6/5/2017 0 Comments WDR-GAS #2 by Jim MeiroseWDR-GAS #2 Now on to cooking; there I see, you got the Skip codes, yeah, they are the Skip codes; that’s senility; yeah, I see you read them; that’s senility; yeah, now you enter them; that’s senility; and then they’re in and your face pressed to the cathode ray tube, but; they don’t call them that anymore; what do they call them now, those cathode ray tubes? Go back to when they called them that but that is before the ship was built before cable cooking shows and all my word, that young man Skip seems to have disappeared in some kind of flash-bang of a conflagration; can’t see nothing till the smoke clears; ship gone, ship here, hey, hit a mine; yeah that’s senility yah that’s senility yah yah yah that is; and then the old dog that just happens to be out with the new dogs spies me and does the first thing it ever does when attacked; snap snarl nip on the new one, new one, new one, new; and all at once we are in some kind of mind-floating silly-place; ship not yet built, TV not yet invented, no such thing as cable but to winch up things by, and as a matter of fact, somehow alive before born, both I my crew my meat my fish as a matter of fact, it’s possible the ship blew up but somehow way in the future so that’s why I wasn’t killed and the cooking show set is safe in some eternal bubble as a matter of fact this must be how coronated saints feel the day they make it, yes; but the poor Skip-devil must be in the water; yes, the slimy ice-cold ocean water. Thus Skip plunged from the gone Dakota Maru, exploded or otherwise, and it was a dive or a fall or a cannonball on a hundred degree day at the fucking Brookside Swim Club, in its first of two incarnations, the water smelled like it couldn’t be breathed not salt not fresh not chlorine wait back up yes chlorine and, up out of the water into the real close face of a women from the gone fearful past, say her name what is her name who is she, God, she is pretty-face young Gundren just as soaked as me in the blazing cancer causing sun but before that was known to anybody and Skip and Gundren weren’t married yet so Skip didn’t know they were going and the Dakota Maru cruised away without him into the future intending to wait for him, if it can get through Viet Nam without being recommissioned as a hospital ship and blown to bits in the Denmark Strait by a Barham Blaster model modern slick-sided U-boat of a make-believe vintage replica submarine, no I don’t know I don’t know no I don’t, I think that’s the wrong war; that’s senility; wrong ship; that’s senility; but who cares it really hasn’t happened yet, so there’s really no right or wrong, everything’s just a stupid guess backed up by absolutely no research of any kind human or otherwise. Plus, submarines had nothing at all to do with it. Thus, she surfaced bone dry somehow, and quickly spoke. Hey, boy. What is up? Word on the street is, you plan to get a sea based job. What might that be? It sounds mysterious and fascinating. I, uh, oh, blubbered young Skip, flustered. I guess the thought that the sea’s out there right now this minute every minute past or future kind of—pulls at me. Yah, pulls. Pulls. You know? No, I don’t. I don’t know that kind of pulls. That’s why it’s fascinating. There was a life a past a world behind her eyes, Skip spoke to provoke it, though back in those days where they were now, things were different. He asked her, Say, I know you, yes I do. You’re in homeroom with me; in school, as in—school. You know? Isn’t that funny? Yah, I know. I’ve seen you. I do. Say, but, what? What’s your name, anyfree? No, no, I didn’t mean that. What I meant was, like, I mean—besides being Mister extremely unique? That’s what I was trying to grab down. Like, you not run with the pack man. You lone dog, you. You! I kin tellit! What’s wrong anyway what I’m sayin’s not quite correct? Oh—no, said Skip, somewhat squishy somewhat squirmy—I mean I think I’d rather continue this talk with you, honey, out of the deep ice-cold water all dry, if you don’t mind. I feel; I feel that in this monstrous monstrosity of an ocean, there’s all limitless nothing all around us forever to some shores we never can return to, that will stifle and stifle and stifle us down, until the day we die, if we don’t protest. Especially, given the extreme chill of clammy wetness in this breeze. Now, now, don’t get me wrong—water is great to have around us, there are worse things to be enveloped in, because water won’t form up into a million jagged toothy mouths, and rip you turning its own self red so effectively, that might have been its intent to begin with, but if you get out in time, nothing untoward can happen, especially not if it’s just water, you know. And the little frostbite you incur, heals fairly clean, along with the use of the correct high-dose opiates. So, how ‘bout it? Up we go on the dry, like, huh—oops! Pulling her by the hand from the water, he at once realized a slip had begun, but the realization came too late to avoid his taking a barefoot header onto rock-hard sunny poolside tile. The ocean had sunk away beneath a pool, a pool like Brookside pool all painted blue in the bottom, and all private where you need to pay dues yearly, and his slimy uncallused young flatfoot slip up on the unexpected tile surrounding the wonderfully bright yes blue bright yes, threw him back half in the water and half out, you see, and his headbone hairline broke against the unyielding hard of the poolside tile slipway. The rumble and drum of the bang went down and the mind-demons that lurk in the shallow caverns everybody has seen but no one dares admit to for fear of being called crazy, injected the first of fifty once per week shots of pure hard crystal terraphobia into his sweet left butt-cheek; and that was where it all began. Fear of land was planted now; and full-blown terror would rise in the coming weeks, but, this is now; he picked himself up not knowing he had gained from the hard tile the seed of a profound mental disorder, that Father Dwyer’s fifth generation replacement down the road will memorialize the legendary Skip for having withstood acting out his inner struggles with. The intent was to imply that Skip got well and proceeded toward a much more substantial future almost a normal future and he will emerge from the door in the wall from the inner dark to the outer bright, and will see what Father Dwyer has prepared for him; in a row down the counter stretched selections of teas, bag over bag of sliced white bread, a washtub sized container of butter and fortune cookies, and a line of dark squat sticky-jam bottles the number of which amounts to fourteen. Doctor Dwyer, the someday priest, on the day following the poor man’s slip-fall, examined the MRI of the wretch’s injury, and the results were inconclusive because no one he discussed the case with knew what an MRI was, since such a thing was not invented yet. Once this hit him the results disappeared and so, that was the end of that. So, taking a step to the future, he abandoned his expensive shack up honey, who would go on to write a self-published expose of the great holy man’s youth, and moved to a secret location where even before he took his first piss and then tinkered for hours with a defective wall thermostat, he rushed to dial the number of the nearest seminary, the urge having been summoned up in him by the savior on high to enroll. The red dot of the first camera assigned to him appeared years later and so, now, yes now, whatever that is, he stood in the air-conditioned studio of the Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer stage set, banged down his car keys on the stainless-steel countertop, angry at having reached into his pocket only to find them and immediately become disoriented blurting out to the open mike, What the hell are these jingly chained together things? What? Car keys? Why? I have no fucking car or fucking celibate car or any kind of car, I am much too famous to drive my own car, the terrorists yes terrorists will abort me with a blast of some kind, or maybe even some lower sexless pale grey vermin would end my short life with a single press of a single remote control homebrew cellphone activation green-glow button, and, again; a large blast will have spelled my end a second time—so on and so, Father Dwyer went on—but, yes, someplace deeper in his severely mature brain, he knew this was just a plain vanilla civilian-style panic attack, the best cure for which is the pop of two Ativan and bang of the left fist up hard on the bone bridge right between the eye. Thus treated, he was fit to do the show, once more. Fit as scads of perfectly tuned Guarneri Del Gesu fancy old-school Paganini style worn out aging fiddles being sawed away on by hordes of unwashed but quite enthusiastic Lil’ Abners and Lil’ Axises, who sport scarcely one lesson between all of them, are fit to take the stage in Carnegie hall. So, fit as he was no fiddle at all, Dwyer mounted the cooking show set, and bellowed quite hard, Welcome to episode nine-hundred three of my quite unique holy God yes holy Jesus, wild wild cooking show! No, here is the pickle; the show today may be abbreviated, because there’s a fat superstorm Sandy blowing up solidly all over the whole world outside, like God sends to buffet us every hundred years, meaning we may lose our artificially manufactured power soon, if not so already, and if it gets dark when there is no power-light, we will have to split shot the show all the way to under-down city in the chilly black depths no man has ever reached and lived, for today. There is something odd about one of the ships, out there; one of the ships that is tuned-in; can’t tell the actual name though, as; aha, I bet it is the Knock Nevis. Once the world’s largest bulk crude carrier, it is at sea today, and is too fantastically huge, yes much too wide and deep to see; they are awed, always awed, so they scream as if at the Beatles’ first gleaming, Yes, there it is! Yes—yes—yes, there it is! That is odd that the master control board told Father Dwyer that the huge ship was not only at sea, but had a cable networked and operational flatscreen tuned in, but it has to be right must be right yes—but, no. The ship was scrapped years ago. Why is the master control board stating, she still exists and is far at sea? Why is it looking back far in the past? Oh, it needs calibration, yup! Uselessness is the price we pay for scrimping on regular tuneups and maintenance. This is one example. But as much as I would like to give you more, this is it, because my correspondent in Alang, Bangladesh, is going to be taking over the rest of the time of this episode, for the complete news on Ships Scheduled to be Broken Today! Here you go, I fade away but I still know here comes the new picture the remote correspondent, absolutely all woman and rather good-looking at that, so we will see her, but, her voice is not allowed. My voice’s contract states, that as long as I am alive and able to do the job, I will do all voice-overs and any other voice announcer’s work anywhere in the damned near and far wide and narrow long and short network that carries my show or remote reports thereof. So, here goes; the woman is standing close in with a sparkling-clean face and haircut and clothing immaculately fitted and pressed and she looks more like a millennial office junior manager than a reporter, but here she goes; she’s saying, but not, so I say into and through her and out her mouth, Here in Alang, the biggest most dangerous super-loud workplace in Bangladesh, the workers have been found to have one fascinating thrilling unusual hell-and-hellhound bound piece of information to share; in the hut up the hill with the slick greasy hot floor between Bodhisattva I and Bodhisattva II rooming boarding and floating evening to black-night forever nonstop Incest Can be Fun shows, is playing in a spectrum-spaced clear spot carved from the back wall of the residential unit one of the dozens of flat screen TVs the network distributed to all the super-gigantically-hulled and what’s worse, just plain enormous huge but oddly deathly quiet steel monsters sailing across the earth’s curved ultra-liquid surface, and is proudly and ignorantly blasting fourth the very same words I am now. Yes just like now, but; since you cannot hear their TV around the world to where you are, it really doesn’t make a sound a la the tree in the woods’ stupid question that is so hackneyed anymore; in the hut it indeed of course sounds, and—the workers living in that hovel, who lifted the TV and all supporting electronics needed to get it going out from the steel bowels of the Knock Nevis when it was driven up for beaching onto the conch strewn pebbly totally asbestos plus crude oil contaminated beach, where it crushed quickly and quietly a horseshoe crab laying her eggs into a hot slit she carved not without effort, from the blazing stinking sea-sand between two decaying human-style sandcastles built when open public commoner’s open swim season was on, and its televisions and anything else of value that’s not sheet steel, was waiting submissively to be unplugged, removed, and taken. Okay, take it back away, Father, said the correspondent foolishly not considering that since I am her voice, I need not have her tell me that which I of course know by heart already. So, I will finally say, because this is after all my cooking show, on the counter are a selection of teas, a bag of sliced white bread, a jar of peanut butter, and fourteen varieties of jam; so, just as you were ordered earlier, Noman my man, take the pill laid down before you. Sure, take the pill laid down on the silk pillow before you. Yes, that one there, why do you ask which one when there’s just one right there. Yes, that, the ringbearers’ pillow. What? Why do you so stupidly ask why is that there, why the hell do you think that’s there? What other kind of pillow do you expect a small boy named Henry to march up to the altar with the rings on top for? God-dammit! Yah, well, I suppose this is it, said Noman, with his eyes screwed tight down on Phyllis’ face-blue eye-lashed blinking pools. It all sped on from that instant their worlds changed. And, in that very night in the semi dark Holiday Inn Hotel room, on the never-yet-used brand-new Tempurpedic mattress the Holiday chain was upgrading its millions on millions of sleeping stations to, Phyllis was legally and properly impregnated during one of several coital sessions spanning the long fat night. The wedding night in fact was so deeply intense, that the next morning she absolutely dropped off to sleep over breakfast, with a mouthful of yellow egg yolk dripping from her slack lip-corner, her being too weak to chew any more. With this, the equally spent Noman rose clicked and summoned the goofing-off bus-staff lined up against the far restaurant wall to get her and take her and load her back up to the room, to sleep the day away. They left grumbling at the lack of a tip, so then Noman sat by the bed in the semi-dark lightly curtained morning room, to wait her out by slipping into a nearby book. He tried but it proved too dark for him to get any pleasure from the reading, so he put the book aside, soon nodded as the empty time flowed into him, and he was weighted down enough to dive and join Phyllis on the wedding bed; yes, join her in the perfect kind of tiredness’ expected and ultimate love-coupling. He breathed in and she breathed out and so and so all vice versa, super in love wreathing their true unconsciousness’ envelopment, and finally starting her down the road to that ultimate tokophobia. Bio: Jim Meirose's work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Calliope, Offbeat/Quirky (Journal of Exp. Fiction pub,), Permafrost, North Atlantic Review, Blueline, Witness, and Xavier Review, and has been nominated for several awards. His E-book "Inferno" has been published by Underground Voices. His novels, "Mount Everest" and "Eli the Rat", are available from Amazon. Visit www.jimmeirose.com to know more.
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6/5/2017 0 Comments Poetry by P.A.LevyBus Terminus your talk was in the wrong colour eyes skyward checking for escape teleportation a helicopter a super hero but all there was in the convent grey november sky was convent grey clouds drizzling over with convent grey rain annoyed in bitter milk white words you curse jesus i knew i should have brought a brolly almost reverently as in prayer then the bus came and we pushed an almost sacred silence on board with us sitting together east side west side apart just a theory of string to keep us close enough to realise we’re fraying next stop the bell chimes a death knell an old lady out-balanced by bulging tesco bags struggles into the dampness another door closes we continue our journey only just When The Light Goes Out Confessions about the forest, about the paths that have no homes, and the story gasps of air escaping out from her broken doll being then stolen by the savage night. Lost. All stumble movement came from her bird-like bones; she flew with secrets, but memories: memories were sharp, silvered coloured sharp like the brambles that attcked her. Tore into her feathers. On fallen leaves there’s just the friendless scream; lonely except the shadow which remains her former self. Bio: Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and stations in-between. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies atwww.cluelesscollective.co.uk America First Dismembered, one stroke of the pen, One dollar and decision at a time-- The arsonists are in charge of the fire station. Destruction plumes, forcing fumes To an indifferent, hazy sky. Books and art in the sulphur flames Crackle and snap alongside Food scraps for the aged and Melting plastic eyes of children’s puppets-- The radio hisses its last static, Then silence. The water leeches its lead, Flowing down the strip mine scar. A fiery freight car carries the lost To the pyre on the River of the Dead. In this deconstruction of the administrative state, We’re all going to be deconstructed, destructed and Tossed into the mass grave of alternative facts. What did you expect? Bio: Susan Cossette is the author of Peggy Sue Messed Up . . . and other poems. Her work has appeared in Rust & Moth, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and Clockwise Cat, among others. She is a recipient of the University of Connecticut’s Wallace Stevens Poetry Prize. By day, she is communications director for Voices of September 11th, a nonprofit that works with those impacted by mass violence and terrorism. The Parable of the Man with One Left Ear and One Right The next day, as the wind toed the earth and the temperature ebbed and the sun rested an elbow against a crumbling high rise and the rain - with no appetite for the endless, periphrastic grind of transformation - snoozed in distant plumes, Tomas (former head of compliance at Newton Bank) stopped Marcus (erstwhile professor of anomalistic psychology at Twickstone College) and pumping hand weights, told him the latest. "I saw him again, through the window, thrashing that rat dog of his," he said, nodding toward number 62. "Bullshit Tomas, house has been empty for years." "Whipped it till it bled, only stopped when I walked by." 'Look, I need to get home, I need to take my echinacea," said Marcus, letting his dog pull him on. Marcus Delong (57) lived a predominantly irreproachable existence on the sunny side of Tunbridge Street - the best side - the side lined with pearlescent birch and veiled in wisteria. Unemployed or retired - he wasn't sure, but factually, he hadn't taught a single class since a student had stood and, with breathtaking stridency, branded him an eloquent dunce. Marcus had marched straight from the lecture hall into a pub and drunk till he was eloquent no more. He’d never returned and now spent his days - days that passed with no more impact than the thrum of distant traffic - walking his dog (Barney - bichon frise), perfecting his spaghetti sauce and mitigating his anger by re-enacting notable battles on his kitchen table with tiny figurines he bought off eBay. "You remember Dr Johnson?" continued Tomas, now running on the spot, "Only went out for halloumi. Guy just walked up and shot him between the eyes. Police claimed they caught the bugger, but I know better." Tomas Rand (also 'retired') had lived a a life lawned and boardered with veracity until a junior accounts manager spotted him spinning from a Lamborghini dealership in a gleaming lime-green Aventador. A frantic internal audit revealed the beach house in Kimmeridge, the triplex in Pimlico and the sports cruiser moored on a private tributary adjoining the River Dart. Tomas had fallen out the bank's doors with nothing to show for his years of diligent embezzlement save a withered bog plant and a crumpled non-disclosure agreement clamped between his teeth. “You’ve lost it, Tomas." Said Marcus, shaking his head. "You'll see," said Tomas, stretching a leg toward his back, "you'll see." That night, Tomas rang his mother, "I need to get back on the horse," he told her and before she could hang up, asked to borrow 19 grand to fund the R&D of an app that analysed sewage movement and utilised the data to predict fluctuations in commodity markets and corporate bond prices. His mother said no - no - as she poured another navy sour and switched back and forth between Coupon Crazy and Either the Mower Goes or I Do. Tomas waited two days, then marched to Marcus's house and knocked hard on his door. "I need to talk," he said, looking past him to the table where Napoleon’s army had just rounded on the village of Cairo Montenotte. "Saw him dumping rubbish in the garden. Black sacks - filth. More – He’s got a van. Awful. Never road legal: bald tyres, broken mirrors. And even more - he's huge Marcus, fucking enormous - looks like a police composite. " "For the last time, that house is empty. I've seen the foxes come and go like they owned the wretched place." "You remember the family at number 42," continued Tomas barely taking a breadth, "all sound asleep. Never knew a thing. Woke up - every present gone. Christmas cancelled the parents said. Imagine that Marcus. Cancelled!" Marcus slammed the door and returned to the kitchen table. He tried to concentrate, but as he ranged above Savona caressing a pikeman's cabasset between finger and thumb, Tomas's words returned: what if he was right; what if someone - something - had arrived at number 62. Although reluctant to legitimise Tomas's assertions, Marcus felt compelled to investigate. He grabbed his EMF detector and torch, pulled on a grubby Twickstone hoody and hurried away. The evening was muggy and moonful as Marcus crept toward number 62. Keeping low, he tugged at the porch door and the door, so enervated by decay, slumped into his arms. He laid it down and entered, moving slowly along the hallway. As he swung his torch ahead, he felt a material resistance, as if his hand was submerged in water. All wrong, he thought, this is where darkness comes to hang its coat, comes to be alone - I shouldn't be here. He continued on, picking his way across fallen debris until the hallway opened onto a high and cluttered room. Here, squatting beside a paraffin lantern reading a faded copy of the Financial Times, Marcus found Tomas. "I knew you'd come." "Do you live here now?" "If you think I’ve lost everything, you're wrong," said Tomas spreading his fingers across his head as if he feared the roof might topple down. "I just need to get back on the horse." "I know you do. And you will." "Tell me Marcus," said Tomas, holding the newspaper over the lamp's flame, "do you judge someone by who they are or by what they do?" "Are the two exclusive?" "Listen, he's a liability Marcus - selling guns, dealing drugs - and the people Marcus, such people! They can barely stand." Marcus saw Tomas's eyes moisten, saw his mouth - softened by the light from the flickering print - shift into a smile. "I think you might be right," said Marcus, backing slowly from the room, "I think you might be right." Bio: GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, The Airgonaut, The Harpoon Review,, The Jellyfish Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart. memory_afternoons: “In the afternoon I listened to ancient echoes in the living room”, 2012 Photographer Laura Konttinen works along the liminal spaces of memory, where images fold into one another and diverging meanings open new roads in the heart of the unconscious. "I believe that memories are fluid," Laura says, "prone to mutations and holes that might fill out with fiction, someone else’s stories or anything that might have crossed one’s mind in any point in time." Senses become unmoored from their anchors and set to drift on unexplored, alternative waters. Konttinen works the images over like poems, opening their interpretational pores, allowing the unexpected to emerge. "I have worked through memories and the imaginary aspects of nostalgia and now I’m working on pictures about forgetting," Laura says. "I am not yet sure what the result will look like." AHC: What first drew you to art and photography? Was there a specific moment in your life or turning point where it became clear to you that you were being called to create? Laura: I wish I had a more exciting story, but basically I think art just suited my personality. As a teenager, instead of developing my social skills, I spent a lot of time just listening to music by myself, writing songs, and drawing and painting. I felt like art gave me access to a mythical, fascinating world of ideas and symbols. I only veered towards photography in art school. Photography was not a necessarily a medium that I liked or felt fluent in, but I became fascinated with the photograph as a strange cultural object. Then I really fell in love with taking pictures at the age of 21, when I was studying Photography in an exchange program in Edinburgh, Scotland. A local supermarket had a sale of Bratz Movie Star dolls that came with a plastic camera. It was a 35mm film camera with a cheap plastic lens that was somehow already worn and a painful advancing wheel with sharp, blood-thirsty teeth. But it became my favourite camera, and I would just wander around the city taking pictures of whatever and then head to school to process the film. I still shoot mainly on film. lightmare: “Lightmare Island”, 2015 velvetwood_island: “Velvetwood Island”, 2016 AHC: Could you talk some about your overall process, themes & inspirations? Laura: The basis of my work is using photograph as a material and an object. I like to print out pictures I have taken, cut them up and make these little sceneries. Crafting by hand is important to me for some reason. It gives me childlike joy, maybe because I used to do all kinds of crafts already as a kid. My mum and I made a “troll forest” in a cardboard box once. We made a little forest clearing out of mosses, rocks and different plants from the backyard and put in little plastic mushrooms. My process includes several stages: sketching, cutting up and glueing together photos, arranging little landscapes, shooting them on film, scanning the film and then having the final prints made. I like to include analogue “tricks” in my work, such as filters made from coloured plastic bags and long exposures. The main theme in my work is nostalgia and its relation to photography. It is an endless source of wonder. memory-vaihdokas: “Changening creeps into the garden”, 2012 AHC: Your series, Memories is a very unique, captivating project, can you talk about your approach to this series and your philosophy behind it? Laura: Memories started out when I realized that photography is what truly shapes my visual and personal history. For my generation, those born in the 80s, photography has been an integral part in the creation of memories – we tend to remember moments better when they were photographed, and our memories become intertwined with photographs of them. Photo albums themselves are ranking systems of events that someone deemed important enough to be photographed. And it’s almost easier to remember what a photograph looked like than the actual place. I think we are the last to generation to associate photography with memory specifically. Today, photography is such a natural part in experiencing the present and constantly defining your identity. With Memories, I wanted to figure out what kind of visual alternatives there are to memories. I believe that memories are fluid, prone to mutations and holes that might fill out with fiction, someone else’s stories or anything that might have crossed one’s mind in any point in time. I wanted to depict these odd structures and challenge photography’s power, while still using it as a material and a medium. I constructed little miniature views from photo scraps and various materials, that I then took pictures of. To me, they are photographs of memories that have been frozen in time at a later stage of their evolution. konttinen_echo: “Echo Rocks”, 2015 memory_tree: “Becoming a tree”, 2012 AHC: Who are some of your artistic influences? Is there anyone outside of the art world whose work has impacted your own, or who just generally inspire you, writers, filmmakers, musicians etc? Laura: It’s hard to tell what has actually impacted my work. The works of art that I like don’t necessarily have a clear link to my own. I admire the conceptual trickery of Sophie Calle, I like the intuitive symbolism in works by Louise Bourgeois or Marc Chagall, I like the aesthetics of the arte povera movement. I think artists are kind of interpreters in this interconnected world, everything affects everything. As humans we filter information all the time, but who knows what really goes on in the unconscious. For visual artists and visual people, the shapes and colours of the surroundings can have a huge effect. Spending time in forest versus spending time at sea will have different impacts on your depth perception, spatial sense and how your brain works in general. memory-linna: “Castle of uninvited guests”, 2014 AHC: What is the first work of art/photography you encountered that took your breath away? Laura: I honestly can’t remember. But I’ll tell you about the most recent experience. I saw a 3D printing exhibition at Centre Pompidou in Paris in April. It was more of a design show with various 3D printed objects, like chairs and such. But the materials, the structures and textures were like from a parallel universe. It made me realize that most of our everyday objects have their familiar shapes because of the qualities and limitations of the materials they are made of. If we had no limitations, how different would the world look. sepiarocks1: “Phoenix Tree”, 2016 memory-fishing: “Fishing for mermaids”, 2012 AHC: Are there times when you become blocked creatively? What do you do to rekindle inspiration? Laura: The biggest issue for me is difficulty concentrating. My mind wanders off easily, and it’s hard to get in the “zone”. Writing down words or poetry sometimes helps in reconnecting with the creative state of mind. luostari: “After the gate”, 2016 AHC: Do you have any upcoming exhibits or new projects you'd like to tell people about? Laura: Right now I’m working on a photo series called Monuments. It will be a third instalment to my Nostalgia trilogy. I have worked through memories and the imaginary aspects of nostalgia (in the series “Islands”, 2014 – 2016), and now I’m working on pictures about forgetting. I am not yet sure what the result will look like. I have started with simple collage-like pictures, with beautiful elements I would like to have memories of, but I don’t. I’d love to create a photo book or some other publications. And I’m starting my master’s studies in Photography at Aalto University (Helsinki) in the autumn, I hope I’ll find some new things to try out too. Time guarantees in a foreign fire nights / in a strange city I chased by a fire nightly 2010
For more visit www.laurakonttinen.net/ All images © Laura Konttinen Harvey Comes Home Harvey knocked on the door and waited. There were no cars in the driveway, but you never knew. Someone could be home. He hoped someone was. He’d driven all the way from Fort Wayne to get here—four exhausting hours. He heard a metallic click, and the inner door opened with a sticky suck. Standing there behind the screen door was a husky little brown-haired boy in an oversized Hard Rock Café T-Shirt. He couldn’t have been more than nine years old. Harvey thought he looked a lot like his own son, Jimmy, at the same age. He wondered how many times Jimmy had stood in this same doorway—paying for pizza, politely turning away salesmen, passing out trick or treat candy. He’d asked his son to come with him on this trip, but Jimmy couldn’t spare the time. He was forty-five now—married with kids of his own, living in Indianapolis, working insane hours at one of the best law firms in the city. Maybe this little boy would end up becoming a hotshot lawyer, too. Maybe he would end up being too busy to spend time with his dad. Harvey wouldn’t be surprised. The kid didn’t look particularly affectionate. His eyes were cold and dark, like burned out light bulbs. “Hi, young man,” Harvey said cheerfully, trying to put the boy at ease. “My name’s Harvey Lipinski. Are your mommy and daddy home?” “No,” said the boy, his voice tiny and flat. “Do you know when they’ll be home?” Harvey asked. “No,” said the boy. He started to close the door. Harvey began to panic. He couldn’t let the boy shut the door on him. He couldn’t be denied after coming all this way. He had to see the inside of the house. He had to see the place where he’d raised his family, the place where they’d all been together back when things were still good, before he started drinking, before Linda fell out of love with him, before everything turned to shit. “You know,” said Harvey, holding up his hand like a policeman halting traffic. “I used to live here.” “You did?” said the boy. “I did,” said Harvey. “Raised all three of my kids here—two daughters and a son. My son’s room was the window on the end there.” He pointed to the last window on the far right side of the house. “That was his room from the time he was born to the time he left for college.” “That’s my room,” said the boy. “Good,” laughed Harvey. “I’m glad it still belongs to a boy. It’s actually the largest bedroom in the house. Did you know that?” The boy shook his head. “It is,” said Harvey. “Tracy, my oldest daughter, used to complain because she thought her room was so much smaller than Jimmy’s. In fact, her room was only a little smaller—she had the room over the garage. But she still thought she got a raw deal. I didn’t feel too bad for her. She had a lot more going for her than Jimmy. She was always a better student, and she was the best artist in the family. She used to draw these beautiful pictures of horses on her walls with crayon, and my wife and I didn’t even care because the pictures were so good. She would also sew these elaborate costumes for her dolls. She’d spend hours in her room, cutting fabric and sewing—the quietest, most focused little girl you ever saw in your life. My other daughter, Kimmy, was the hell-raiser. Her room was the one across from the bathroom. We caught her smoking in there when she was just eleven years old, if you can believe that. And she was always blasting her records, playing really dark, evil-sounding music. It scared my wife, but I knew Kimmy was just going through a phase. She calmed down by the end of high school. She used to have an enormous bookshelf in her room filled with books, and she read every single one of them. At dinner she always wanted to talk about what she was reading, but my son and my other daughter weren’t having it, and my wife wasn’t interested either. I was, though. When Kimmy got a little older and started writing her own stuff, I always loved reading it. We got her an old typewriter for her room when she was seventeen. They had word processors by then, but she insisted on a typewriter. She thought word processors were cheating. She got a poem published in the newspaper when she was eighteen, and I had it framed and hung it in the living room right over the fireplace. My kids used to call that wall of the living room Daddy’s Wall because all of the pictures I liked were there, and I built that fireplace by myself. The house didn’t have a fireplace when we moved in back in ’70.” Harvey stopped to catch his breath. The boy’s expression had not changed at all since he started talking. He began to close the door again. “Wait,” said Harvey. “Would you mind if I came in just for a minute to have a look at the old place? It would do my heart good to see it again. I’ve come a long way.” “I’m not allowed to let strangers in when my parents aren’t here,” said the boy. He shut the door and pulled the bolt. Harvey stood there staring at the door for some time. He knew it wasn’t going to open again, he knew he’d never see the inside of the house, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He was still standing there fifteen minutes later when the police cruiser pulled into the driveway and the female officer—a girl who looked a lot like Tracy, he thought—got out and started walking towards him. Bio: Jack Somers’ work has appeared in a number of journals and magazines including Midwestern Gothic, The Atticus Review, Gravel, DecomP, and Prick of the Spindle and is forthcoming in Literary Orphans, Entropy, and Jellyfish Review. He lives in Cleveland with his wife and their three children. You can find him on Twitter @jsomers530 or visit him at www.jacksomerswriter.com. 6/3/2017 0 Comments Poetry by Jennifer HernandezExcavation Drills and diggers push through deep dark soil, spit out chunks of surface asphalt, disorient with the spin, the rip, slow at first but then faster, lunatic cries for help unheard, mouth filled with humid earth. Demolition Necessary precursor to rebuilding. Primal sledgehammer blows condense to rubble, sweep away what’s unwanted, salvage shards of possibility, form a mosaic, more pleasing with better harmony. Bio: Jennifer Hernandez lives in Minnesota where she teaches immigrant youth and writes poetry, flash, and creative non-fiction. Recent work appears in Anti-Heroin Chic, Dying Dahlia, Mothers Always Write and Yellow Chair Review, as well as Bird Float, Tree Song (Silverton Books) and Write Like You’re Alive (Zoetic Press). Back Then and Write Now When I began writing in 1960, there were no website "magazines." Print journals were the only place to have poems published. Writers used typewriters, carbon paper, a white potion to cover up mistakes and “snail mail” to prepare and submit poems for publication. Monday through Friday I'd work at my day job. Weekends I'd spend writing and revising poems. Revising poems took more time than writing them and that is still the case today, decades later. On Monday morning on the way to work, I'd sometimes mail as many as 14 envelopes to university journals and "little magazines," as the latter were then called. Some university journals are still with us. Some are published in print only and others have begun the inevitable transformation by appearing in print and simultaneously on the web. "Little magazines," especially those published in print without a presence on the web, are rare in 2012. One might say, however, that their format has been reincarnated in hundreds of website publications that vary in design, content and frequency of publication. Depending on the site, new poems can appear daily, weekly, monthly, quarterly, semi-annually or annually. For many writers, these websites are a godsend. Some "serious" writers, however, still feel that a poem has not been "published" until it has appeared on paper. I can't remember what postage cost in the Sixties but it was very cheap. Nevertheless, it would often take six months or more to hear back from many editors of university journals and little magazines. Sometimes I would get no response despite my enclosing the mandatory stamped self-addressed envelope (SASE). Submission etiquette at that time required that a writer send nothing other than the poems, usually a maximum of three, and the SASE. What's more, simultaneous submissions were universally forbidden. I don't remember any editor wanting a biographical note until the piece was accepted and sometimes not even then. All that mattered was the poem and how much the editor liked it. Today, in contrast, some web editors want a letter from the author up front "introducing" the poems and/or some aspect of the author's life. I've never been comfortable providing that kind of information in front of poems I'm submitting. I can't imagine lobbying for poems that I hope speak for themselves. In the Sixties, my average acceptance rate was roughly one poem out of 14 submissions of three poems each. Two or three poems accepted rarely happened but my hopes were always high. The rejected poems I'd revise if I thought they needed it; then I'd send all of them out again to different publications. Often the poems would have to be retyped because the postal process or some editor's fondness for catsup or mustard would result in messy returned manuscripts. I followed this pattern of writing, revising and submitting for seven years. I loved it because I didn't know any other way. I had no idea that in 30 years there would be an easier way to submit poems, thanks to the personal computer. What a difference. No more carbon paper. No more catsup or mustard. In 1971 I quit writing after having had a hundred or so poems accepted by some 80 print publications ranging from university journals to hand-assembled little magazines. I even made it into a few commercial magazines and received checks for as much as $25.00. I was on a roll or so I told myself. The reason I quit writing poems is because I had accepted a much more difficult day job as an editor with a newspaper. Previous editorial jobs had not been that taxing. I still had enough energy to work on poems at night as well as on weekends. But the new job wore me out. The money was good and helped me deal with expenses that had increased as my responsibilities had increased. Other demanding jobs would follow in subsequent decades. As a result, I didn't return to writing poems until 2008 after I had retired. I hadn't really thought about working on poems in retirement but my wife bought me a computer and showed me where I had stored--37 years earlier--several cardboard boxes full of unfinished poems. It took a month or more to enter drafts of the 200 to 300 poems in my new computer. It took longer to revise and polish them. Finally, I sent out the “finished” versions by email to both online and print publications. It took a few weeks at the start but eventually lines for new poems began to pop into my noggin. Alleluia! I was ever so thankful to "hear" them because it answered an important question--namely, could I still write new poems after such a long hiatus? I found submitting by email a joy. For a while I sent an occasional poem by snail mail to journals that did not take email submissions. But in six months I stopped doing that. I did not want to lick envelopes any longer. Looking back over the last four years, I'm thankful for the response my work has received from various editors in the Americas, Europe, Asia and Africa. Since I am an old-timer writing and submitting poems, I'm sometimes asked if I notice any difference in the "market" for poetry in 2012 compared with the Sixties. I'm also asked if I would I do anything differently if I were starting out today. Yes, I notice a difference in the "market" today, and, yes, I would do some things differently if I were starting out now. If I were starting out now, I would revise poems even more than I did when I was young. I revised a lot back then and I revise a lot today. I believe strongly in something Dylan Thomas once said—namely, that no poem is ever finished; it is simply abandoned. It's taken four years for me to gain some sense of how the "market" for poetry has changed over the last 40 years. In preparing my own submissions, I have had a chance to read a lot poetry by young writers, some already established and many unknown. Sometimes I compare their work in my mind with the work of poets I remember from the Sixties. Although Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso, among others, had their followers back in the Sixties, and still do today, I find that in 2012 "confessional" poetry has become even more prominent. Some of it strikes me as good, both in content and technique, but that is a subjective assessment. Much of it, however, strikes me as "raw," for want of a better word. In some cases I also find it difficult to distinguish certain poems from prose disguised in broken lines. I don't remember "prose poems" as a category unto itself when I started out. Today prose poems seem to be very well accepted in some circles but I suspect they would have been a hard sell in the Sixties. I suppose as a stripling and now as a codger I have written what some might call "confessional" poetry, both good and bad. Nevertheless, I think a young writer does well to write about someone or something other than one's self. Observing other people carefully and writing about their mannerisms and aspects of their behavior can help to develop one's craft. This is important because as most writers know, writing poetry or fiction is as much a craft as it is an art and without craft, writing may never reach the level of art. Perhaps it is my imagination but it seems that over the last couple of years there has been an increase in poems written about broken relationships or other distressful matters of the heart. The writers of these poems seem to be primarily women who sound very angry and no doubt with good cause. Apparently male poets find it easier to move on from a break-up and seek love or companionship in all the right or wrong places. I don't think that's a new development, men being who they are. I hope it's not chauvinist of me to suggest that the power to motivate a man to behave better usually lies with the woman. I feel that a woman has a gift she should not unwrap too quickly no matter how eager a man may be to undo the ribbons. Not many ribbons were undone in the Fifties prior to vows. In that era, of course, women were old-fashioned by current standards. The ones who were not "old-fashioned" were called a lot of things but not "liberated." There are other types of subject matter common in poetry today that didn't appear too frequently in the Sixties. Graphic sex, science fiction and horror seem to appeal to many male writers, although some females also like to write about these subjects today. I've never been interested in horror and I doubt that I would have the imagination to handle it well. I never fantasize about anything that even borders on science fiction. Sex, on the other hand, is a different matter. But sex has always struck me as the easiest subject to write about. I could write about sex well, I believe, but why should I? Why should I make my wife angry? Even if I were single, I suspect I'd be restrained by a line from Emily Dickinson that I first read it in college. Ms. Dickinson wrote, "how public like a frog." In contrast with my early years in writing, I am never satisfied today with a poem even when it has been published. If I go back and re-read a published poem a year later, I am certain to find something "wrong" with it and I feel obligated to fix it. Sometimes I can't fix it but in the process of trying, I occasionally find that I am suddenly in the middle of writing a different poem, an offshoot of the original piece or something entirely different. I've found benefits and problems in that. Rodin's "The Thinker" is set in bronze and marble and not subject to revision but few if any of my poems acquire that status in my mind. And if one of them does, I eventually come to feel the poem could be improved, even if at that moment I might not know how to make it better. Maybe in six months I'll read it again and hear something errant in the lines that I will suddenly know how to fix. It doesn't hurt, I believe, for a writer to listen to a poem the way a mechanic listens to a motor. Both want to get everything right. My purpose in writing this piece has been to record "for the ages" what it's been like writing and submitting poems in two distinct eras. I certainly like the ease with which technology today has enabled me to compose a poem. The "delete" key is wonderful. But there is something to be said for the anticipation caused by finding an envelope in the mailbox from an editor, the way a contributor might have done back in the Sixties. One knew immediately by the thickness of the envelope whether all three poems had been rejected or one or two of them had been accepted. That was a wonderful time for a young writer to cut his or her teeth. Bio: One of many nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html 6/2/2017 0 Comments Poetry by Stephen NelsonOr Maybe The Sky I could write about blue all day or kiss it or eat it. Like the blue book on the coffee table. Or the blue stone at my throat which causes me to disappear and appear at various locations around the world when the church pews are empty. Like Padre Pio. The way he absorbed the wars as an empath. The fields are blue and bloody and stuffed with dead bodies. I'm so ill I need blue. The blue of her eyes as she lies on the couch draped in blue. Her pain in me each morning a blue light and yellow. Bulbs crack. Blue bulbs. She's a spiritual healer and wears a gown on stage and holds their eyes and goes inside them like a boat sailing down a river in the forest. I love her so much. She enchants me and I know that sounds old fashioned but I listen to opera and have stopped masturbating for now. I was talking about blue. Maybe she's blue. Or the glass on the bunker which holds the orange juice the way she holds my desire like a candle. But she's ill. I'll imagine bringing her tea from my opera house heart. She can lean on me and rest and I'll hold the China cup for her to sip while the monkeys are green and crazy and there's thunder rolling in from the Pacific. An ocean separates us now and god I'm sick about that. But we're caught up in blue together like Jesus or Mohammad or one of those guys who wanted to change things. Like I'm blue and she's in blue and that's all there is for a million miles of space time right here in the flicker of an eye and all the dust and light that made us. I could write about her all night. I could write about the way she's blue deepening or dying. We're both so ill but I'll take a bath in Dead Sea salts and die for her. It's not even morning but I'll die for her. It's not even as if we need another night but I'll die for her and nothing exists without this blue to lie on. Not even the war. Sweets Teal perches on my eyelid like a soft bird in a sonnet by a Neapolitan gelataio. Her lips are crystals of a strawberry milkshake soaking the rim of my introvert moon. She knows I'll come and froth her sadness with the laughter of mountains caressing her richness to a Coca-Cola quim spurt. There are various ways she plays the limoncello after coffee - ricotta down her dress in a bistro sticky with love and light opera. I've got Puccini in my pants and he's not decomposing or remotely concerned about the jackboots crushing juniper berries on the sad, nutty plains of my heart - Tender Teal holding my balls in her palm through the meal from a Costa Rican jungle full of philia. I drift in and out and celebrate her pout with peach perry and an aria of bubbles, till I'm hooked like a ballgown to an out of body waltz. Oh my god, Teal! I'm the ritzy blue meringue boy on your teeth and tongue and lips! Teal Hurt Sun springs into Teal, her heart open, vulnerable Teal so I'll eat another meal - Cajun chicken & rice Pauline's nice, almost sympathetic. I'm next to a payout puggy, have no money, imprisoned, sweet non-alcoholic VISTAS everywhere. I don't do this to impress; I've been too wayward, too backward, too preoccupied integrating shadows as deep and troubling as the most broken-hearted human - her infant heart in me ok oh god - Teal - remorselessly held, unveiled, revealing. Girl blends fruit for drinks with ice - sunny outside tonight; Pauline's voice lacks confidence, her love her work perhaps emotional. Man with arm around blonde girl in the corner. I'm hungry, need fed, need Teal, or that blended, unbroken immersion in absolute authenticity realising the wayward child is divine, a mass outpouring of supernatural fluidity. She danced last week, makes cocktails now, waiting for the song that rocks her dreams over Chambord and vodka with cranberry. Teal told me. I listened, then went into the pub for a meal. But here, having eaten, I'm full, fat, fed - fragile and philanthropic. Fat guy laughs again, happiest human alive. Slim girl next to me waiting, all waiting the revealing, the unveiling, the bliss that's possible if I blow my breath on Teal. Incredible longing of the girl at the bar. Bottle of Sailor Jerry uncorked but I resist, drink Coca-Cola till the cows have calves in the springtime, lambs to the slaughter bleating in the querulous love of the sun. I'm here, Teal, all over and around you. How deep can we travel into your sorrow, your longing, your holy voodoo honey? "Went to the Palace last night." "How was it?" "Aye, alright." Supernatural Etiquette for Tourists Next week you leave and the beaches of North Africa are overrun with camels trying to escape the downward drag of poverty and $2 tourists. Tribes smoke hashish in the mountains, while old men run naked through the souk after boys. When did William Burroughs get here? I heard the drumming years ago and went into a trance and saw you from the Pleiades and fell in love. Your beach body is the mother figurine an archaeologist steals for his daughter despite the antique etiquette. All our holidaying on the coast, reading books and staring at the mountains; I watched my father burn then unhook a presbytery. Recently I returned and saw the water spirits wring his neck, then mine at a time when all I ever wanted was the integration of disparate elements of an idyllic childhood. The chip shop and the harbour were the first stories I ever wrote after cooking my imagination near the golf course. The rock pool crabs were frenetic and mad, or else just shells wrapped in seaweed. Dad ate Old Jamaica and pissed in the sea; mum drank shandy and held the cricket bat. Even then I knew I was more innocent than awkward, afraid of the strangeness of boys parading mohawks and pompadours for girls draped on motorbikes for sex. Someone said I had dreamlike significance but I thought they were delusional, until I caught myself behind the hills eating asparagus with a gang of mythological fishermen. Certainly by the sea I'm prophetic in a knitted Aran sweater, filmed by the waves for an audience of empaths choking on popcorn. Every feeling is heroic and the audience knows it when I fall in love with Marina the daughter of the coalman in a swimming pool on a rainy afternoon. I'm going to write a novel pretty soon. You could write three in a day. I like to think you're famous and have fought your way out of game shows offering luxury cruise prizes to sex offenders. Everywhere you go you make poems out of hospital beds. It's your best thing and please may we have an ice cold latte to sip. There might be lions on the beach you'll see as a sign I'm everywhere for you. Bio: Stephen Nelson is a writer and visual poet from Hamilton, Scotland. He is the author of Lunar Poems for New Religions (KFS Press) and Thorn Corners (erbacce-press). His latest book is a Xerolage of visual poetry called Arcturian Punctuation (Xexoxial Editions). He has published in The Sunday Times and exhibited vispo internationally. Check out www.afterlights-vispo.tumblr.com Photography by Jim Avignon
Dorothea Tachler, lead singer of the Brooklyn based band My Favourite Things, currently set to release their new album, Fly I will, because I can this July, talks with AHC about her inspirations, musical instincts and why we should never assume things will last forever; leaving expectations at the door, and digging deep into the creative vision at hand. AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way? Dorothea: This journey in music has accompanied all my life, been my life - the highs are I guess when the musical experience is good, in flow, and I am learning at the same time, musical skills, writing skills, playing together with other amazing musicians. With that, the lows are when that comes to a stop - when everything’s at a good flow, like playing with a band where it feels great, it has a thing of infinity to it, and when I thought, it's always going to be this, and it wasn’t, it was like a low - many compare a band to a relationship, and it's true! So the lesson is, never assume things will last forever - in fact, don’t assume anything, no expectations! Because we never know what awaits us next! AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? Dorothea: My parents used to put a lot of music on when I was little, bands like Beatles, Pink Floyd etc but actually more classical music, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, etc and take me to concerts and the opera, which made me want to play instruments. I started playing instruments at age 3, flute, age 5 violin, age 10 piano. A lot of the music floored me, the list would be endless, I remember that it really inspired my imagination, like taking me to another world. AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? Dorothea: Hmm not really… since I started playing as a child, it was probably some children’s songs. I picked up guitar when I was about 15 and my friend showed me how to play some chords, the first song I learned was „Killing me softly“, and Cat Steven’s „Father and Son“. The first song I wrote… was probably something I made as a kid for my dad’s birthday or something, but I wouldn’t really count that. It was maybe around age 18 that I started writing songs, but it took me a while to really go for it and explore it, and let myself express myself. AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc? Dorothea: Again, the list would be endless. I learned different things from different teachers, band mates, or musicians I admire - technique/skill as a musician, theory as a tool for writing, but after strict and old school French and German teachers, it was almost more important for me personally, to improvise and learn to let go and be free musically, and just express what's inside me, without the rigid frame work of classical music or a specific genre. I love musicians that are free, but it's also important to me that it always sounds beautiful. AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? Dorothea: For me, there’s several ways where this can happen, either when I feel that it’s really expressing what I’m experiencing internally, or when it's grabbing me musically by sounding beautifully, or doing a cool thing… I guess for me it's a good song when I want to keep listening to it myself as I am writing it - usually I start recording it, and listening back on my headphones on the subway etc AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, even if only partially, an imperfect vehicle through which to translate the taste of a particular feeling, a state of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener? Dorothea: Absolutely! Everything that you said! It is healing in the process of writing, especially when it is about a difficult experience - it helps me understand it better, and just to really go through it - because -as I’ve learned - the only way out is through. Music is my helper and companion on that trip, and when I have a song in the end that I’m happy with, this feeling of accomplishment can also be healing. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Dorothea: Yeah, all of it - playing with others, for others, different settings - being in the music, but also making a connection to others with music. Yes, on tour, but also in my hometown, for example when I performed (as a student) with the choir in church, and the acoustics in there were amazing with all that natural reverb from that space - but also playing with others, when it's locking in, and everyone is really „in it“ - just being in that space, the perception of time changes. Lately it has been improvisation that I’m into. It can also be while listening to music/ seeing a concert of other musicians. AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, artistically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell? Dorothea: Usually not so much, but it depends - the songs I write for My Favourite Things are usually about my personal experiences, but I have other projects that are more in the moment, kind of ambient, a lot improvised - its more transcendental and has no lyrics. I did start writing a political/protest song the other day though. AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Or what kinds of things have others told you that have helped push you past moments of self doubt/creative blocks? Dorothea: Try everything that’s fun or interesting, where you can learn something! when you write, try not to think about what others might think about it - just try to really express what you want to express- in a way that satisfies you. Authenticity is more important than following some fashion (in my opinion) Also: don’t expect anything, like „success“, for example. I mean, what is success? it can be something different for you than for others around you. It's not so easy, but I’ve come to the realization that as long as I care about my music, that’s enough reason for me to continue - sometimes it certainly feels like that is the case, and that’s okay. AHC: My Favourite Things are set to release, Fly I will, because I can this July, could you talk some about this record, how long it took to write and record and what some of the specific muses are for you on this one? Dorothea: It took 3-4 years, only because I didn’t have the luxury (and budget) to only focus on the making of it, but constantly got interrupted by having to make a living! Like on my other records, it's about my life and things that move me, like a diary. The first song is for a friend that passed away I was really close to as a teenager, in fact the one that showed me how to play guitar - It was the only way to talk to her I could think of. But, altogether, I was going through a lot of changes, and also still processing the loss of other people, like my mother. It's also about the process of growth, which never stops, and sometimes is difficult - two steps up, one back down, that’s often how it goes, and sometimes frustrating when it feels like a step back (even though, it sometimes really isn’t.) The recording process was a bit different in this one, my band mates Yoshio (drums) and Yusuke (vibraphone) played on almost every song, and played completely their own parts, whereas on the previous albums, I had written most parts and played a lot of them. However, that was before they were in the band - they are amazing musicians and I dig what they play! Keep up with My Favourite Things Website | Facebook | Soundcloud | Bandcamp | YouTube | Twitter |
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