.
Check out the Book Tour Calendar on http://musicandes.com.
I hope to meet you at one of the readings.
And if you like, you can buy the book on Amazon.com. It is ranked #2,153,698 on the Amazon best seller list. Let's see if we can nudge it up a bit higher - to expand the minds of more people.
Everyone loves to see an underdog win. Especially if she is riding on an electron.
www.musicandes.com Lynette Yetter makes Music, Movies, Books and Art to inspire You. Coming SOON to your town (on the West Coast) to inspire you with an author reading/Q&A dialog/book signing of the kosen rufu novel "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace". Check out the constantly updated Tour Calendar on www.musicandes.com
Who would have thought that a book signing tour would lead to a story-telling family parlor game?
A sub-atomic amusement park fits right in with the "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace" book tour. Each city, each venue I visit is like another reality. I feel like I am entering portals of new dimensions, of alternate realities, with each group of people. Some friends (old and new) invite me into their homes to stay for a night or two.
Vanvouver, BC, Canada: Pink princess bedroom where plastic castles thrust turrets in the centrally heated air of a sixth floor apartment with a view of infinity.
Seattle: Cabin in a wooded backyard. Hens strut their psychedelic plumage and plop out blue and green eggs. Goth mansion, bedecked with skulls, serves Dutch Babies for
breakfast. (Dutch Babies are a type of pancake - no cannibalism whatsoever is involved).
Port Townsend, WA: Hanging out in a forest haven of brilliant creative people who retired to paradise (at least it is paradise until the freeze starts and the sun disappears for seemingly months at a time - but so long as you have light and heat, it is a great time to hunker down and create new work).
Portland, OR: I feel so at home in Dyke-land with the pick-up truck and the cozy kitchen in a now-urban forest where ancient trees remember a time when the only human-made sounds were strong brown people hunting, gathering, mourning, laughing and loving.
Eugene, OR: Taiko drums humming thunder surround the sofa bed in the music room of a dream-come-true sustainable farm that two strong women are creating with sheer vision and hard work.
Ashland (Medford), OR: An SGI Buddhist meeting where a movie star tells tales of hanging out for a few days earlier this month with two women Nobel Peace Prize Laureates. Then we all sip coffee and chat about Nam myoho renge kyo.
Next stop - Crockett Library in California on Saturday, October 30, 2-4 pm.
And on and on and on to new worlds of friends as we gather together around "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace, a novel" to inspire you.
Check out the Book Tour Calendar on http://musicandes.com.
I hope to meet you at one of the readings.
And if you like, you can buy the book on Amazon.com. It is ranked #2,153,698 on the Amazon best seller list. Let's see if we can nudge it up a bit higher - to expand the minds of more people.
Everyone loves to see an underdog win. Especially if she is riding on an electron.
www.musicandes.com Lynette Yetter makes Music, Movies, Books and Art to inspire You. Coming SOON to your town (on the West Coast) to inspire you with an author reading/Q&A dialog/book signing of the kosen rufu novel "Lucy Plays Panpipes for Peace". Check out the constantly updated Tour Calendar on www.musicandes.com
From the editor:
Do you want to showcase what you're doing as an example of Experimental Writing in Issue 3?
Submissions are open for publication on this website for articles or posts about Experimental Writing:
If you are an editor, or publisher, or have an blog on the topic, feel free to send me anything about what you do, updates, theory, criticism, invitations and discussion topics, teasers, personal commentary.
If you are a reader and would like to submit reviews of pieces in magazines, or magazines themselves, or of books, send them along.
Submissions are open for publication of creative works, in any genre, including unclassifiable, and hybrids: This issue favors New Wave Fabulism that is experimental. New Wave Fabulism generally has elements of the fantastic, surreal, bizarre, irreal. It is also very literary, unlike genre fantasy. And it can be experimental, an aspect necessary to be published here.
If you are a writer of Experimental Fiction, Poetry, or Non-Fiction, and would like to submit unpublished work along with an analysis of its innovations, please do. Creative pieces without at least a few paragraphs of commentary on their unique techniques are not applicable at this time. But you may submit the create work now, and on acceptance, send commentary if you desire. You are free to send multiple pieces to me of any length.
You are free to republish later in print anthologies or your own chapbook or book, with credit to Exclusive, but I don't accept anything that has been published anywhere at all, and whatever is published here should not be published again in a magazine. That's what makes it Exclusive.
I'm a proponent of the genre I label Lucid Fiction, and I have found some writers very excited to produce that style. There are articles linked here about it in the section About Experimental Writing. If you feel yours fits that, please label it so. It's easy to be both New Wave Fabulism and also Lucid Fiction. The 3rd issue will stress Lucid Fiction, so keep them coming. The next FlameFlower contest will also be specifically for Lucid Fiction. I will also be co-editing an issue of Medulla Review based on Lucid Fiction.
I love meta-narratives, mystical prose, anti-stories, absurdism, references to things the mass media hides, sophisticated concepts, quantum fiction, uniquely surprising voices that are passionately beautiful.
If you have something coming out or recently out, whether in a magazine or in book form, and would like to do an auto-review on it, as if you were someone else reviewing it, that would be great. Just send a link to the published work or where we can buy the book. Reviews of other authors' experimental work no matter how new or ancient, are welcome.
This website is a resource for many people to understand and delve deeply into Experimental Writing, and your work can be used as an example of what it is, what's hot in the literary world, and who you are. Include links to your sites or publications if you like.
To submit, write to me, the editor, Tantra at [email protected] with the subject line EW submission. You may include the text in the body of your email and/or in an attached document. Photos, illustrations, diagrams that accompany your pieces instead of or in addition to pictures of yourself are very welcome. (The other art in the magazine however, is mine.) You may include the commentary, or wait until your creative piece is accepted to send me your commentary.
Submissions coming in now will go towards Issue Two, and your work will be put up as it comes in. As with any magazine, only some of the submissions are accepted. Many of them are solicited. Response time is very fast.
To see my own writing, see Lucid Fiction. (Which, due to the focus on this magazine and the blog on this site, I rarely update any more.) I sporadically puts up notations of some of my publications on the blog on this site, as well. And you may want to order a copy of Watching the Windows Sleep from Naissance Press.
Do you want to showcase what you're doing as an example of Experimental Writing in Issue 3?
Submissions are open for publication on this website for articles or posts about Experimental Writing:
If you are an editor, or publisher, or have an blog on the topic, feel free to send me anything about what you do, updates, theory, criticism, invitations and discussion topics, teasers, personal commentary.
If you are a reader and would like to submit reviews of pieces in magazines, or magazines themselves, or of books, send them along.
Submissions are open for publication of creative works, in any genre, including unclassifiable, and hybrids: This issue favors New Wave Fabulism that is experimental. New Wave Fabulism generally has elements of the fantastic, surreal, bizarre, irreal. It is also very literary, unlike genre fantasy. And it can be experimental, an aspect necessary to be published here.
If you are a writer of Experimental Fiction, Poetry, or Non-Fiction, and would like to submit unpublished work along with an analysis of its innovations, please do. Creative pieces without at least a few paragraphs of commentary on their unique techniques are not applicable at this time. But you may submit the create work now, and on acceptance, send commentary if you desire. You are free to send multiple pieces to me of any length.
You are free to republish later in print anthologies or your own chapbook or book, with credit to Exclusive, but I don't accept anything that has been published anywhere at all, and whatever is published here should not be published again in a magazine. That's what makes it Exclusive.
I'm a proponent of the genre I label Lucid Fiction, and I have found some writers very excited to produce that style. There are articles linked here about it in the section About Experimental Writing. If you feel yours fits that, please label it so. It's easy to be both New Wave Fabulism and also Lucid Fiction. The 3rd issue will stress Lucid Fiction, so keep them coming. The next FlameFlower contest will also be specifically for Lucid Fiction. I will also be co-editing an issue of Medulla Review based on Lucid Fiction.
I love meta-narratives, mystical prose, anti-stories, absurdism, references to things the mass media hides, sophisticated concepts, quantum fiction, uniquely surprising voices that are passionately beautiful.
If you have something coming out or recently out, whether in a magazine or in book form, and would like to do an auto-review on it, as if you were someone else reviewing it, that would be great. Just send a link to the published work or where we can buy the book. Reviews of other authors' experimental work no matter how new or ancient, are welcome.
This website is a resource for many people to understand and delve deeply into Experimental Writing, and your work can be used as an example of what it is, what's hot in the literary world, and who you are. Include links to your sites or publications if you like.
To submit, write to me, the editor, Tantra at [email protected] with the subject line EW submission. You may include the text in the body of your email and/or in an attached document. Photos, illustrations, diagrams that accompany your pieces instead of or in addition to pictures of yourself are very welcome. (The other art in the magazine however, is mine.) You may include the commentary, or wait until your creative piece is accepted to send me your commentary.
Submissions coming in now will go towards Issue Two, and your work will be put up as it comes in. As with any magazine, only some of the submissions are accepted. Many of them are solicited. Response time is very fast.
To see my own writing, see Lucid Fiction. (Which, due to the focus on this magazine and the blog on this site, I rarely update any more.) I sporadically puts up notations of some of my publications on the blog on this site, as well. And you may want to order a copy of Watching the Windows Sleep from Naissance Press.