Paper Dollz

Artist Spotllight: Benjamin Oliver

2011-09-19T18:52:00.000-04:00

Artist Statement:

In a world where almost everything has been done before, I too, struggle as an artist to create something "new to the earth." More often than not, I turn to my lifelong fascination with aliens, ancient mythology, and metaphysics for inspiration.

I'm an only child, born and raised in Richmond, Virginia. I was named after Obi-Wan "Ben" Kenobi from the first Star Wars movie. I began drawing before I could speak and my parents encouraged my "artistic" potential all throughout school and I even briefly attended a reputable art college.

In January 2011, I rediscovered my passion for creating visual art. I had spent the last few years working in the construction field as a house painter, carrying around a paint bucket and paint brush....and daydreaming the entire time about how I could be painting more interesting things with this brush. Being that I'm the son of a carpenter and was basically raised on job sites and wood shops....the answer became obvious. I needed to paint on wood.

I still currently reside in Richmond, Va where I am working on developing a substantial portfolio of paintings on woods, stones/slate, ceramics, and various objects purchased from local thrift stores. I take great pride in the craftsmanship of all my frames as they are hand-cut, assembled, and painted by myself.

Influences:

Mucha, Audrey Kawasaki, Salvador Dali, MC Escher, Michael Moses, Paul Laffoley, Leonardo DaVinci, and Alex Grey.

LINKS:

http://baoartworks.blogspot.com/

http://xbenjaminxoliverx.deviantart.com/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Artworks-by-Benjamin-Andrews-Oliver/274492815910583

Metatron's Complex


MerKaBa

Ceremonial Headdress

Hunger by Nicholas Klacsanzky

2011-09-11T14:11:00.000-04:00

Editors Note: This poem is posted in response to the wars that were instigated by the angry desires for retribution in the aftermath of 9/11. I send special thanks to Mr. Klacsanzky for allowing me to use his poetry in such a political manner. K. T Mitchell.

Anger is a hunger

that can't stop eating off its plate.
If you want a famine,
get mad at someone.

The barren life
wakes to the stink of itself.

You eat sand and call it duty.

Walking to the door is harder than deciding
if you are human enough to live.

No need to feel guilty. Just how much

you weigh when you stand on top of a dune

and the dust that is always moving

beneath your feet.

Nicholas Klacsanzky is the author of nine book manuscripts that range from poetry, novels, short stories, and non-fiction. He lives in Shoreline, WA.

Amen-Ra Hotep’s Arm

2011-09-04T14:11:00.000-04:00

By Hallie o'Donnell

Clair looked like a giant puffball, a big girl with a sea of brown spirals sitting atop a swollen face, and below that, a goiter. She had been engulfed by her ample adipose layers for her entire life, and stood in front of her deteriorating and almost blind miniature poodle, Jenny. Jenny was hauled around everywhere with Clair—even to the job at the therapy clinic where she worked as a therapist. From inside the black mesh windows in the dog carrier, Jenny could make out vague shapes in the form of humans as they waddled past them in the waiting room.

Clair now danced and swung her body around the room, eventually devolving into a Mama Cass double, replete with dated ‘60s dance moves, like The Frug and The Hatch:

“You must be my lucky star

‘cause you shine on me wherever you are…”

Madonna blared out of the music player, and Clair’s husband clanged some dishes as he looked for a casserole dish.

“Clair, you’re going to give Jenny a heart attack one of these days! Do you want chips crumbled on top of the tuna casserole?” queried Jon, a man of formidable size, similar to Clair.

“Yeah, crumbles sound good. Come on, Jenny! Remember how much life you used to have when you were a pup?” Clair landed on the couch with a big thud, and wiped her brow with the back of her arm.

======

Four weeks earlier, in an undisclosed district of San Francisco, cars pulled up and people got out, making their way through thick fog and disappearing into the basement part of a building. Two large thug-like men waited at the door, checked the select arriving crowd, and let them come inside. The smell of a peculiar type of incense wafted outside through the cracks of the door.

Inside the dressing room, Clair put on her temple mistress robe, did some voice exercises, and turned around and whipped one of her male concubines:

“Pond scum, lick the corns off the bottom of my feet, and carry the burden of the beast! Enjoy every moment of being in the middle of my invective cross-hairs, and finally, carry all the burden of our Temple of Osiris fathers and forefathers!! May the spirit of Amen-Ra Hotep come to my aid, make me strong, and lead me back to the Land of Camels and Dates!!” The concubine shuddered a little, and attempted to pick a grape that he could feed to Clair, and Clair finding the whole gesture to be ingratiating and disgusting, knocked the grape out of his hand and sent it rolling. The concubine was then forced to eat the dirty grape and he did it with a sense of honor.

There were loudspeakers blaring out a kind of polyphonic array of droning horns, triangles and chimes, and chanting. Inside the temple, were the eager participants, all clad in dark robes and smacking their lips:

“Priestess Osiris, mama-mate, queen of our colony, shroud us in your benevolence and power, please give us some of your life force, and we will be forever indebted to you…”

====

Priestess Osiris pushed Anton and Dmitri out of the way—they were trash, less than trash and yet they always found out where the new locations were and showed up anyway. They were hired Russian thugs, who were followers of a cult called “Brotherhood of New Age Rasputin.” They saw themselves as thieve-saints who roamed the streets looking to prey on the naïve and innocent, but who wanted to ascend toward Laskov, “bide land,” which was a place where you went to wait before meeting the “Holy One”—Rasputin.

Every Sunday, they spent hours trying to communicate with Rasputin’s spirit, and in order to do so, needed Napa Valley raised Longhorn Goats: they were satanic looking creatures that had angular, curved horns, icy green slits for eyes, and long wiry hair. Kathy Jones was owner of “Bahh&Co.,” a farm that bred and raised exotic sheep and goats, and for the right price would have supplied them to Satan himself if he had paid them enough. Her husband Stan was always deflated and the only solace he found was when he was watching Family Feud on television.

“Stan we gotta pack up the goats and take ‘em to the city!” cried out Kathy as she pulled the laundry out of the dryer. “I ain’t going to sit on my ass and fuck around all day, like you!” Stan stood up and took a sluggishly defiant stance that was furtive and threw the remote on the couch—he’d get his ass kicked if Kathy saw him doing it.

=====

Clair took the microphone and started talking fervently:

“Adherents of Osiris, we are here today to welcome a distinguished Bay Area resident, and talent… he wanted to be quiet, but he insisted that we introduce him by his real name: ‘Mork… ha ha, but you all know him as Misssttterr Robin Williams!!’ Williams ran up on stage in a hyped-up frenzy, and grabbed a microphone:

“Wowee zowee! Holy mother of god—Oh, sorry, ‘Mama-mate Osiris’—I mean, goddess!” Williams suddenly looked awkward and scrunched his mouth up while he made a sudden spastic movement, and then put his hand over his head, like a claw. “Where in the hell do all you people come from? I bet you guys aren’t GOP Good Old Boys then, either!”-- another spastic movement.

Suddenly there was what sounded like a big wagon being hauled through the building, and it was hauling an enormous gong. The mallet of the gong was an enormous 6 foot long phallus called “Horus.” At the sight of the gong mallet, Williams lurched forward, and quipped, “Holy Lama Dama Ding Dong! That’s one enormous dildo!!”

Eventually Clair’s mountainous presence occluded all those on stage, including the jangled comedian, who left asking where the nearest burrito joint was.

“All right people, let’s get it together then here. We’re dealing with hard economic times and forces that are leading us towards quiet and sometimes raging desperation. We are now going to pass around Amen-Ra Hotep’s corpse-arm, and as we pass it around, I will ask each of you to hold it, absorb its ancient energy, some of which has been known to have a curative quality, and let its energy enter into your own energy field.” The desiccated arm was passed around, and as it did, the eyes of the adherents lit up.

Hallie O'Donnell is a Bay Area writer. Her work is the sum of her life experiences, and living in the Bay Area can sometimes be a very strange trip, as it were. She has been inspired by the ghosts of Jack London, all the bizarre Bay Area flotsam and jetsam, and local myths, legends and kooks.

http://halliewrite.carbonmade.com/

Twilight on a Northern Beach

2011-08-28T10:12:00.000-04:00

By Donald Anderson

Air, like ocean, swells,
moving, a ghostly whisper.

Cessation
of tonight, a celestial after-glow.
Fin on sand. Heavily,
the whale struggles for breath,
for movement,
under arid air’s weight.
A quandary from local fishermen:
to waste, or waste not?
The taste is left stale, salty fragrance,
sandalwood almost smooth, branch tossed
by toddler. The beach become spectator horde,
the voices quiet when rescuers plead urgently
for space, but time counts
and has counted, as darkness falls
and the cold wraps around the mind.

Poet Donald R. Anderson has had poetry published in ¡Zam Bomba!, Blue Moon Press, Rattlesnake Press, Artifact (before becoming co-editor), The Collegian, A Poem a Day: An Anthology (Edited by Chantel C. Guidry), Dwarf Stars 2008, Poetry Now, and Manzanita (2010), published online on Medusa’s Kitchen, Poet’s Corner Press, and Farmhouse Magazine and a small award in the annual contest by the Stockton Arts Commission for “Suddenly a Fearsome Crow.” He was also one of the judges for the National League of American Pen Women’s NorCal Poetry and Prose Letters Contest in 2009.

On the Esoteric Tip By Alejandro Escabar

2011-05-04T09:51:00.000-04:00

There was a magician who set up an elaborate alter to pray for rain. His town was besieged by a drought and people had come to him begging for help.

He took out his wand and raised it to the sky and said, "Oh great beings of the sky, give us of your sacred nectar." The skies opened and out poured gobs of honey and milk. "Oh great spirit," he cried, "Why am I such a fool?"

The skies cleared and a voice shouted from above, "Let them eat cake."

The magician cast his wand down and began blending the honey and milk and made caramels and gave them to the kids in the town who got so high from the sugar that they began dancing around wildly an screaming in ecstasy.

Suddenly the skies opened rain began pouring down on all the villagers. The people became wildly happy and proclaimed the magician to be the greatest magician of all time. The magician, however, felt extremely insecure in not being a very exact magician at all and spent the rest of his life playing Vegas, where he could at least be a fraud and no one would notice.

The End

Alejandro Escabar is an enigma. And we like it that way.

The Germans by Rashid Gabdulhakov

2011-03-15T23:38:00.000-04:00

The Germans, he said

have no compassion!

I went on a ski trip to Germany

with my son from the first marriage.

We stood in the mob there,

they don’t form straight lines, these Germans,

you see.

Such great skiing though.

When the train came to take us to the mountain

the mob began to pile in.

Someone in the mob had a heart attack.

No one helped him!

People stepped over him,

walked into the train car and went skiing.

We looked through the window at the man,

he was just laying there alone.

Germans are terrible like that.

Really good skiing though.

Rashid Gabdulhakov is a man of many creative interests – cooking, poetry, photography, ceramics, and painting. Originally from Uzbekistan, Rashid first came to the States in 2003 and immediately fell in love with majestic Seattle. Rashid has a BA in Political Science from Whitworth University and is currently a student at the Seattle Culinary Academy. Rashid’s favorite activity is gathering friends around the table and feeding them traditional Uzbek and Russian dishes. Rashid’s dream is to open an Uzbek restaurant in Seattle and an American concept in Uzbekistan. www.uzbektricks.wordpress.com

Demic Moon, Pi Raccoon

2011-03-08T14:19:00.000-05:00

By Rosstin Murphy

An Explosion to be Read in One Transforming Sentence by James Hughes

2011-03-01T16:33:00.000-05:00

Furious joy from words returned in silent line
shy, unjustified yet endeared for experience kind
in spite of lies: history potentated, and distance-
now made immaterial by passion blooming
soon to fruit and spread seed through world
and human mental webs: God: a force levered by
a slender branch my sophomoric instigation grafted
held for life, mind, joy, growth and final answer to
a weary, endless seeking carried from youth distant
fulfillment unexpected yet foreseen in stories gathered
by a rare and righteous Lark.

James Aaron Hughes is bored.

He has been writing advertisements for sink manufacturers for a while now, and feels somewhat unrewarded by this. He relaxes the angst formed from the sinks by making verses that taste like knock-off Kayyam /Fitzgerald, and wishing his beautiful, genius, amazing, perfect angel of a girlfriend would have more sex with him. His time remaining is used offering himself as labor to godlike corporations, but they are already quite well stocked in bitches, thank you.

Three Poems by Yelena Lipatova

2011-02-28T08:14:00.000-05:00

Close People

Sugar dissolves in the glass of water,
Joy dissolves in the empty home,
Close people dissolve –
In busses,
In TVs,
In offices with curtains drawn…
Just
In the dusk of the streets,
In the snow,
In the rain…

Close people are rare -
And they dissolve….

Apples Are Laughing In The Garden

Apples are laughing in the garden.
A pair of grinning boots is running to work.
A flock of leaves is flying by,
Cackling and giggling.

Here is a smiling umbrella!

A newspaper is chuckling in the mailbox.
Clouds in the sky are roaring with laughter.
Raindrops jump into the puddle and –
PLOP!!! –
Happy splashes everywhere!

An old hat is sitting on my head,
Beaming with joy!

A Painted Wee Man

A painted wee man

Drew

A balloon.

Then he drew a window,

Opened it wide

And flew out

Into the real

Sky….

Yelena Lipatova is a Russian children’s writer, poet, and literary translator who lives in Salem, MA and works as a freelance translator/interpreter and a tutor. Thirteen years ago Yelena moved to the U.S. Since then she has written poems, short stories, and novels in both Russian and English. Currently she has 5 books published in Russia. In 2005 Yelena was awarded a medal by the Russian Writers’ Society for a collection of poems for children. Yelena has also translated several books by Dr.Seuss (The Cat in the Hat and How Grinch Stole Christmas) and children’s poems by R.L.Stevenson into Russian . Her translated poems were included in the first comprehensive collection of Stevenson’s poetry published in Russia.

To read Yelena's work in Russian, click here to buy her childrens' book or read Murzilka Magazine.

In Flight Kids Poetry Contest

2011-02-21T14:24:00.000-05:00

Central Valley poets Christina Davis and Kenya Mitchell are pleased to announce the inaugural In Flight Kids’ Poetry Contest.

The In Flight Kids’ Poetry Contest was created to showcase the literary talents of Central Valley youth while encouraging childhood literacy development through fun, engaging extracurricular activity. There are three competitive categories; ages 9-12, 13-15 and 16-18. In each category there will be gift certificate prizes of $50, $25 and $10 for the first, second and third place winners. Submissions will be accepted via email at inflightpoetry@gmail.com until March 22.

The In Flight Kids’ Poetry Contest is the brainchild of Christina Davis, an accomplished poetess and Stockton local who has published two collections, Raven’s Brew and In The Face of Indigo, to positive reviews. Ms. Davis’ work can be found at www.ravens-brew.com. To make this contest a success, Ms. Davis partnered with Kenya Mitchell, author of the acclaimed poetry collection Blue Line to Wonderland and the forthcoming young adult game book, Warrior of Mande. Links to Ms. Mitchell’s other publications are available at www.kenyamitchell.com

Both poetesses are proud to positively contribute to California's Central Valley community with this event and look forward to continuing this programming in years to come. To contact either Ms. Davis or Ms. Mitchell for more information, please email them at inflightpoetry@gmail.com.

Fiona~ Cat of the Month

2011-02-14T11:22:00.000-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day cat lovers! After talking trash about having a Cat of the Month on this blog for some time now, its finally happened! I know you were waiting with baited breath.

Yes, you Tom Angelo!

Our first Cat-o-the-Month, Fiona, hails from Portland, Oregon. Darling Fiona, aka Fifi, could be declared Empress of the Hour because her stature is regal, she knows how to pose for camera phones, and somehow she stays dry and pretty in spite of all that swampy rain. Fiona's a cuddle bug who has a knack for falling in love with writers who are allergic to her. But that's ok. As long as you're armed with a month's supply of eye drops and benadryl, you'll forget about sneezes and puffy eyes as soon as you hug her.

If you have a cat you love, send a picture and a description of them to paperdollzeditor@gmail.com.

Finally, Our Own Comic Strip!!!!

2011-02-08T23:22:00.000-05:00

By Rosstin Murphy

Author Profile~ Diamond Drake

2011-01-04T14:41:00.000-05:00

At first glance, Diamond Drake is quiet, unassuming in a crowd. Yet the perceptive eye wants to linger on her serene face and delve into the power that thrives under the peace.

I noticed this when I met Diamond during the holiday season at a poetry reading. Immediately curious about her, I introduced myself, feeling sure I'd be able to get a story or two out of her.

Did I ever. Mrs. Drake has recently released her first novel, Imagined Love. Imagined Love paints the portrait of a young woman's lonely desperation and the tribulations she undergoes after acting on that loneliness.

Readers have been raving about the book's thrilling plot, so I interviewed Diamond to share some of her process here on Paper Dollz to give readers a little insight into how she balances motherhood and writing.

Please tell us about how you became a writer~ what drew you to it? A need to communicate your feelings and experiences? When did you start?

I've been writing poetry and short stories since I was in the first grade. It started as a way to express my feelings but it quickly turned to loving the attention I got from my teacher, parents, and other kids. They always thought I was much older because of the types of things I wrote about and it made me feel like a grown up.

Then it became a part of my life. For years I would get ideas in the middle of the night and instead of getting up to turn on the light and find some paper, I wrote on my closet door! I thought my mom was going to kill me when she finally saw it but it was my "creative process." Ha,ha,ha.

Love that you wrote on your closet door! What an amazing story. In "Imagined Love" the heroine's journey is similar to your life journey. Most writers draw from their experiences. Can you tell us how you made the leap from your experiences to imagining a different life for your character?

In Imagined Love, Jade's journey IS similiar to mine in that she had to deal with some of the same issues. She differs in the way she chose to handle those situations. In some ways Jade dealt with them in the way I wished I had and in other instances she did things I would never have dreamed of doing! I have to admit that writing this book was like therapy for me. I learned so much about myself and was able to heal some of those old wounds I've carried for years. The challenge, in writing things based on truth, is keeping it fictionalized. There's enough truth to make it relatable but it's still a work of fiction.

As a mother, how do you balance the time demands of writing with taking care of your family?

Sometimes it is difficult to balance being a wife and mother with being a writer particularly because of the way I write. I don't have a designated time that I write everyday. When things hit me, I get up to write and that can be at ten o'clock at night or four o'clock in the morning. The characters' voices and images are so strong that they do wake me up from a sound sleep or make me stop what I'm doing to write down what they say! Thankfully I have a family that gets me and knows when I'm in "write" mode that I just need to be free to do it. Also, doing things ahead of time (like cooking a week's worth of meals) helps free me up to write fairly uninterrupted. However, my family knows that they are my priority. I don't miss school functions or things that are important to them in order to write.

What is the greatest joy you get as a writer? The biggest challenge?

The greatest joy I get from writing is making people feel. I loved the reviews I've received so far because the thing each reader had in common was that they felt every single emotion I wanted them to feel. They laughed out loud, cried, became angry, and felt sad at certain parts. That's music to my ears! Knowing the reader cared about what I wrote made all of those sleepless nights totally worth it.

The biggest challenge, I found, was knowing when enough was enough. I tend to be wordy (as you probably noticed) and sometimes I found myself going way too long on a particular scene or subject. It was at those times that I had to look at it from the perspective of a reader and ask myself if it was just too much. Thankfully, that worked for me and I was able to self-edit and know when it was time to move on.

I noticed on your website you wrote 4 other novels.When do we get to see those? Can you give us a preview of one?

As far as the other four novels go, I think at some point I will go through and rewrite them. It's been almost twenty years since I wrote them and they served more as a tutorial of what I did wrong! I understand now what editors and other professionals were trying to tell me back then but I was too young and arrogant to really hear them. I'm currently working on the sequel to Imagined Love but perhaps after I'm done with that I'll pull out all four of them and see which one "speaks" to me!

Can't wait to see your other work. Until then, best of luck with your first novel, Diamond!

To Purchase Imagined Love, please go to www.diamonddrakebooks.com.

A Mini Chapbook By Westley Sughrue

2010-12-20T17:29:00.000-05:00

"my storyteller knees"

my storyteller knees bend
     like the tales I weave
     from factual events in my life
     I walk with arthritic words
                     every step, might creak and groan
     the anti-inflammatory drugs
                                    don't quite do the trick

my wisdom is in parables made of joints that
     don't quite flex as far
     as childhood thoughts

elusive past:  from use and abuse
           of the truth

           wear and tear upon concepts like
           my birth, and an idealized parental set

my father who could play
                              fretless instruments
I know this only:  because I own his banjo
carved from the many nights
he played bravado

for the five years he lived
during my lifetime
in the footsteps of mountainous shoulders
the shadows
of the plateaus

to which I rise
             the son of the sun
             and the moon in my head
thoughts eclipse the stairs that I have drawn

but these knees don't bend quite so well
as they did when I was young
                 the buried places miles beneath
a tombstone womb

my father's ashes:  living in the sea sand
my initials written in magma
hasn't cooled
         burned the roof of my mouth
on the singular syllable sounds

and my aging taste buds
eroding with the river bed

my tongue can't twist back upon itself
when I try to weave tendons anew
these aged pulley systems
are fraying into something
missing screws

the cabinet doors don't quite hang straight
and the hinges are rusted
around my eyelids
to contemplate

my storyteller knees haven't yet shattered
despite buckling bones
and cartilage starts to harden

the walls of the halls; this wallpaper makes me smile
the paintings are the images
I've destroyed

deployed, my military march
one foot in front of the other
toward the rising sun of summer
I arch.

a lone bridge over the ocean
carved by crashing waves
I am echoing my rumors
through sea caves

all these faces I have claimed my own
    some were latex, and artificial pigment
    eventually I'll replace my bones
with tungsten

unable to move:  the weight will be unbearable
              and all my motivations won't matter
because the lives I haven't lived
will have caught up with me
beneath my sagging skin

I know that gravity never could apologize
but all is never forgiven

in the stories I tell - I am a failing protagonist
but falling stars feel more motion
than my little world of ivory towers

the adventures of my mind
make small these late evening hours
the only thing different between fact
and my truth:

the way colors are interpreted
sounds
these movements

the difference between lies and my mind
is the choice of letters strung together.
my storyteller knees
are my own way of bracing to jump forward
or failing that, I part my lips and smile
onward.

"therapeutic trinity"

1.

catacomb catharsis
placing all sentiment
into the darkness
purge the deep
crude oil
from the mind
and hope
that the hole
is deep enough
inside

2.

you tell stories that seem
a foreign fiction
your eyes
display
no emotion
and with
no shroud of
evidence
your persecution
is imminent

3.

returning back to childhood
through
deep hypnotic suggestion
I discovered
I was color blind
since conception
I forgot the nuance
of names
and retraced my steps
through growing pains

4.

the locked closet door
is shivering and groaning
against the strain
to keep the burden of proof
from public display

5.

you play your harp
like it was a banjo
you whisper to the strings
in drunken rambles
and accidentally
confess
to accusations of murder
but under duress
you might have hurt her

6.

I am running through a thick undergrowth
of acacia trees
they grow like weeds
and provide the backdrop
for an elaborate imagination
between the ages of walking
and abomination

7.

the cellar door is glowing
with incandescent bulbs
or candles
or whatever
brittle barrier
to outshine the moon
and from the keyhole
music seeps out
like afterbirth
from a womb

8.

your hereditary condition
suggestions that
the premature baldness
is a result of too much coffee
and not enough
meditation
but the thick molasses
you pour into the mug
is an accidental
distillation
of love
and procrastination

9.

confronting these pieces
and putting them back together
under my hat
I keep a feather
from the dream in which
I flew ten thousand miles
and the flip side
of our bard's tale
is that we are one person

standing in the rain
bleeding from beneath our sternum
where god committed
this mutilation

"the first kiss"

when I kissed you for the first time
I heard a small groan
somewhere distant
and I
unable to identify the source
of the sound

decided to ignore it
as part of random
variation

then
the stars fell
one by one
and the sky cracked
slivers of obsidian
night
crumbled
into the ocean

causing a tsunami
that rinsed
my memory

and all because our lips
touched
in the light rain
and a single question
I should have asked

took the sky
into decay
all these dying suns
now blown out
by the recoil

of the gun you pressed to my skull
and the bullet bleeding
through my
clockwork oil

the gears in my graffiti
brain graft
splattered on the sidewalk
at an hour half past.

Wesley Sughrue was born in the small mountain town of Felton, and spent his early childhood running through the partially untamed wilderness of the Santa Cruz mountains before his family relocated to the east side of the city of Santa Cruz. Wesley attended Harbor High School, graduating valedictorian. He attended UC Santa Cruz and majored in Biochemistry and Molecular Biology, where he conducted undergraduate research with Professor David Deamer. He went on to continue his studies in pursuit of a PhD in Biochemistry & Molecular Biology at UC Davis. Wesley is currently still working on said doctorate.

Another way to look at this is: he was born into a world where his vivid imagination kept him safe from the torrential events that surrounded his early childhood. Like all members of his family, Wesley possesses a natural aptitude for life, inheriting an analytical and artistic mind from both maternal and paternal lineages. Singing from a very early age, he has been composing poetry in his spare time since before adolescent thoughts stimulated interest in the physical and emotional aspects of romantic interactions. Rather than working as a poet, Wesley views his artistic expression as a living entity that emerges from within the greater whole of his existence.

The Dancing Camel Spider & The Foot by Colum Malec

2010-10-18T03:12:00.000-04:00

I always pick up the phone when it’s one of my Marine brothers.

“Hey Greg my man! How the hell are ya?” “Haven't talked to ya in a long time, bro. How are things?”

“Hey Muzz, I’m good. Hope you’re doin' good too. Sorry to have to tell you this-Nick’s dead.” The funeral will be on Friday in Chicago. Me, Andy, Shaver and a few others are gonna try to make it out there. Can you come?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there…”

Sometimes I hate answering the phone when its one of my Marine brothers.

Gone so young. My friend, my brother-in-arms, Nick Frasco, dead from an overdose. I come to find out that Nick had an itsy bitsy habit of huffing Endust® to get high. What internal pain he must have been struggling with to feel compelled to do such things, I’ll never know. His friends tell me everything was great, they tell me how Nick was in school to become an EMT, how he was always happy and glad to be home, how much he “Fuckin loved Chi town.”

That sounds about right, but it’s not the same Nick I remember.

The Nick I remember was the loud, feisty, big-nosed and sweaty Italian who worked his ass off continually and lived ferociously. See, Nick was a badass, a real, “take no shit from no one” kinda guy. He always told me how if a guy gets outta line in a bar with a lady or a friend, you pop him -POW!- quickly,right in the nose and then stare at the guy and dare him to try something, like Kurt Russell in Tombstone. “You gonna do something mister, or just stand there and bleed?” That line was Nick’s favorite.

However, if you were blessed enough to be his friend, you began to see and appreciate the world through Nick-colored lenses when you were with him. Give you the shirt off his back, the last swig of his tequila, the last Marlboro Red in his pack if you asked for it.

Being Italian and from Chicago, our Marine unit naturally speculated that Nick might have some ties to the mafia. Although he never denied it, he never confirmed it either. If he was in the mafia, by god, we were gonna give him a Marine-inspired nickname. Since Nick had the stinkiest, most gnarliest feet in the airframes shop-(the work center we operated in)-the aptly thought out nickname, “The Foot” stuck.

There’s nothing like serving together in a war with your fellow Marines.

When you bleed and sweat together in the face of combat, you are never the same.

The bonds of brotherhood are forged to such a high degree that they remain forever intact-time, distance, space, and lives might grow and change but we are always brothers.

It wasn’t about Bush back in 2003, it wasn’t about Saddam. It sure as fuck wasn’t about 9/11. It was about the guy next to you, it was about defending each other, and it was about keeping each other laughing and motivated when times were their worst.

When you are working twelve to sixteen hour days in the blistering hot Northern Kuwaiti sun, sometimes you can get a little loopy. Sand distorts your mind that way. All that sand seems never-ending, like an ocean of brown dust and particles. Ceaseless tides of brown, tan, and gold granules sting and pelt your skin like a million little bee stings when you are caught in a sandstorm on what has to be one of mother nature’s most testing environments. You do whatever you can not to go loopy in that sand, you make up stupid games, you dare fellow Marines to do outrageous tasks in the hopes of getting a laugh. You’ll do anything to try to gain some solace from the brown ocean that awaits outside the comfort and safety of your squalid and overcrowded tent.

There is no distinguishing one day from the next in war. Day turns to night turns to day. You eat, sleep, get up and go to work, come back to the tent, and do it all again. Monday? What the fuck is a Monday when everyday is the same? The only, and I mean the ONLY, thing that breaks up the monotony are random acts of stupidity and senseless moments of comedy.

You might not think funny things can happen when someone is just returning from the bathroom, but they can. Two hundred yards behind our maintenance tent, down an asphalt road, were the portashitters (as we un-affectionately called them) for the maintenance Marines. On either side of the road, there exists nothing but the oceans of sand. The sand forms crests, berms, and ripples, and if one could hang around for millennia, it might very well move, shift, and look just like its watery cousin. One must make the trek out into the abyss in order to find relief. On a day like any other, which this of course was, I would be out having a cigarette and chatting with my brothers in front of our tent. Discussions about upcoming maintenance, who got a care package with some booze, who found out their girlfriend was a cheating whore, and when the hell we were leaving the presently occupied shithole called Kuwait were all common and frequently covered subjects. Having just completed the trek from the portashitters, Nick was lackadaisically walking up to where the rest of us were smoking and joking. Suddenly he burst out, “Holy shit, do you guys see the size of this thing?” Being some twenty feet away from us still, we didn’t have the foggiest of clues as to what he was talking about. Nick’s unenthusiastic pace from the road transformed instantaneously into a leap up and away of some four feet. Now we were all curious to say the least.

“Would you look at the size of that fucker!?!?”

“It must be the size of a dinner plate!”

“Goddamn, that thing is UGLY!”

A small crowd was growing around the commotion as Nick jumped and made rings in the sand with something obviously heinous and intimidating. As we drew closer, it became obvious as to the cause of the ruckus. The provocateur was the legend incarnate, it was the notorious camel spider.

When Nick moved, it moved. Where Nick went, so did it. Never wanting to turn his back on the beast, Nick quickly backpedalled, being careful not to fall, lest the cretin jump on his chest and rip his heart out with its gargantuan chelicerae. It was fast too, and wherever Nick attempted evasive action, the spider followed. However, following the initial shock, he began toying with the beast. Removing his camouflage boony hat, Nick began an intricate dance with the spider similar to that of a bull and a matador. He taunted the spider the same way a flamboyant bullfighter eggs on a bull, and we even formed a circle and started clapping and cheering for our hero. Back and forth, they drove and advanced upon each other. This went on for less than five minutes, and eventually Nick conceded to the spider and stopped the dance. We left the spider to its own devices, went back to smoking and laughing about the whole incident, and made another deposit in the bank of memory of all the silly and dumb stuff that happens when Marines stay on the ocean of sand for far too long.

Solifugae is an order of arachnid primarily found in North Africa and the Middle East. If you understand Latin, you would know that its name is related to its behavior. Camel spiders hide from the sun and are primarily nocturnal. What we thought was a vicious attacking beast of lore was really just a nocturnal creature attempting to restore some sense of natural order to itself. It wanted Nick’s shadow. It wanted a rest. It wanted some relief. It wanted a break from the harsh Kuwaiti sun that beat down upon us all for over nine months.

Reflecting on that memory makes me ponder what was troubling my friend so. Sometimes I can still see the two of them dancing about in the hot Kuwaiti sun. Nick’s exaggerated taunts, the camel spider hissing and posturing in angry defiance, the two of them interlocked in a dance only they knew the purpose to. When I think deeper about Nick and life, meaning and purpose, the spider vanishes, Nick becomes the spider, and life becomes the sun. We all want reprieve and rest. Life beats down on us continually from above, and is unrelenting in its quest to bleach our existence to the same tone, color, and finality as those endless oceans of sand. Whatever demons haunted and thrashed at Nick, he found solace in the fleeting shade that Endust® provided. The shade doesn’t last forever though, and eventually we must lumber back out into the sun. Perhaps sometimes the sun is just too much for some to take.

I wish not to remember Nick the last way I saw him-the way he looked before he went into the ground-because that was not really Nick. The Nick I knew found some permanent shade in a place far away from this existence. The Nick I knew was somewhere else; laughing, happy, and smiling. Maybe even Nick was back, if only for a second, dancing with his partner of a camel spider again. Wherever Nick is, he will forever reside in my memory. I will always keep him alive and safe there. Because that is what Marines do for each other. We never die as long as we exist in someone’s memory.

I miss my friend and think about him every day.

Colum Malec landed on this physical realm a little over 30 years ago in Fresno, CA. He was an Air Force brat until age15. As an only child moving around the country he was quick to learn and make friends. Colum currently tries to balance a classroom full of pretentious 9th graders while spinning platefuls of graduate classes at The University of California, Davis. He's a fanatical Tottenham footie (soccer) fan, so come on you Spurs!! Most importantly, Colum agrees with Carl Sagan's ideal of being a better human by helping others with this monumental task of being alive on this little blue dot.

INFECTIOUS By Ayesha Ahmed

2010-07-27T02:07:00.000-04:00

Ali sat on the edge of the jade divan, glancing through his drawing room window every now and then. His body tensed with excitement; a guest seated with his back to the window lit a cigar and through its smoky mist, Haroon’s slow, measured steps emerged in the driveway. Nothing to look forward to, you can see it in the way he walks, reflected Ali. That’s the only way to defeat time.

Ali nodded to a guest, who was awaiting a reaction to his latest political observation, excusing himself to answer the doorbell.

"Well, late as usual. Yaar, show some enthusiasm for my parties!"

Haroon shrugged apologetically, moving forward to hug Ali.

"Sorry but Islamabad’s changed so much…all these new roads."

Ali interrupted keenly, "Yes, it’s all part of the new development scheme. These bloody dictators know how to get the job done."

Haroon shrugged again, losing interest.

"Where’s Babhi?"

"In the kitchen, probably at the poor cook’s throat! But you’ve never met her, have you? She’s really quite sweet."

Ali introduced him to his guests as a ‘close friend recently returned from America’ and rushed off to find some refreshment for the latecomer. Haroon sat down on the nearest sofa, aware that people were looking at him closely. One man, a middle aged business associate of Ali’s, leaned forward and uttered in a tone of awe, "The tomatoes are that big in America," and he cupped his hands in an exaggerated way to demonstrate his point.

Haroon broke out in a childish laugh. Ali came back, with servant in tow who offered him a glass of pomegranate juice. Sensing Haroon’s displaced amusement and guessing the reason behind it, Ali tucked him away in a comfortable corner, monopolizing that interesting disinterestedness for himself.

"So what now? A job, like the rest of us? Everything’s going to be a come down after Ivy League."

Haroon circled the rim of his glass with his middle finger. He wasn’t holding back; it was like he was short on information about himself. Somehow the facts of his life: wealth, good background, American degree, good looks, and connections, all appeared to be convenient descriptions of many happy people. But Ali was waiting…

"I don’t know. I honestly don’t."

"You can always join me. We could do business together."

A spark flew from Haroon’s eyes.

"And make more money?'

"Yes, why not? What’s so bad about money?"

Haroon thought hard for a moment. Money, strange friend-strange because he never knew it’s true value, friend because it would always be at his side.

"You’d be no one if it weren’t for your father’s money." Ali was answering his own questions. This was disingenuous of Haroon, playing the consummate renouncing Buddha. I’d like to call his bluff; give me all you have, you son of a bitch, thought Ali viciously.

"Jaan, shall I order dinner to be served?"

His wife’s insistent voice crashed through the tunnel of Ali’s mind, scaring off the intrepid flash of honest hate.
He was back to complacent host.

"Come over here, Salma. There’s someone special I’d like you to meet."

Salma really was sweet. She had almond shaped eyes that smiled in unison with her full lips and already discernible laugh lines. A diamond nose stud that tucked itself neatly behind the flare of an aristocratic nostril accentuated the perfection of her aquiline nose. Pretty package, thought Haroon.

"Babhi, pleasure to finally meet you." Haroon surprised himself by parroting a few more pleasantries, ones that he had heard from his father’s lips to women who were anything but a pleasure. Ali looked on, very pleased with the effect his wife had on his fastidious friend.

"I told you she’s sweet."

"Yes, very."

"You know, I used to dread marriage. Thought it’d be so inconvenient." Ali gave a knowing nudge to Haroon.

Haroon knew what Ali was referring to: Saba, Ali’s ex girlfriend, the one he practically got engaged to but broke it off because she was in a hurry to get married whereas he was interested in reaping the benefits of a private, exclusive world that sloughed off it’s traditions at particular times of the night and in special spots in the city. This was a world that couldn’t wait for rules and values to evolve; in a single evening, it would catch up with the fun that its inhabitants imagined the rest of the world enjoying. But something of the old world would linger in that temporary microcosm and that was the cause of Ali’s frustrated escapades. Modern Pakistan meant girls hanging around ice cream parlours in tight jeans and even tighter T-shirts in the hope that predatory males would take one look at them and propose marriage the next day. The trouble was that both ends of the equation weren’t interested in adding up but subtracting what they could from the other. So Ali never really got to test the modern Pakistani woman’s liberation whereas the girls lost interest after the initial leading questions.

Ali, counting on the male advantage in society, embroiled himself in what he hoped would just be a casual affair but his inexperience with the opposite sex rendered him a fool for feminine charm and very soon Saba was discussing marriage as a foregone conclusion. That was when his worldly wise parents came to his rescue, convincing him that girls who trust themselves to be intimate with a man prior to marriage cannot qualify as wife material. Ali got out of that one but his one mistake was sufficient to alarm his parents who hastened to arrange a suitable match for him. He took one look at Salma and decided that they knew best.

But even though Ali’s bachelorhood had been as inconvenient as his initial conception of marital life, in retrospect he still chose to view it in light of the colouful intentions that he had entertained during that phase in his life.

He really is quite naïve, Haroon thought with amusement and felt vaguely happy that his friend had found some measure of happiness.

"Looks like she’s done you a world of good."

Ali led the way into the dining room, holding the door for the guests who filed past.

"Yes. My parents are so pleased with her."

Haroon was well acquainted with Ali’s parents, knew that they had spent their whole lives keeping surprise out of their precious son’s life. There were times when Haroon wondered how that steely net of security had allowed him to enter their son’s womb-like world. He guessed it was his money; that outweighed the dysfunctional influence that very often accompanied the very rich.

"Well, considering they arranged the whole thing, that hardly comes as a surprise."

Ali looked sharply at Haroon but couldn’t quite make out the context of this remark. It sounded vaguely critical yet a second ago, there had been a compliment somewhere.

"Last time I met uncle and aunty, they were anxious to get you settled." That’s all he allowed himself. Fighting over parents was the last thing Ali wanted to get involved in; they were best left as sacred territory, immune to questioning and discussion.

The dining room was dressed like a bride. The huge crystal chandelier twinkled its welcome at the guests and huge vases with gladiolas were placed at strategic points in the room. A bunch of white roses sat right in the center of the dining table, mingling their perfume with the spicy aroma of kebabs and chicken biryani. A large mirror on a sidewall magnified the chandelier’s light and the guests could watch themselves captured in sophisticated greed. On one of the side tables, there lay an ornate navy blue egg, which found its way into a child’s pocket.

Polite offers of hospitality were made, guests were guided to the tastiest dishes and reluctant servants were ordered into efficiency. Ali was a natural host, inviting all to share in his bounty. Haroon took in the generous display of delicacies, gazed at their doubles in the mirror and felt full.

"Bhai saab, you must taste the lamb curry. The cook spent all day preparing it."

Haroon turned around to face Salma. Yes, so sweet, he thought. If only that sweetness were reserved for him, he might just head home, tell his parents to find one such bride for him. But she had already transferred that sweet solicitude towards a fretful mother, who was juggling between her plate and sleepy infant.

The male guests were growing somnolent with each sip of Kashmiri tea. Each had had his turn at pontificating over the recent political debacle, but the truth was that Emergency or otherwise, it felt safe that the responsibility was in someone else’s hands. Someone picked up on the waning interest and threw in a scandalous tidbit concerning a socialite. Their husbands’ social batteries recharged, the wives had no choice but to console their wailing infants that Papa was going to take them home, very soon.

Ali glanced with disappointment at Haroon’s untouched cup of pink tea.

"Can I get you some coffee?"

Haroon shook his head. Ali sat himself down on the sofa opposite him, and without preamble launched into his personal mission, "Time you settled down. I told aunty I’d look up a few good families for you."

"Why, isn’t mine good enough?"

The irony was lost on Ali. Stupidly he blundered into an offer, "Salma has a cousin-spitting image of her. Just younger but whose complaining?"

Haroon felt like bursting into rude laughter but he knew his friend was in earnest. With a hint of mirth in his eyes, he decided to test the extent of Ali’s crude generousity.

"Really? Did you mention her to my mother?"

"Yes I did actually. She had doubts. You being picky and all that. I could introduce her to you. At a party maybe? Salma, come over here."

"What is it?"

Husband and wife consulted each other over the desirable but absent cousin. Ali was gesticulating, as was his habit when in the grips of excitement. Salma was cool and smiled at Haroon to convey her tacit approval of him as her cousin’s soul mate. If only that smile was for me, just me, not for every bloody guest in this room, thought Haroon. Then I would run home, tell my parents to find me a sweet bride and we could all live happily ever after. With a business like nod that dismissed the discreet matter of matchmaking, Salma sped off to nag the cook.

"Well, that’s settled. Next Wednesday. Hope that’s OK with you? Mashal-her name-will be at my place. A couple of family friends to lend decency and-"

"You’re so stupid."

Ali felt as if he’d been slapped in public. He looked round to see if others had heard Haroon. But it was said very quietly. It felt like the whole room had grown silent but it was only the hush inside Ali’s head, the retreat of carefully constructed defenses of contentment, the absent hum of complacency.

"At least I’m happy’ was all he could say weakly. ‘You don’t even try."

"I don’t want to have to try. Is it too much to expect to like someone, to think about her day and night, to love without expecting to be loved?"

"Your parents just want you to be happy-to have a woman who’ll look after your needs. Care for you."

"Another mother, eh?"

"You ungrateful bastard! What is it you want? Do you even know?"

Panic stirred in Ali’s guts. It usually overcame him in melodramatic movies. Scenes in bad movies that made horrible sense. It was as if someone was getting away with maudlin truths without provoking the relief of laughter.

"I think you should leave."

Haroon got up, embarrassed yet relieved that dignified insincerity had failed him for once in his polite lifetime. He almost felt affection towards Ali now that the curtain of condescension had been torn down. It was a source of comfort to him that Ali looked down on his unhappiness; that meant it was real, not a luxury of his idle brain.

As he walked through the drawing room, a few of the guests wished him goodnight in weary tones. The servant let him out. Walking to his black BMW, he thought of the hidden roses whose sweet scent pervaded the night air. He couldn’t see them but knew they were around somewhere, in some corner of the garden.
Ali emptied the ashtray in the kitchen bin. The servant was stacking the dirty dinner plates on a tray after separating the cutlery from the wasted, half eaten chicken legs. It would take him the better part of the night cleaning up the mess. But he was singing something out of tune and Ali felt tempted to ask him if he was happy.

The drawing room was littered with lipstick stained paper napkins and empty teacups. A guest had left his lighter on a coffee table. Tomorrow this room will look the way it always has, Ali said to himself and switched off the lamps one by one. Back in his room, he sat down a minute before the nightly ritual of undressing. He wished that everything wasn’t quite so quiet. Salma walked in with a towel over one shoulder, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail and her complexion newly scrubbed. Without her heels, she appeared quite short.

"What, still in your party clothes? Remind me to ask the cook for the lamb recipe. Mrs. Israr was asking me for it."

Ali sat very still. At the dressing table, Salma untied her hair, brushing her wiry curls vigorously.

"Tired?’ This time she was angling for an answer."

Ali got up, turned around to face her reflection in the mirror and announced in a polite, distant tone,

"I’m going for a walk."

"At this time of night?"

Ali slowly turned the door handle. She tried to keep the panic out of her voice, "When will you be back?"

"I don’t know." He shut the door after him.

Ayesha Ahmed, born in Ipswich, England in 1972, spent her formative years in a boarding school in Kent. As a child, she showed no real artistic aptitude, running away from piano lessons and art classes. Moving to Saudi Arabia didn’t spark off any artistic ambitions and she lived her life oblivious to her real calling. She was like a potted plant – protected and rootless. It took her native soil, Pakistan to tie her up in knots of angst and self questioning which helped her to branch out into writing. She grew into a woman aware of choices she was determined not to make. Masters in creative writing at Nottingham Trent University was only attractive to her in that it was a break from ineffectual rebellion. Ayesha got more than she had bargained for – a supportive class, argumentative professors, a distinction and a voice…
Publication: Leap Anthology, Nottingham Trent University, 2008

Education: MA English, Punjab University, 2007
MA Creative Writing, NTU, 2008

Nancy Waller On Developing a Fashionable Brand

2010-07-01T17:18:00.000-04:00

First off, let's hear about how you came to be a designer and what inspires you.

Well anyone who knows me well, knows that I've been drawing since I was about five, but I think what led me to design was that I've always been Do-it-myself kinda girl. From cooking, to crafting, to decorating, I've always been interested in how things are made, and figuring out how I can make it myself. Part of it was that we didn't have a lot of money growing up so a lot of my Halloween costumes, barbie clothes, etc were made by me or my mom.

One year I was a fairy princess for a halloween, dressed in my favorite pink dress, all i needed was a tinfoil covered crown and wand, with some pink tights stretched over hangers for my fairy wings. Come to think of it, Halloween has always been my favorite holiday just for the excuse to make crazy costumes. Beyond sketching and making clothes, I've always loved toys that let me build things, like legos or wooden blocks. My first year of college was art foundation, and I basically took over my dad's garage cutting wood, spray painting, breaking glass, all for the sake of art. It was a creative explosion. Am I rambling now? That's my other thing, I ramble.

It's ok! Tell us everything! What lessons have you taken from your time at Macy's? How do you apply them to your current independent work.

I have never been much of a corporate executive type, but I actually had a great time there. I made some great friends and invaluable contacts. And I really learned just how small the industry is. Everybody knows everybody. Beyond that I was able to learn so much about the retail world, moreso that I might have learned at a smaller company. I learned how to see from the buyers point of view, how they buy and how to merchandise product on the sales floor. So from this experience I learned how important it is to have a very unique and specific point of view in your brand otherwise you won't be able to stand out, to buyers or customers.

Also, if your brand isn't different from everything else they already have, you'll never make it to the sales floor at all, because buyers won't see the point. On the flip side however, you don't want to be so different that buyers can't see a potential customers for your product. I am trying to be smart when marketing myself and building my brand, and I am constantly trying to think of things from the customers point of view, essentially what can I do to my bags that will give the customer a reason to choose me over the next designer.

There is so much noise out there in the fashion industry so if I want to make an impact, it's important to be unique yet relevant to the consumer at the same time. One aspect that really appeals to my customer base right now, is that each bag is handmade by my own hands and a unique work of art in and of itself. But that is not a sustainable business model, so there are other things about my company that I am trying to develop such as eco-friendly manufacturing, using reclaimed or repurposed materials, using local suppliers, and yet still remaining a more affordable designer price point.

What your fans may not know is that you design an array of clothing. Do you plan to branch out into other items in the future? Let us know your hopes for your brand.

I do plan to branch out into other items in the future. For now I am focusing on the handbag collection and trying to grow that business as well as to hammer down all the details, such as where do i manufacture this stuff and how do i find the right suppliers for all my materials. However, I have already seen some surprise success with my canvas illustrated grocery totes, which I initially had made up to use as a bag protector for the bigger bags.

Yet people seem to really love the tote itself. So, I am thinking of adding some more simple items like that. What's in the works now is a small line of screen printed knit cotton T's with fun illustrated prints. This is so far only in the planning stage so we may see these in the early Spring 2011. More long term, I am planning to add other segments of business. I do make and wear a lot of my own clothing, so of course I intend to add RTW (ready to wear) and probably jewelry as well.

What kind of look are you aiming for with your collection? Does the collection target a particular demographic? What is your approach to marketing to that group?

I like to think of my line as tough with some pretty mixed in, though others may say it's the other way around. Some pieces are more pretty and feminine, but a lot have studs and hardware which give it a bit of punk attitude, giving the whole collection a bit of a quirky, ecclectic mix. I'm pretty much designing pieces that I would love to own, so in a sense I am designing for women like myself, who want something a bit different, a piece that has a special worldly aspect to it.

My approach for now, is to target the places that this kind of customer would go for a unique piece, something she has to find, and isn't going to see on the arm of every other woman in her neighborhood. This includes smaller boutiques and trunk shows. I think there is a void in the market in this price point, which is a designer bag, something that is fashionable and quality, yet is still under $400. I think that customer is willing to spend a little more for a fun unique item, but let's face it, most of us can't rationalize spending a thousand dollars on a handbag.

Tell us all about how you got connected with Brooklyn Collective. What excites you most about working with the collective?

I met Jess Yam, who is friends with my husband, and is also a featured designer at the collective. We started talking shop, of course, over drinks, and she told me how she was at this store in Red Hook in Brooklyn. I was intrigued, and a few weeks later approached her about being in the store. Jess introduced me to the girls who run the Brooklyn Collective. I showed them my stuff and they were really excited about it. And then, I set up shop. Pretty simple story really. I think the store is so interesting because the individual designers really control what they sell in the shop. I also love it because there is such a fun mix of designers, people who sell ceramics, wall lighting, throw pillows, etc. So there is this kind of lifestyle merchandising aspect to it: the customer can accessorize themself and their with the same aesthetic. That's a whole other fun lesson from my retail experience.

Handbags for the Fashionista in You

2010-06-24T00:31:00.000-04:00

Brooklyn Collective Summer Sale!
Friday, June 25th
7pm - midnight
196 Columbia Street
between Sackett and Degraw

Starting this Friday Nancy By Nancy's meticulously handmade purses will be featured at The Brooklyn Collective.

Designer Nancy Waller, who previously designed Alfani Handbags, has burst on the scene with daring designs and a growing list of nationwide fans on Facebook. Friday's summer sale is a rare chance to purchase one of a kind designs and meet the designer herself!

Links:
Shop Nancy By Nancy
Brooklyn Art Collective
Nancy By Nancy
Nancy By Nancy on Facebook

A Gelatinous Substance By Christina Correa

2010-05-22T03:37:00.000-04:00

Son wasn’t about to give up on her principles of personal responsibility and clean up the smear of a mysterious gelatinous substance on the kitchen table. She made sure to slice her meat and greens to the left of it, to keep her colander of veggies in the sink, and when it came time to remove her stir-fly from its pan she pushed the cutting board back, laid out a plate and proceeded to transfer her meal from the pan to the plate. She at once washed the pan, the cutting board and the knife she had made use of. Then, she wiped down only the portion of the table which she had used (leaving the gelatinous smear as pristine as she had found it), took her plastic bag of wrappings and discarded portions of vegetables from where she had hung it off the back of one kitchen chair, set a pair of chop sticks on her plate and carrying plate of stir-fried pork and greens in one had and bag of kitchen refuse in the other, she retreated from the kitchen.

This was day three of life with the mysterious gelatinous smear on the kitchen table. Whoever had originally perpetrated this smear had not come forward to claim it, nor clean it up at a moment of kitchen solitude. And neither had anyone else.

Now, in fairness, there were a total of five people sharing that small kitchen, and none of them had taken the job upon themselves. Son was hardly the laziest of them. She was merely the only one who routinely prepared meals in the smear’s company, and just as routinely cleaned off the side of the table she had deemed suitable for her use, and not the half occupied by the smear.

Back in her room she sat cross-legged on the bed, plate on a TV table opened in front of her. She ate in silence. Bite by bite the plate slowly reemerged from under her dinner. About half-way through she realized she was thirsty and got up to pour herself a glass of water.

She kept a Brita pitcher full of water on the dresser top nearest the door and several shapes and sizes of glasses (and one mug) as well. She had never bothered to exchange the expired Brita filter for a fresh one. A roommate, a boy named Gyon-Jong who called himself Neil, had bought her a new filter, his going-away gift to her. She had kept it on top of the refrigerator, fully intending to put it to work when the time was right.

Another roommate beat her to it. Just took it upon herself to soak the new filter for an hour, insert it, and discard the old one. Son knew she’d live to regret letting that person share her refrigerated water. She kept the Brita pitcher in her room from then on.

It was then that G’ene arrived home. Of course, Son couldn’t immediately determine whether the individual who had just entered was G’ene, or one of stompy little men who they shared the apartment with. Not that G’ene in any way (but how her walk down a hallway, muffled by walls and door sounded) resembled one of the stompy little men they happened to share apartment 43 with.

Son listened intently at her door. Whoever it was had made their way directly to the kitchen. The entrance to G’ene’s room was through the kitchen, but it sounded like whoever it was was lingering, unpacking groceries, and slamming cupboard doors.

The suspense was killing her. She fetched her plate of stir-fry pork, not yet cleared, and brought it with her out of her room, down the hall and into the kitchen.

G’ene let out an enthused greeting, in no particular language, and made to give Son and her plate a hug. Son had to be quick on her feet to dodge the embrace. Not that she didn’t want G’ene to embrace her. She just didn’t want G’ene hugging her stir-fried pork and veggies.

She decided to be there on the pretense of needing some Kim Chee to go with her dinner, and muttered something to G’ene about thinking she was that noisy American (Jewish he called himself) guy in room D.

Son was sort of relived when G’ene appeared oblivious to her veiled criticism.

G’ene was in a very good mood. G’ene was usually, though admittedly not always, in a very good mood. She was a tall girl, certainly by Korean standards, she wore glasses and pony-tails and had a round and delightfully cheerful face.

She’d grown-up in a community of Seventh Day Adventists whose every member claimed to descend from a pack of fifteen Western European missionaries that arrived on the shores of Gangwon-d Providence, at the turn of the 19^th century.

G’ene was the Gangwon-do Providence regional weight-lifting champion, middle-weight division. She’d lifted as many as 207 pounds in the snatch event, and had a personal high score of 255 pounds in the clean and jerk.

Her prospects for the 2008 Olympic team had been high indeed, until a torn ligament forced her off the mats late last spring. Everybody said she would be able to recover, that she could make up for this little setback through extra-vigorous training in the fall. There was talk of abbreviating her academics beginning in September, to allow more time for training.

“No one thinks I’ll be the best lifter out there. I really am no Prapawadee Jaroenrattanatarakoon,” the Thai champ who had swept the first Olympic qualifying round in her country and proceeded to dominate Korea in a way it was in no way willing to be dominated. “Nobody thinks I can even be the best in Korea. Why devote my whole life to being at best number six? It’s madness and I'm done.”

Her coaches, her father, her brothers, and fellow lifters hardly knew what to say. That didn’t stop them from trying. She was ceaselessly confronted and compassionately counselled.

Had she torn a ligament in her shoulder, or had she dropped a weight on her head? … Suddenly even her doctors weren’t really sure.

“It won’t do to stay here right now G’ene. If you really mean it, you really want to quit, then see Father Moon-Ny about studies abroad,” her mother advised her.

Standing in the kitchen of her Washington Heights sublet apartment, G’ene knew she’d ridden in on a tidal wave which originated in a gym in Gangwon-do Providence eight months earlier, when she’d tried (and for a few moments succeeded!) lifting a weight that she just couldn’t bear.

Now, what had happened since she’d rented her little room and began studies at Columbia University (molecular biology had always been a passion of hers, until recently cast asunder by the demands of her training schedule) really originated much earlier than the day of that fateful workout.

She frankly assumed it all originated in the womb.

“I bought everything I need to make spaghetti, even French bread and a pasta strainer!” G’ene proudly presented her new colander, “Should I cook now, or wait until later?”

“If you’re hungry now, cook now.” Son detested indecisiveness in others, a very hypocritical stance to take, but Son really was an exceptional hypocrite.

“Oh but I’m always hungry. I’m going to get so fat! I’m not burning it off like I use to.” G’ene pat her toned tummy.

G’ene felt her frustration with their little shared kitchen mounting, it was already filled to capacity, she searched every cabinet and shelf, but there appeared not to be an inch to spare. And half of everything that claimed space was crap! Rusty pots and pans, and expired canned goods.

“It takes a really long time for a can of lentil soup to go bad,” G’ene was examining such a can, “This one expired last year. How many years has it been sitting here?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t mine.”

“You’ve lived here longer than anybody, haven’t you? Like more than three years, right?”

Son didn’t like the implication of these questions. She knew how to mind her own business. She always attended to her own responsibilities. It wasn’t her fault that a can of lentil soup had been abandoned by some ne'er-do-well….

The newest roomy filled a plastic Gristedes bag with cans, packages of noodles, jars of mayo, and boxes of granulated sugar, all long past their dates of expiration. It was a bit of an ordeal, but G’ene kept at it, persevered by drawing on the of Jesus Christ, which she had been reared on. Such reminiscences on the word of God had allowed her to grit her teeth and endure many a relentless training session, and now served to keep her smiling through the painstaking process of clearing twelve-square inches of shelf space for her personal use, cleaning a mysterious gelatinous smear from off the kitchen table, relegating three badly rusted pots to yet another refuse bag, and coaxing from Son some hints as to which plates and cutlery were without owners and might, given a good long cleaning, be re-enlisted into kitchen service.

While G’ene maintained a brave face, she couldn’t help but notice mounting anxiety on Son’s part.

“There, I’m done now,” said G’ene upon Son’s third pace of the apartment. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m sorry if I have.”

Son laughed a little and said she wasn’t bothered. G’ene wondered whether she was being lied to, or whether Son was lying to herself. And just like that G’ene too was in a state of crisis.

She had moved into apartment 43 five months earlier and become fast friends with the apartment’s other Korean tenant. They were immediately aware of sharing a country of origin and a mailing address. It wasn’t long before they realized they shared a love of Central Park and American sit-coms. And finally, one Thursday evening six weeks prior, well into the NBC comedy line-up, they realized that they were both gay. They were both gay women who had made it into young adulthood without so much as uttering to themselves what they were. But suddenly there they were and they were touching, and kissing and being intimate with one another in ways they never knew they could be with another human being.

On that first momentous night it had been enough that they had Korea, Central Park, and must-see-TV in common. G’ene hadn’t been attracted to Son from the moment they met. It had been a far more gradual awakening. This, G’ene assured herself, was perfectly normal. Gay or straight love depended on who people are on the inside, and you can’t glean that from first impressions.

G’ene watched her waifishly thin lover fill a little Tupperware container with the left-over portion of her pork and veggie dinner.

Hell, she thought to herself, nobody gets these things right on their very first try.

Two years after high school graduation Christina Correa got it into her head to visit New York. She bought herself a plane ticket, got a sad little hotel room and after a week here in the Big Apple, made-up her mind to stay. She's been here ever since.

Music Success? There's More To It Than Luck.

2010-05-16T02:04:00.000-04:00

This article is the first in a series of tips & successful independent artist profiles.

In this competitive world of searching for opportunities through social networking and finagling, it seems counter intuitive to just be one's self and hope for the best in one's career. We've all heard the stories-- this one stepped on five hundred necks, that one reinvented themselves and marketed their hineys off to make it to the top. And then here are those who are just lucky enough to be discovered.

Yet those are just... stories. With the exception of Madonna. She still has the neck stomping heels in the back of her closet. But if you don't feel like investing in new footwear, please know there are real people out there making money at their craft simply by being their true authentic selves.

One of the best examples of this phenomenon is Matt Kanelos of The Smooth Maria in New York City. While Kanelos is not a mega-music sensation (yet), he's definitely made inroads with his music by expanding his audience beyond a limited circle of friends, playing regular gigs at night clubs, consistently generating new music with dedicated musicians and maintaining his own music interests without getting a puffy head.

Matt is quite humble when he talks about his craft. His admission that he never "felt like it was a big choice to become a musician" explains the organic quality of his music. In fact he describes himself as "lucky" to pay his bills with his work. Granted, too many musicians never cross that hurdle. Yet after talking a little bit deeper with Matt it is easy to see that there is more than luck at play in his career.

The most telling thing Kanelos says about making connections with others through music is "I want to enjoy my friendships. I don't like to be phony." Judging by events in Kanelos' career, it seems his sincerity is returned via cosmic karma. For example, through some musician friends Kanelos made friends with a journalist who happens to occasionally write for NPR. The journalist genuinely liked The Smooth Maria's latest album and featured the song "Sing" on NPR's song of the day. The spot was good PR, complete with a list of positive comments by music lovers. Most importantly, it came easy with minimal pressure but lots of real friendship.

While the thought of cozying up to some cool networking connections to help your career might get you all too warm and fuzzy inside, try to remember that the foundation of those connections is a polished product. It's obvious that Kanelos puts a lot of quality and detail into his music. The graphic on "The Silent Show's" album cover is tasteful yet intriguing , as is the matching website. More importantly, the music on the album is well rehearsed, the orchestration is carefully planned and executed in a thoughtful, emotive way. Kanelos says his approach to making music is to make the music first then finding an audience who will like it, not creating music to fit a preset group of people.

Combining all these attributes makes for an attractive product that people can really feel. It's easy to network with confidence when work is presentable yet authentic, not slap dash because the package practically sells itself, leaving the artist to be themselves.

Still there is a bit of marketing legwork as well as side gigs involved to keep one afloat. This is where a smattering of focused diligence comes in. Kanelos says he works to put himself "out there in different directions" to keep the momentum going. If Matt isn't playing with his band he's teaching piano to students, or doing freelance piano playing for other bands, he's on the internet looking for opportunities like connecting with music supervisors in television shows to send his latest CD to. Scouring for opportunities to open up new connections led to Kanelos landing a music feature spot on ABC's Private Practice. Matt claims landing the spot was just plain "luck" (that word again!) but that luck wouldn't have happened if he hadn't made phone calls, mailed out his cd's to strangers or followed up with previous contacts by sending them his new material.

This isn't to say Kanelos is going over board with marketing himself, just that there is some concentrated, organized energy being beamed in that direction. There's a lot to be said for that. In the face of gimmicks and ridiculously outlandish antics in the art world, combining focused work with an open personality is a really tough combination to beat.

If you want to hear what it's all about, catch The Smooth Maria on May 19th@ The Living Room
145 Ludlow St, NY NY, 7pm or at www.thesmoothmaria.com.

The City Felt Like a Bowl Today By Jacqueline Dufresne

2010-05-08T03:32:00.000-04:00

The city felt like a bowl today.
I can’t remember how I kept upright.
A beer there, a push here, and it stayed the same.
All around the sky was in the trees,
people in their shoes,
colors on the things.
      As if they covered everything,
            like they do.
I laid in a curve.
A bend of spinal cord
            leading every movement.
      Today the turning of the world existed
      instead of being something we just know,
      every breath of orbit piercing pores of arms,
      a person terrified, terrified.
       The walls could not just close in,
      they grew. Until the horizon would not hold them.
I’m curious where the door is.
Shattered,   open,    reckless and beautiful. If that is what we’re aiming for.
A closed room will do for now and knowing the negative image would be devastating.
An inverse leads back before memories became collage on wall,
memento for their loyalty.

Jacqueline Dufresne is a third year creative writing undergraduate at UC Davis. She like cats and coffee and books and people (in general). "I want people to read my poetry because I like to share. I think poetry will bring about a revolution. "

Gary Snyder- A Cool Guy? That's a Generous Understatement.

2010-04-23T14:25:00.000-04:00

By K. T. Mitchell
Last Friday, Pulitzer Prize winning poet Gary Snyder gave an intimate talk to about sixty or so poetry lovers at UC Davis. Introduced by Professor John Boe as a "Cool guy," Snyder assumed the podium in characteristically Zen form, relaxed and in Snyder's words, "script-less."One could sense the gentle affection between the two former colleagues and current friends.

That informal air perfectly fit Snyder's tone for the talk. Clad in jeans, a vest and well worn farming boots, Snyder began with the intent of discussing what is useful for writers but, thankfully, he meandered through a variety of topics.

To start with, he expressed the difficulty of trying to catch up on one's work as well as the satisfaction of going through one's files, looking at a project and saying to himself, "I don't need to do that."He told the writers in the audience if they wanted to complete their projects, "Don't be tempted by going on too many trips."(Gulp. This writer has been guilty of that.)

Snyder shared had just attended the annual Association of Writers & Writing Programs conference in Denver where he was "the entertainment," one performing poet among many. He asked the UC Davis audience, "Was anybody there?" Silence was the reply. "Nobody?" He raised his brow and said, "Good for you!"

Aside from the identity politics Snyder noted at the conference, he also observed the industry's interest were oriented towards prose, not poetry. Snyder asserted poetry is not a career. It is a calling. Poets have to find other ways to make a living then relax into their artistry. He encouraged the writers present to write fiction or another type of prose if they want to have a chance, albeit a slim one, of becoming a writer. Still, Snyder emphasized the importance of poets' contributions to society. "The community poet" and the "national poet" are "equally valuable," said Snyder, but "it doesn't matter too much to be a poet in

Then Snyder turned to a topic he admitted he rarely spoke of-- how his family affected his development as a poet. "I think there is a gene for language," said Snyder before revealing the talents that ran on his maternal side. Snyder's maternal grandmother and great grandmother had a talent for writing eloquent letters in gorgeous handwriting. His mother ran away to college to study English because Snyder's grandmother thought college would make his mother "worldly." Snyder's mother hid in the womens' dorms until his grandmother came in attempt to retrieve her. The women of the dorm convinced Snyder's grandmother to let his mother stay, in spite of the older woman's wishes.

Unfortunately, the Great Depression forced Snyder's mother quit school. Snyder grew up listening to his mother's stories, her talk about her inherent greatness as a writer and her complaints that she never got to completely exercise her skill as a writer. He recalled as a child living during the Depression there were only two books on their subsistence farm outside of Seattle, a Bible and a book by Robert Browning. In spite of the adversity Snyder's mother faced, she went on to become an investigative reporter at a few newspapers, starting at the Vancouver Sun during WWII. It was from her Snyder learned it was "ok to become a writer."Moreover he learned one "has to be nuts and obsessed to keep writing, even when it seems like there is no reason to."

At an early age, Snyder absorbed that message. In seventh grade, when a teacher asked Snyder what wanted to do when he grew up, Snyder surprised himself when he replied he "wanted to write essays on wilderness conservation." During that time,Snyder wrote a letter to Congress against logging that did not got a response. Snyder never felt attracted to journalism. It was "too capitalist" for his taste. Snyder left home at age fifteen. He ended up getting involved in snow peak mountaineering. The dangers of climbing ice with ropes and pick axes fascinated him. It was during his mountaineering days that Snyder found poetry because he couldn't find another language to express the "cold discomfort" of his "sensory experience."Snyder felt that poetry was the only language that could engage with the senses while "expressing complex feelings about doing things when other people are in sleeping bed."

From there, Snyder recounted the more well known aspects of his writing career, particularly studying Asian languages and his time in San Francisco during its literary renaissance. He revealed some little known gems; Rip Rap was written by campfire light in the high country of Yosemite, the original title of Ginsburg's Howl was "Strophs."

Snyder also shared that during his time in Japan his Zen master taught his poetry would be good as long as it came from his true self. Initially, he worried quite a bit about that teaching, so much so he stopped writing for some time. Eventually he stopped worrying about that or whether his work was good. "I don't write poems unless they force themselves on me and I don't write prose unless I can't help myself," Snyder said. As he ended the talk, Snyder pondered aloud if that could have been what his teacher meant by "the true self."

This writer felt thankful that Snyder, who seemed incapable of pretension or insincerity, freely revealed his truest self throughout the talk without premeditation and in one on one conversation. It felt enlightening to listen to him personally tell me about his recent activism in his woodland community against over development, oil drilling and gold mining that would destroy the ecosystem. It also felt nice to tell him how much I enjoyed his poetry as an escape from every day drudgery and as a study for my own work. I gave his arm a pat and we told each other we hoped to meet again.

In short, Snyder's charismatic languidity was pretty cool.

Terse Verses By Thel Juarez

2010-04-13T19:01:00.000-04:00

Electricity brightens the night-
a person is being electrocuted
in a well-lit show room.

Tears borne of sorrow
In time, like the morning dew
Will evaporate.

Littering our word-ly

connections are Adjectives...

supposedly aiding, but alas,

dominating Verbs.

Thelma Reymundo-Juarez Bachelor of Arts majoring in Political Science at age 20. Under pressure from family and culture, twice she enrolled in Law School. She escaped both times. In late 1982 she immigrated to the US, lived in California until late 2009. She now lives with her husband in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

In January 2010, with support from her circle of friends, published a limited edition of her first book of poetry titled, "From Thel's Garden - A Sprinkling of Haiku". For her other works, please visit thelmarjuaez.blogspot.com

The Girl Eye Show

2010-04-07T07:49:00.000-04:00

Photos Relating Females

On view April 3-30, 2010 at Tribes, 285 E. 3^rd St. NYC

Prints by young urban female photographers evidence a spontaneous and intimate female gaze enveloping homo-sociality. This is about both distance and closeness, intra-gender formal queerness and the receptive camera.

Showcasing the work of

Lauren Goldberg

Anne Marie Hansen

Beth Hommel

Cassie Olander

For more information contact Janet@Bruesselbach.com

Looking for Home by Donald Anderson

2010-04-05T12:49:00.000-04:00

I heard a clink outside the window,
collars of two lost tan colored dogs, expensive looking,
out at 3:20am in the morning.
Seeing me open my door, they walk inside
my humble apartment, searching, inquisitive.
I am not allowed pets.
No one is reachable at this hour.
I try to read the tag on one collar,
the dog refused to stay still and puts its
wet paws on my arms.
I think, what if they’re starving?
I give them slices of deli turkey.
They eat in seconds,
I walk out the door,
they follow,
then mark territory on the bushes.
I close the door,
then the window,
then go on my phone’s limited internet
searching for lost and found in this town.
I find a site that has an email address,
then email them the info.
I wonder if they will scratch at the door.
Sleep at last.
Then 11am, wake to call animal control.
Ask if they know of any lost dogs of that kind reported.
They say none have been,
though I doubt my limited description effective enough.
They thank me for the report,
before I’ve said all I can think of.
I look for them each evening now,
thinking if they will remember the food.
If they found their home.

If they found their owners.

Poet Donald R. Anderson has had poetry published in ¡Zam Bomba!, Blue Moon Press, Rattlesnake Press, Artifact (before becoming co-editor), The Collegian, A Poem a Day: An Anthology (Edited by Chantel C. Guidry), Dwarf Stars 2008, upcoming publication in Poetry Now, and Manzanita (2010), published online on Medusa's Kitchen, Poet's Corner Press, and Farmhouse Magazine and a small award in the annual contest by the Stockton Arts Commission for “Suddenly a Fearsome Crow.”