<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<feed version="0.3" xmlns="http://purl.org/atom/ns#" xml:lang="en">
<title>MungBeing Magazine: Maps</title>
<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/" />
<tagline>taking a hardline and staring at it for a long time in the hope of determining where the "boundries" are.</tagline>
<modified>2008-04-06T05:04:27Z</modified>
<copyright>Copyright &#169; 2005-2008, Pencil Tenet, Inc. in association with Eschaton Media.</copyright><entry>
				<title>On Three Years of MungBeing -- 3 Years</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1288&amp;subID=1045" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T06: 1:6:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.1</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:50Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:50Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">" I can't quite even remember how I got involved with MungBeing, but I'm really glad that I did.

..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Ian Pyper</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="ian_pyper-mungbeing-3_years.jpg/">http://www.mungbeing.com</content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>On Three Years of MungBeing -- Congratulations Mungbeing!!</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1288&amp;subID=1044" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.2</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:08Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:08Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"I would like to raise this vodka to Mark and Jody for three years (has it been that long?) of hard..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Rik Albatros</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[I would like to raise this vodka to Mark and Jody for three years (has it been that long?) of hard work and dedication.<br />
 Mungbeing has been very important to me.I have no outlet for my creativity (if that`s what it is) except this beautiful magazine and nor would i ever wish for another.<br />
TOAST TOAST!!<br />
HAIL HAIL!!<br />
Rik albatros<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>On Three Years of MungBeing -- The Serendipity of MungBeing</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1288&amp;subID=1046" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.3</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:04Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:04Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Every stage of my association with MungBeing has been marked by serendipity, a sort of karmic..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Allegra C. Chesnut</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Every stage of my association with MungBeing has been marked by serendipity, a sort of karmic intervention in your life that advances you spiritually, emotionally, and psychologically.<br />
<br />
 Michael Dickinson, the well-known Stuckist artist, was the means of my introduction to MungBeing.  I "met" him when I commented on a very fine article he published in CounterPunch, and then he directed me to MungBeing, where I found his collages, which impressed me deeply with his artistic talent.  In a later issue  he published three related collages which touched me profoundly and I wrote him my thoughts in a paragraph for each.  He had my words on each one appended to the collages, and so my first appearance in MungBeing was completely serendipitous and totally unexpected.<br />
<br />
I never thought to seek publication for myself in MungBeing, though I am a published writer.  The quality of the work in MungBeing intimidated me, as I find it to be very high indeed.  Then Michael, with whom I have established a good email friendship, told me the upcoming issue was to be on "Intuition," and by a happy turn of the karmic wheel I had just resurrected a poem I wrote some time ago called "Intuitive Leap."  I had polished it and was considering sending it to an editor who has accepted my work in the past, when Michael suggested MungBeing.  I had no idea when I disinterred this piece that it would fit so well into the magazine's current theme, but I submitted it and it was accepted.  This was a happy day for me.<br />
<br />
For the following issue, Mark Givens kindly gave me a heads-up on the topic, which was Maps (as in, "MungBeing was all over the map").  Again - serendipity - I had been working on an article on the political significance of maps that I had hoped to submit to CounterPunch.  But I would sooner be published in MungBeing than elsewhere, and so I changed the focus of the essay, widened the scope, and with Mark's editorial help arrived at the piece in this issue.<br />
<br />
Each contact with MungBeing has proceeded in this karmic fashion.  I've never really expected acceptance, and each time it came I felt a great sense of honor to be included in the roll call of artists presented here.  Each acceptance has been a moment of serendipity.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>On Three Years of MungBeing -- Remodernist Salute</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1288&amp;subID=1047" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.4</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:27Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:27Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"I honestly can't remember how MUNGBEING entered my life, but then that always seems to be the way..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Matt Bray</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[I honestly can't remember how MUNGBEING entered my life, but then that always seems to be the way with the best of friends. It's like you've always known them, and that's how it is with MUNGBEING. I have always contributed to MUNGBEING, even before I knew about it.<br />
<br />
I was given the honour of producing the cover for issue 6 - THE FREEDOM ISSUE. That was one of the high points of my life. That word, FREEDOM is probably the one word that flavours my life more than any other. It is serendipitous moments like this that define my relationship with MUNGBEING.<br />
<br />
I hope it continues to go from strength to strength, and always pushes and promotes REMODERNISM as it has been doing. MUNGBEING is LEGEND.<br />
<br />
Peace and Love.....<br />
<br />
Matt Bray Remodernist<br />
<br />
ps - thanks for everything guys. MUNGBEING genuinely FUKKIN ROKKS.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>On Three Years of MungBeing -- A Toast</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1288&amp;subID=1051" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.5</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:01Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:01Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"When Janeece and Tyson asked me to give a toast tonight, I thought to myself "Do they know what..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Dave Carpenter</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[When Janeece and Tyson asked me to give a toast tonight, I thought to myself "Do they know what they're doing?"  I mean, I don't exactly have the best record when it comes to these things.  Anyone who was at the Bernstein wake last month will know what I'm talking about.  Can I get a "9 - 1 - what?!"<br />
<br />
Anyway, all kidding aside, I'm here to say I love these two crazy kids, and I think what they're doing is just fantastic.  You know they're right for each other, you know they're solid, and you know they're going to keep making this big ol' dumb world a better place.  Don't get me started, now...!  Seriously, everything these two touch -- it's gold, baby.<br />
<br />
Take their little 3 year old.  Smart, funny, good-looking, dependable as one of those "Rolexes" you can buy down on the corner... What?  Those ain't real?!  Damn!  Seriously, that little thing is everything you could want, and so much like the two of them.  Like a mini-me...only sweeter.  You know it's true!  Brings joy to this fella's heart.  Makes me want to go out and make one of my own.  Almost.  Whoo-hoo!<br />
<br />
(Just kidding, Chantel.  We'll get ours.  I love you, baby.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, they never asked me, but deep down, I suppose I've always felt a God-Daddy to little Mung Being.  I bet all of you do, too. That's what I'm talking about up here.  We're all God-Daddys and God-Mamas.  Anything you want, little Mung, you just ask us.  Ask me.  I got you.  I'll even teach you my super-secret booty dance.  Haha!<br />
<br />
So, here's to little Mung, and little Mung's parents.  I love you.  Now drink up before I embarrass somebody else.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>On Three Years of MungBeing -- Buzzymusings</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1288&amp;subID=1052" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.6</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:30Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:30Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Though cast adrift due to the conclusion of the old Salmon Bosch, that might have continued if I..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Buzzsaw</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Though cast adrift due to the conclusion of the old Salmon Bosch, that might have continued if I boasted the cheek and the brazen ambition to continue that legendary 'maga' and not trembled over the dread scenarios me dramatic fancy manufactured of a rapid ruin and the enduring contempt of Salmondom that was generally rather of a more quizzical and bemused stripe regarding Buzzy. Then one night of browsing in various neighbourhoods of the internet many years later, I came upon the home of WCKR SPGT and in one of the oblong and curiously coloured rooms of such a domain, I discovered Mung Being, and was consumed in joy. I rapidly dispatched a hopeful request to Mr. Givens that I might return to the pages of his literary endeavours and what he has nobly endured since. This man must at some point be deified.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title> -- You're Invited! - Springtime in Peñasco Awaits!</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1545&amp;subID=1042" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.7</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:11Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:11Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"I opened the email and found myself staring at the prospect of an exclusive all-expense paid trip..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Kevin Ausmus</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[I opened the email and found myself staring at the prospect of an exclusive all-expense paid trip to a luxury destination in Sonora Mexico.  I pounded on the computer a few times to make sure it wasn't a hoax.  But, it appears to be on the level and if all goes as planned by the time May Day rolls around I'll be covering the Las Palomas Triathlon on Cinco de Mayo weekend at a 5-star hotel with AAA Four Diamond cuisine in beautiful Puerto Peñasco!  Why?  I don't know!  Sometimes you're lucky that way!<br />
<br />
Finally, after all these years, a true Hunter Thompson moment!<br />
<br />
Of course, this is all cognizant on my recovering from the little stomach imbroglio I encountered on my last trip overseas - a gift from the Land of the Rising Sun they call <i>geri</i>.  Baaaad geri.  Two trips to the lame-wad American medical clinic and I'm still dripping.  It's not surprising.  My travels to Japan had everything else - romance, intrigue, reverence, panic, bliss, even a chance meeting with an old friend on the streets of Nagoya.  Yes, someone recognized me, a guy named Tsutomu, who then showed me his Harley and the American style diner he worked at.  That's his dream since coming to the U.S., to run one.  Then I realized hell, I drove him to his first burger joint.  I bought his first burger for him.  <br />
<br />
It doesn't matter where you are or what happens, if it is good, or very bad (or, actually, the worse the better), if you are a writer, in the end it all makes sense, it all fits together perfectly, you can make it sing, or rhyme, or come out your ass all runny and smelly.  It doesn't matter.  You are in control.  You don't have to depend on whether someone is going to show up for practice or how many pre-sale tickets you have to go into debt for.  You just write.  It's beautiful.  <br />
<br />
Three years ago my friend Mark Givens offered me a chance to write a piece for a new magazine project he was calling Mung Being.  I didn't even realize it was a pun.  Of course, I accepted.  Mark is one of the few people I know who not only can come up with an idea, he can figure out a way to make it work.  He can find people to help him make it work.  <br />
<br />
At the time Mung Being started I had already abandoned hopes of being a free-lance, figuring that one job that didn't pay money (see:  rock band) was all I could afford to do.  But Mung Being allowed me to write what I felt, it charged up the creative juices in me and eventually I found myself back in the saddle of editorial parsing, found someone to pay me to write (a little) and now can actually foresee a future in this.  <br />
<br />
Cheers to Mung Being!  Thank you Mark and Jody and all the others.  When I'm sipping margaritas in Peñasco, I'll be thinking of you!<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title> -- My Story with Mark... Being</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1545&amp;subID=1043" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.8</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:37Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:37Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"On the evening of September 5th, 2006, with the excessive heat of the summer and the constant power..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Muayad Muhsin</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[On the evening of September 5th, 2006, with the excessive heat of the summer and the constant power outages, Mark Givens Contacted me through an email, showing his great respect and appreciation to my works. He asked my permission to publish some of my works in his excellent magazine MungBeing. After two or three days, I agreed unequivocally, not because I need such advertising, but because Mark Givens was talking to me in extreme honesty. He told me: "We can only offer you popularity through publishing, but we cannot offer you money as we are a small and humble publishing firm." I highly respected the transparency of this man and the sincerity of his dialogue. In turn, I believed that his magazine will be just as sincere in serving the human arts and cultures.<br />
I have great respect for my good friend Mark Givens, who (is) my golden key that I used to enter into the admirable world of MungBeing; a world where I became more acclimated with the cultures and arts of others and added such information to my existing knowledge.  I would like to add that this magazine became my loyal friend in my current Masters studies. I would also like to thank Mr. Mark because he mentioned me in his (writings) at the end of 2006. <br />
I would like to share with the magazine and its family a very (very) large bouquet of white roses that I can bring to its building. However, I live far away and my wish is not easily attainable, but I am sure that MungBing and its family will shorten the distances between us and other peoples (cultures) with its honest publishing. <br />
<br />
My good wishes<br />
Muayad Muhsin<br />
Land of the Two Rivers<br />
<br />
<div class="offset"><i>translated from Arabic by Kirollos Abdelmalek</i></div>]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title> -- You Got A Thing</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1545&amp;subID=1048" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T07: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.9</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:07Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:07Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Why contribute? Why not? Yessss, Philosophy 101 is my game combined with rollin' the dice. But I..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Robert Dayton</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Why contribute? Why not? Yessss, Philosophy 101 is my game combined with rollin' the dice. But I have a question myself. I have known co-editor jody for a great long times, we've made sweet music together and continue to make sweet music together in <a href="http://www.julyfourthtoilet.com">July Fourth Toilet</a>, our fates are entwined but he's never ever, like never, told me why he doesn't capitalize his name. Must be his thing I guess. We all got our things. For instance I hate it when people call me Rob, I dunno why they do, maybe that's like when peeps call Michaels Mike or Davids Dave. It's a thing, ya know. What's your thing? You got a thing?<br />
<br />
Co-editor Mark Givens. I met him just once, well, twice, in the 1990's. He wouldn't remember. He was playing in WCKR SPGT. He was on tour in Canada. The first time I saw him he had a beard. The second time I saw him- the very next day- he was clean shaven! That was a shock to the system! It's not like he changed his identity enough that I didn't recognize him but it was different, funny how shaving can do that. So many blades to choose from. <br />
<br />
One more thing, people. I love you.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title> -- Elbowed</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1545&amp;subID=1049" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.10</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:21Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:21Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Hey, guys! I just want to throw in my admiration for MungBeing as an entity and for its editors,..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Ian Donnell Arbuckle</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Hey, guys! I just want to throw in my admiration for MungBeing as an entity and for its editors, publishers, and contributors. It's a rare pleasure to participate in such a celebration of creativity, and I'm beyond thrilled to have elbowed my way beside such good company.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title> -- Happy Anniversary</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1545&amp;subID=1050" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:1:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.11</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:03Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:03Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"I've been writing for Mungbeing for two of these three celebrated years, and I've looked upon each..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>SJ Chambers</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[I've been writing for Mungbeing for two of these three celebrated years, and I've looked upon each issue with immense pride.  Mungbeing is a rare sort of publication.  It tackles serious political and social issues, while recognizing that great art can also be fun.  With each call for a theme, a lot of my ideas would emerge as what-the-hell-throw-it-in-the-pot concoctions, which many editors would be weary of.  Not Mark and Jody.  They have always wanted to see what emerged from the stew.  For a beginning writer, having that sort of interest and encouragement goes a long way.<br />
<br />
Happy Anniversary Mungbeing!  Thank you Mark, Jody, and Starchy for all your advice, interest, and mad editing skills.<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- Callie Danae Hirsch and the MTA</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1289&amp;subID=1054" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:2:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.12</id>
				<issued>2008-04-03T11:04:56Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-03T11:04:56Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Callie Danae Hirsch has been commissioned by the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (New York)..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="callie_danae_hirsch-beach_105.jpg/">http://www.mungbeing.com</content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- Mezcla</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1289&amp;subID=1055" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:2:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.13</id>
				<issued>2008-04-04T12:04:15Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-04T12:04:15Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"A multi-media exhibition of six Latin American emerging artists:  Kirk Amaral Snow, Nat Castañeda,..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[A multi-media exhibition of six Latin American emerging artists:  Kirk Amaral Snow, Nat Castañeda, Gabriela Gonzalez Gaete, Robert Hernandez, Dave Ortega, and Allison Maria Rodriguez.<br />
<br />
<b>April 4 - April 28, 2008</b><br />
184 Cottage St. Suite 1F,  East Boston, MA 02128<br />
Phone  617.418.5838  Fax  617.500.0971 <br />
<br />
From the NEGLAA website:<br />
<div class="offset">The artists represented in this exhibition reveal that the art being produced amongst the Latin Diaspora in the United States far exceeds descriptions of jubilant folkloric works often used to pigeonhole Latin American art.  Instead, they distinguish themselves as dynamic and complex cultural producers who stand outside any previously established conventional frameworks.<br />
The works to be exhibited vary in their content. The artists examine themes of power and desire, family and memory, disappearance and immigration, the slave trade, the language of signage, the intersection between life, art, entertainment and politics, as well the effects of global communication on society.</div><br />
<br />
More information: <a href="http://www.neglaa.com/">http://www.neglaa.com</a><br />
<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- Michael Dickinson trial update</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1289&amp;subID=1056" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:2:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.14</id>
				<issued>2008-04-04T12:04:34Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-04T12:04:34Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Last year, Michael Dickinson was arrested and held by police for 10 days for displaying 2..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Last year, <b>Michael Dickinson</b> was arrested and held by police for 10 days for displaying 2 collage pictures of Turkey's Prime Minister as America's pet dog.  Charged with 'insulting the prime minister' under Article 125 of the Turkish Penal Code, he faces a two year jail sentence if found guilty. His case was first scheduled for October 8th, 2007, then it was adjourned until March 24, 2008. At that trial, the professors of art from Marmara University invited by the judge to give their evaluation as to whether it was art or insult didn't show up, so the trial has been adjourned until <b>October 25th 2008</b>.<br />
<br />
You can sign the petition of support for Michael Dickinson, and find out more about this case, at <a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/petition.html">http://www.mungbeing.com/petition.html</a>.]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title>Announcements -- Mark Planisek show</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1289&amp;subID=1057" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:3:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.0.15</id>
				<issued>2008-04-04T01:04:09Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-04T01:04:09Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Arts Club Of Washington presents artists Mark Planisek (MacFeely Gallery), Eric Knight (Monroe..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[Arts Club Of Washington presents artists Mark Planisek (MacFeely Gallery), Eric Knight (Monroe Parlors), and Jack Hannula (Monroe Gallery)<br />
<br />
<b>April 3rd- April 26th, 2008</b><br />
2017 I St NW, Washington, DC 20006<br />
202) 331-7282<br />
<br />
For more information: <a href="http://www.artsclubofwashington.org">www.artsclubofwashington.org</a><br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				
	<entry>
		<title>Dreams Over The Map</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1548" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.1</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T01:04:15Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T01:04:15Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Dreams Over The Map" by Muayad Muhsin, oil on canvas, 80 x 120 cm, 2008</summary><author>
		<name>Muayad Muhsin</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<br />
<a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_1.jpg' target='art_window'><img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_1_thumbnail.jpg' border=0></a> <a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_2.jpg' target='art_window'><img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_2_thumbnail.jpg' border=0></a> <a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_3.jpg' target='art_window'><img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_3_thumbnail.jpg' border=0></a><br />
<a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_5.jpg' target='art_window'><img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_5_thumbnail.jpg' border=0 align=top></a> <a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_4.jpg' target='art_window'><img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_4_thumbnail.jpg' border=0 align=top></a> <a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_6.jpg' target='art_window'><img src='http://www.mungbeing.com/images/muayad_muhsin-dreams_over_the_map_detail_6_thumbnail.jpg' border=0 align=top></a><br />
<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Finding Canada</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1544" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.2</id>
		<issued>2008-04-03T10:04:45Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-03T10:04:45Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"10 October 2002: Thursday, 12:06 pm

Only another seven hours to go until I arrive in..."</summary><author>
		<name>Nadya Bondoreff</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<i>10 October 2002: Thursday, 12:06 pm<br />
<br />
Only another seven hours to go until I arrive in Castlegar.  I'm in a fairly advantageous seat on this Greyhound, the first of dozens I'll be on, directly in front of a couple of talkative, gregarious strangers who have kept up a consistent and enthusiastic conversation since, oh, Chilliwack.  For two people who have never met before, they certainly have plenty to talk about -- and both of them are genuinely interested in what the other has to say.  I'm amused and, strangely, comforted by their dialogue.<br />
<br />
And then I'm behind a young woman who appears to be around my age, with a giant journal full of dried flowers, unsent postcards, random thoughts, and frantic scribbles.  I have the loveliest opportunity to check it all out through the gap between the seats: she is seated in front of me by the aisle, I am next to the window behind her / diagonal to her with a great observation point.  So far, based on what I've secretly been reading, I've deduced that she is overwhelmed by love -- or the phenomenon of love -- and isn't sure if she deserves it.  Reminds herself that one <u>can</u> love others whilst simultaneously loving one's self.  Muses about how it's easier to be open to love than closed.  And missing the <u>hell</u> out of some woman whose name is Joanne; I think this love object lives in Everett, as I saw some postcard addressed to her.  There are letters written to Joanne that are meant to stay in this girl's journal, a seeming mental purge that I fully comprehend the necessity of.  <br />
<br />
Sad-eyed girl in the seat in front of me, her Discman pumping -- inevitably -- wistful and sad music into her earphones; she's been jotting down what looks like a poem <u>and</u> flipping back to look over some of the stuff she's written /pasted in / drawn.<br />
<br />
This, frankly, rules.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Only days before I boarded that first of many, many Greyhounds, I sat cross-legged at my sticky kitchen table, unfolded a map, and stared at it long, hard, and excitedly.  A thought found its way into my mind:<br />
 <br />
<i>Goddamn it, this country's BIG.</i><br />
<br />
And it is.  <br />
<br />
Then, hot on its heels:<br />
<br />
<i>This is probably the most ludicrous idea you've ever had.</i><br />
<br />
And  it was.<br />
<br />
I was about to graduate from university in the autumn of 2002 -- a neat little palindrome of a year in which everything truly seem backwards and forwards and yet still always ended up the same -- and for the first time in years, I had absolutely nothing planned.  Month after academic month of essay-writing and SFU-attending had finally culminated in a glorious yawning blank of time in which I had no obligations, and those consecutive months of studying Canadian writers had made me mighty curious about this great nation of ours.  It was no wonder that I was unable to write about much more than urban neurosis, while Ms. Atwood, having spent her formative years reared among the backwoods of various Ontario landscapes, could effortlessly scribble about the life cycles of the <i>onoclea sensibilis</i> as being a metaphor for the gradual deterioration of a collective conscience.  I hadn't lived, seen, or done anything Canadian enough to infuse my prose with enough experience.  I didn't even like hockey, for God's sakes, a fact which, when revealed, had automatically rendered me Public Enemy Number One among the most unlikely fans of the sport.<br />
<br />
Have you ever looked at a map of Canada?  I mean, really looked at one?  I don't mean the simplified kind we studied on 8 Â1/2 x 11 paper in Social Studies 5 that our teachers carefully labeled with province names and capitals; I mean a large, unfolded, authentic, painstakingly detailed map pinpointing all towns, rivers, railroads, highways, historic sites, peninsulas, and national parks across this country.  Oh Canada.  Ten million square kilometers (that's four million square miles, to those uninitiated to the metric system) of mostly uninhabited land, which I was to draw a straight line across by way of Greyhound.<br />
<br />
To put it simply, Canada is enormous, and a map doesn't even begin to capture its gargantuan size.  In my opinion, the only way to gain an understanding of how big it truly is, as well as absorb its essence, is to do what many intrepid scribes have done, and quite simply, hit the road.  No airplanes, no train tracks, but the open road.  From terminal city to terminal city, Vancouver to Halifax, you must roll down the highways to fully absorb the shift from one geographical / industrial marvel to the next.<br />
<br />
In the fall of 2002, that's exactly what I did.<br />
<br />
With virtually no commitments ahead of me, I began mulling over the possibility of simply staying on the road, and created romanticized scenarios in my mind about how I would negotiate the pitfalls and hurdles of Canadian road travel.  The best one went like this: I'd hop off the Greyhound in some random town -- say, Shamattawa, Manitoba, or Pickle Lake, Ontario -- and, in dire need of extra funds, park myself there for an unknown spell.  I'd serve beer to thirsty truckers in a rowdy bar, dodging roaming hands and hurling snappy comebacks to their unimaginative come-ons.  At night's end, my plaid flannel shirt soaked in beer, tips jangling in my pocket, I would go back to my one-room rental (which would conveniently be located above the bar), warm up some tea on the hot plate, and wearily tackle my pillow for much-needed rest before I had to wake up and hit the road yet againâ€¦only to do it all over again, except in another town.  <br />
<br />
My trip didn't turn out that way, of course.  I planned nothing in advance, had no discernible budget, didn't have much money in general, and could only afford a one-month open pass with the meager funds that I had to my name; slinging beer and sweeping up peanut shells in a musty Manitoba juke joint would just have to wait.  Instead, given my time limit, I assigned myself a mission of sorts: find the "real" Canada, wherever and whatever it may be.  I didn't know what I was looking for, really, but I knew that it could never be located in Vancouver.  Much as I respected and was fond of my city, and despite never having been further east than Saskatchewan, I somehow intuited that what went on here didn't quite constitute the average lifestyle of most Canadians.  I hate to reinforce any stereotypes of the west coast, but conjure up a few visuals in your mind, and you'd probably be more than halfway to accurate.<br />
<br />
I set out for my trip at an unacceptably cold hour on a bitingly cold morning on October 10, 2002.  My Greyhound coach was scheduled to depart from New Westminster around 7:30 am, and would pull into Castlegar almost twelve hours later; a considerable stretch of time to spend on a bus, but which later proved to be nothing more than a warm-up for what lay ahead.  It all actually makes me think back to when I was a tot living off Ioco Road in Port Moody, and my brother and I would spot a curly-haired young man with one wooden leg hop-skipping down the street on a semi-regular basis.  Nobody, not even my parents, had the foggiest idea of who he was, so we simply called him "The Man With the Wooden Leg" whenever we spotted him.  Of course, you know where this is going: that prosthetic-limbed bundle of energy turned out to be Terry Fox, who we later learned was preparing himself for his extraordinarily ambitious Marathon of Hope.<br />
<br />
Okay, perhaps there's a <i>slight</i> difference between a courageous amputee making his way across the second biggest country in the world on foot, and an able-bodied misanthrope tucked into a cushioned seat to see her country by bus, but really, Greyhound-hopping is a type of marathon unto itself, and damned if my first name isn't the Russian word for hope.  <br />
<br />
<hr><br />
<br />
Ever since I was a mere embryo, I have made the journey to Castlegar, B.C., homeland of the Doukhobor community, dozens and dozens of times; I may even be well into the hundreds by now.   Since I was raised in a Doukhobor family (and for the uninformed, let it be known that the notion of Doukhobors as nudist pyromaniacs is solely the domain of the Sons of Freedom, a violent cult that broke away from the pacifist Douks and began a decades-long campaign of terror.  While it is not beyond me to disrobe or start fires, neither act is related whatsoever to my spiritual principles!), I visit the heartland at least once annually via the #3 Crow's Nest highway.<br />
<br />
The journey along the Crow's Nest is at times perilous (the Hope-Princeton stretch, with its dearth of guard rails and nauseating heights), bountiful (the bushes and bushes of wild sage growing along the side of the road just outside of Keremeos), breathtaking (the spiraling ascension from Osoyoos, where a glance downwards reveals a seemingly endless stretch of desert), and pastoral (the lush flora and fauna between the aptly-named Greenwood and Grand Forks).  Every single time you make the seven-hour drive, there is something new and intriguing to be discovered along the way, whether it be a piece of ancient graffiti never noticed before, or a roadside car dealership boasting the most incredible vintage models for mere dollars.  Greyhound, however, scheduled its trip to Castlegar along the Coquihalla Highway, which somehow lacks the charm of the Crow's Nest.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it's the fact that it seems too linear, too wide, too <i>new</i> -- I recall its construction in the 80's, when people proudly affixed "I Drove The Coquihalla" stickers to their rear bumpers -- and the winding, exploratory character of the #3 just doesn't factor in.  It's all business, taking you right through Southern B.C. in a no-nonsense fashion with no time for meandering.  I suppose there's a practicality to such a thing, but taking in your ever-changing environment while monitoring from a window seat isn't a successful undertaking if you're simply flying down a straight stretch of highway.  <br />
<br />
Nonetheless, the opening chapter of the Find The Real Canada journey wasn't even slightly marred by the Coquihalla Highway route; my enthusiasm was at an all-time high, as documented in the journal entry commencing this tale.  Finding Canada by way of Greyhound?  Why, yes, please.  I even clung to a Robert Louis Stevenson quote for my inspiration, which goes something like <font class="plain">For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move...</font><br />
<br />
That's a freshly-graduated English major for you.  <br />
<br />
<hr><br />
<br />
Castlegar is what it is: a relievingly familar dimple in the Kootenay landscape, a valley replete with predictable franchises and generic shopping centres, the air permanently reeking thanks to the output of the Celgar Pulp Company nearby.  In all honesty, it possesses no qualities that make it appealing to any sort of tourist or passers-through.  The town itself is meaningful to me, however, because of my ethnic connection to its being the heartland of the Doukhobor community; my roots having sprouted there; my mother having been born and reared there; and because in some way, its simplicity and lack of pretension are just so terrifically refreshing.<br />
<br />
For the first stop on my trip, it was and is nothing special; it's not.  Neither is Grand Forks, actually, or Nakusp or Kamloops or Kelowna or Pentiction or Hedley or, really, even Vernon; they are merely a smattering of miniscule, southern B.C. towns on a  map depicting the enormity of this country.  But take the time to actually visit these places, and you may begin to absorb some of their appeal, their necessity.<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Paris, 2008</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1537" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.3</id>
		<issued>2008-03-23T01:03:33Z</issued>
		<created>2008-03-23T01:03:33Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Paris, the city of lights. My daughter, Norabelle, is there for the entirety of her junior year of..."</summary><author>
		<name>David Greenberger</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Paris, the city of lights. My daughter, Norabelle, is there for the entirety of her junior year of college. We went to visit her in January, renting an apartment for our ten day stay. It was in a five story building on Rambuteau, a block or so from the Pompidou Center and near the edge of the Marais.<br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300&sub_id=1086">link</a><br />
This is Norabelle's world, all the more so since she speaks the language and I don't. She knows her way around. These circumstances dispensed with the dynamic of the parent being the one who holds the knowledge and the child as the one who learns. We saw all manner of compelling, historic places and ate great foods in Paris, but the thing that I feel will be a deathbed memory for me was walking a dog.<br />
<br />
Norabelle has a room in an apartment with a woman who has grown children and takes in a student each year. We walked the twenty minutes or so from our place to hers, as the dog, Saba, needed her evening walk and no one else was home. I knew how to get there from the map she'd drawn us a couple nights prior, but this time learned shortcuts and side streets with Norabelle leading the way. We got there, walked up the few flights of stairs, with Saba audibly scrambling about, relieved when she heard the key in the door. It was drizzling so lightly that it required no rain gear, but gave a shiny glow to the night lit streets. We walked around the block, just Norabelle and me and the dog on her leash.<br />
<br />
Life's ordinary moments allow for our personal emotional overlay to give them their meaning, whereas extraordinary events are generally defined by their own particular dramatic arc. I find that it's not the extraordinary things that stay with me and move me more and more through the years, but the ordinary things. The small map Norabelle drew for us to get to her apartment is now in a big envelope labeled "Paris, 2008." Going for a nighttime walk on some of those same streets with my daughter and a little longhaired white dog created potent images that will flicker in my mind for the rest of my days.<br />
<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>the river tree</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1555" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.4</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T02:04:53Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T02:04:53Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"the river tree" by Travis Lawrence, 7.5x10, ink on paper, 2006</summary><author>
		<name>Travis Lawrence</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["the river tree" by Travis Lawrence, 7.5x10, ink on paper, 2006]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Claudio Parentela's eXTra finGer</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1547" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.5</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T01:04:35Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T01:04:35Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Claudio Parentela: Well, first of all please tell us a little about..."</summary><author>
		<name>Claudio Parentela</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<div class="q">Claudio Parentela: Well, first of all please tell us a little about yourself.</div><br />
<div class="a">Simon Peplow: Hello there my names Simon Peplow, I'm 28 years young.  I used to reside in the second biggest city in the UK, Birmingham however the fairmaiden and I recently relocated to the city of Exeter in Devon which is a pleasant laidback place.  A good balance of city and country harmonious together.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1082">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: How would you describe your work?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: Lo-fi shenanigans with a motherly message.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Did somebody encourage you to become an artist?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: My mother and father realised how important drawing was to me after they bought me some pencil crayons, I was 5 and transfixed by them, mute for hours just drawing various cartoon characters directly from comics or the idiot box. My father is a really talented draughtsman, he can paint and draw in whatever medium is on hand creating the most detailed animals, people etc.  So I was constantly around Art making. My mother instilled in me a passion for food and cooking, she also realised that at 13 I was less interested in my academic studies, Skateboarding had taken over my life and so she channelled all her efforts into encouraging me to create Artwork whenever I wasn't outside skating.  So I have her to thank for the direction and belief.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1072">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: What is your favourite medium?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: The pen will always reign supreme!</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Can you describe your process, from the seed of an idea to a complete work?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: My work always starts out on paper, whether in a sketchbook or something loose lying around. My commissioned work usually has some text that the client requires me to respond to, liven up if you will. So I'll sketch out some initial ideas until I have something I'm happy with, I will then take this drawing and scan it into the machine to colour and tidy up.  The computers a brilliant tool for playing around with colour and resizing stuff, but I wouldn't encourage it for anything else.  Nothing beats seeing a visual creation come to life with imperfections intact.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1073">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: Generally speaking, where do your ideas come from?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: Everything tends to just tumble from my imagination, I'll create a drawing from a random thought, a song, maybe a conversation I've overheard. It varies from day to day.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: How long does it take to complete a piece?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: I'm a procrastinator, if I didn't faff around I reckon I could complete a piece from start to finish in a day, however in reality I usually spend at least three.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Who are your favourite artists... and who are some artists you are currently looking/listening to?</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1074">link</a><br />
<div class="a">SP: Currently looking at: Flickr's a really good place for sourcing new and interesting portfolios from like minded people who share a common ideal. Here's a few links to peeps work you should certainly salivate over, if not then I'm afraid there's something unfixably wrong with you and we can never be friends; <br />
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/yar">http://www.flickr.com/photos/yar</a>, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/driftwould/sets/1271130">http://www.flickr.com/photos/driftwould</a>, <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/flickrui/sets/72057594055630519">http://www.flickr.com/photos/flickrui</a><br />
<br />
Barry Mcgee and Thomas Campbell are and always will be my greatest Inspirators, they are the masters and I'll never get bored pondering over whatever visual treats they put out into the aether.<br />
 <br />
Currently listening to:  Talking Heads, Tom Petty, Todd Rundgren,  Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, The Chameleons, Stars, BRMC, Arcade Fire, Songs Ohia and The Organ.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1075">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: Are you represented by a gallery? Do you have any upcoming exhibits?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: I'm not represented by a gallery, however I've recently acquired an agent for my Illustration work in the States - Ohio to be precise;  the sterling Sturges Reps.<br />
I recently won the design a Carhartt advert competition held in conjunction with The Illustrated Ape Magazine, as part of the prize I've been given a small show at their flagship store in Covent Garden, London. So I'll be working on some new bits and bobs for that.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1076">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: Do you have any 'studio rituals'? As in, do you listen to certain types of music while working? What helps to get you in the mood for working?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: Yep... It goes cup of tea, bowl of cereal, pot of coffee, music, emails and then focus on the job in hand... I definitely could not create my work without good music, In fact I'd wither and cease to exist if it wasn't for talented music makers.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: What is your favourite <ol><li>taste <li>sound <li>sight <li>smell <li>tactile sensation</ol></div><br />
<div class="a">SP: <ol><li>my fairmaiden's lips <li>birds chirping <li>woman busts in the summer months <li>freshly baked bread <li>rubbing sandpaper against my teeth.</div><br />
<br />
<div class="q">CP: Do you have goals that you are trying to reach as an artist, what is your 'drive'? What would you like to accomplish in your 'profession'?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: Although of course I'm not an Outsider Artist I do feel I inherently share some of their practices, I have a basic necessity to create something daily or I will go insane.  Regarding goals I just tootle along day to day, I don't think I'll be the artist I want to be for many years, I certainly haven't got into my stride yet.  I hope when I'm gone there is a little bit of Peplow left behind which might hopefully inspire someone at some stage.  That's a big ask though. I'm just kinda leaving it in the hands of fate!</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: When have you started using the internet and what role does this form of communication play for you, personally, for your art, and for your business?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: Although it has many pitfalls, many of  which can vortex your days away the internet is my lifeline to clients, the majority of my jobs are acquired this way I couldn't source any of the work I get from overseas if the internet ceased to exist. Somehow I don't think my image attached to a carrier pigeons foot would ever make the deadline in time. It has been instrumental in making the creative industry into one of the most important industries we have in the UK.</div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1078">link</a><br />
<div class="q">CP: What do you obsess over?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: The human condition.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Do you have preferred working hours? Do you pay attention to the time of the day or maybe specific lighting?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: I'm a night owl so I tend to work best in the dead of night, anywhere between 10pm and 4am is good, no distractions, I just load up on coffee, good music and get fired up into a pen frenzy.</div><br />
<div class="q">CP: Do you do commissioned works?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: Yep!</div><br />
<br />
<div class="q">CP: Any tips for emerging artists?</div><br />
<div class="a">SP: Believe in your own abilities, follow your own path, surround yourself with inspiring people and just keep on keeping on... NEVER give up!</div><br />
<br />
<hr><br />
<br />
<div class="offset"><i>Claudio Parentela is a prolific and productive artist who conducts interviews with other artists from around the world. Consequently, he has two sites containing his interviews. MungBeing is proud to work in cooperation with Claudio to present extended interviews with some of those artists. Please read more great Claudio Parentela interviews at <a href="http://theextrafinger.blogspot.com/">The eXTra finGer</a>, <a href="http://foggygrizzly.blogspot.com/">Foggy Grizzly</a>, and <a href="http://ladylambandpopsy.blogsome.com/">LADy LaMbandPopsy</a>.<br />
<br />
For more information about Simon Peplow, please visit his <a href="http://www.simonpeplow.blogspot.com">blog</a>, the <a href="http://www.sturgesreps.com">Frank Sturges Reps</a> site, and <a href="http://www.myspace.com/theoutcrowdcollective">The Outcrowd Collective</a> on MySpace.</i></div><br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1546&sub_id=1071">link</a><br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Painting</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1571" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.6</id>
		<issued>2008-04-06T12:04:13Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-06T12:04:13Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Boy and Puppet" by Jeff Davis, Acrylic on Paper, 12" x 16", 2007</summary><author>
		<name>Jeff Davis</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Boy and Puppet" by Jeff Davis, Acrylic on Paper, 12" x 16", 2007]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Cities</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1539" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.7</id>
		<issued>2008-03-23T01:03:13Z</issued>
		<created>2008-03-23T01:03:13Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"There is a river
that separates your cities,
our cities, but just as I am yours,
so do..."</summary><author>
		<name>Jeb Ebben</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[There is a river<br />
that separates your cities,<br />
<i>our</i> cities, but just as I am yours,<br />
so do all cities belong<br />
to you.<br />
<br />
There is a river<br />
that runs through the heart<br />
of this city, there is a park<br />
where the ducks gather<br />
bread crumbs in their beaks.<br />
Once I saw the water so high<br />
there was no earth<br />
and I wondered<br />
where the ducks had gone.<br />
<br />
You told me to try<br />
writing pretty songs,<br />
about rivers and mountains<br />
	and love.<br />
I told you I wasn't able to write<br />
those things, but I lied.<br />
It's just that I'm not interested<br />
in beauty, in anything<br />
that will not hold a pillow<br />
over my sleeping head,<br />
dig its bony fingers<br />
into my throat,<br />
sharpen knives in front of me<br />
just to tease.<br />
<br />
The only good love<br />
is the love the oppresses.<br />
The only good love<br />
is the love that lies below<br />
the sodden ground, scratching<br />
and clawing at its coffin,<br />
fingernails bloody<br />
and tearing away from the flesh.<br />
Below the ground I know<br />
there is water above me<br />
and I do not know <br />
	where the ducks<br />
		have gone.<br />
<br />
There is a river<br />
that runs through the heart of you,<br />
collecting carrion fallen from the skies,<br />
debris from all the ruined cities<br />
upon your solemn shores.<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>People of the Mounds</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1587" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.8</id>
		<issued>2008-04-06T01:04:33Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-06T01:04:33Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Where is the material to break or overcome this blistered text like skin to wrap myself around in..."</summary><author>
		<name>Jenna Humphrey</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Where is the material to break or overcome this blistered text like skin to wrap myself around in such as the shuffling of ghosts and the seasons and the poisonous light upon your belongings: hot and a slightly faded tongue-pink walls or the insides of bodies from a fiber optic lens. Weakness and combust. Where is the material. The field is howling with ghosts of those crouched over, stealing from corpses as below and beyond me and stretching infinitely out of me is the banshee with her banshee's omen heart<br />
Remember the wind tunnel? We stood and waited for the bus and the rain fucking rain we are not supposed to say it out loud because our mothers still wash our faces with their spit and yet I needed to say it to you<br />
So as to put that cold sweating tingle on the shell of your spinal cord <br />
You have seen me wanting and have triggered rounds so as to break or overcome me and so I have elected to choose wrong: kissing snakes gone torpid with kill, and a latch to the fang to the venom, invasion and spew. I am afraid of my mother there clutching her phone in her lap when she is alone, clutching pictures in picture frames, the broken tv<br />
In the laundry room where she would iron his shirts<br />
Window folded open<br />
Into an alley a spackled black<br />
You hated it, but<br />
I would sometimes smoke<br />
And would think about all that was precious<br />
The faces of children<br />
The faces of strangers<br />
The faces of those I would not see <br />
We all of us leave with the same expression, <br />
One that is dead like the line she clutches<br />
Slouched on the couch <br />
Like that of a child who looks out of an empty television box I am tired of this<br />
And will go, limping through the night road<br />
Where dust rises and suspends<br />
Tiny cobwebs at my ankles<br />
Your ankles<br />
Where did you go<br />
You have sat inside of me silently and I can almost sense a rotting in the morning's breath such as wind from Colma where San Francisco buried its dead<br />
You have sat not reading the paper<br />
Light becomes resplendent in the kitchen <br />
See you see me<br />
The battlefield of lies<br />
I have said to you to steal quietly but you do not understand this<br />
Where did the numb incoming go<br />
I am glaciers and canyons, tunnels and beds<br />
One of them yours<br />
And whole nations of ghosts and can drift for centuries through the plains of my past<br />
Ships and ship captains and the screech of a banshee's heart, have forgotten their faces and names<br />
Would you dance for me<br />
Would you <br />
Dance for me now that I'm dead<br />
I can wash and color the earth<br />
And will continue to expand eternally until I go under and down so as you gaze at your mother through the bottom of a shot glass remember<br />
The Valentine's Day<br />
Every day<br />
Time and day<br />
Juice and soup<br />
Four steps to the bottom of the hill<br />
Climb mountain and mountain steps. Climb up it and one day climb down. Where have you going? Where have you gone? You will one day see to the bottom of this and will bear my strangeness as I thrash like a volatile current through the nations I have made <br />
Like cancer or universe<br />
Perpetual expansion<br />
Into the what<br />
The corpse's stillness<br />
Him without him does nothing and that is death:<br />
No hand on hand<br />
Only heavy, shrivel and sapped<br />
I will study the decomposition<br />
As bugs come in from the earth to congregate and dine <br />
And as for my mother, <br />
She will sit there at the bus<br />
Stop waiting for me  <br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Atom Maps</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1549" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.9</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T01:04:18Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T01:04:18Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Atom Map #1 (From Here to Where?)" by Ian Pyper, Watercolour and Ink on Paper, A4 Size, 2008</summary><author>
		<name>Ian Pyper</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Atom Map #1 (From Here to Where?)" by Ian Pyper, Watercolour and Ink on Paper, A4 Size, 2008]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>X Marks The Spot</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1535" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.10</id>
		<issued>2008-03-23T12:03:53Z</issued>
		<created>2008-03-23T12:03:53Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"X marks the spot 
Child's game of pirates and prisoners
Hidden booty of marbles, rocks and fake..."</summary><author>
		<name>Lawrence Kriese</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[X marks the spot <br />
Child's game of pirates and prisoners<br />
Hidden booty of marbles, rocks and fake money<br />
Our ship a tricycle, the house our sea<br />
Furniture the outcrops of rock and soil<br />
<br />
We drew a map first<br />
buries the treasure later<br />
life's rules blurred<br />
because simplicity is childhood's rule<br />
complications intolerable<br />
<br />
Our captain, my daughter<br />
Makes me a prisoner<br />
a plank walk to death in shark infested waters<br />
magically reborn as a pirate <br />
bloodthirsty as a teddy bear<br />
drunk on apple juice<br />
Treasure being this moment<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Brays Lossindant</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1569" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.11</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T02:04:29Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T02:04:29Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Blending automatic writing and 21st century graphic composition to create a visual language..."</summary><author>
		<name>Matt Bray</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Blending automatic writing and 21st century graphic composition to create a visual language reminiscent of suicide notes and murder ballads. The subject under scrutiny is the contemporary climate of paranoia, fear and conspiracy; The New World Order, Illuminati manuscripts, fear based control systems, and extraterrestrial visitors. The timeline is in the final years of the Kali Yuga, boldly dying in the face of 2012 and the mayan 'end of time'.]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Pam and Brad</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1588" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.12</id>
		<issued>2008-04-06T01:04:05Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-06T01:04:05Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"I go into the bathroom early in the morning while my brother Brad begins brushing his teeth. (He's..."</summary><author>
		<name>Jennifer Chesler</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[I go into the bathroom early in the morning while my brother Brad begins brushing his teeth. (He's slow so brushing his teeth takes at least five minutes.) He's in there in front of the sink and he looks in the mirror but doesn't see me in the mirror behind him because he screams when I brush against him on my way to the toilet and squirts toothpaste all over the palm of his hand. At the selfsame moment Brad screams I look in the mirror and see Pam, and from my lips I say the word "map" very quickly, almost as though I'm saying "eureka." Pam is me and I am she, but she can't see me back because there's toothpaste creaming around my lips like a vagina dentata. (That's how Pam is born from a castration except since she herself forgets where she departed from she looks at a three A's map and sees the green circle stamp saying you are here, which reminds her of her mother and notary, both of which remind her of birth.) My brother gets pissed at me for interrupting his tooth-brushing and I say I made Pam out of his penis, but I knew better than to use something so expendable:  I used my reflection. I tell him I used my reflection to make her, but he doesn't believe me because there's toothpaste everywhere on his hands and his hands aren't his teeth where the toothpaste belongs. He can't find his penis because he can't find his teeth and if he doesn't know where his teeth are how can he find his penis. I told him it was between his legs... right here you are here, I tell him but I'm gripping the toothpaste tube between my thighs like a dildo or I've-got-your-nose-trick. The I've-got-your-nose trick is where you slide your thumb between the index and middle fingers and say, "Look, I've got your nose," except it was a toothpaste tube and dildo instead of a penis or thumb. <br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Subway NYC</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1556" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.13</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T02:04:44Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T02:04:44Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Subway NYC" by Mark Planisek, Photo/Mixed Media Collage, 16"H x 14"W, 2006</summary><author>
		<name>Mark Planisek</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Subway NYC" by Mark Planisek, Photo/Mixed Media Collage, 16"H x 14"W, 2006]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>A Brief History of the Imaginary Map</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1536" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.14</id>
		<issued>2008-03-23T12:03:03Z</issued>
		<created>2008-03-23T12:03:03Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Nobody really knows why there is no patron saint of cartographers. Even the meanest human..."</summary><author>
		<name>Don Beck and Ravi Shankar</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[Nobody really knows why there is no patron saint of cartographers. Even the meanest human professions have one: criminals can turn to St. Dismas and drug addicts to St. Kolbe for comfort, but nobody offers the honest, hardworking cartographer solace against the misfortunes of an inaccurately drawn coastline or a spilled ink pot. Not so for navigators (and how far would they get without a map?) who have no less than four patron saints, including the queen of hearts of the patron saint deck, the Virgin Mary herself, and the indefatigable St. Francis Xavier who, in between conducting 40,000 baptisms, managed to find time to dine with head-hunters, raise the dead, and calm the occasional storm. It appears a patron has been set aside for every profession imaginable -- except for cartography.<br />
<br />
So spare a thought for the younger sibling of cartographers, the 'fantasy cartographer', who draws maps not of our real world, but of imaginary places. The chances of this small community of ever being bestowed their own patron saint must be smaller than the finest dot of a crow's quill pen, although as this brief history of this obscure subculture of mapping shows, there are no shortage of candidates for the <i>Patronus Sanctus Mappi Imago</i>, or Patron Saint of the Fantasy Mapper.<br />
<br />
In the beginning there was really no distinction between fantasy and factual cartography at all. Our understanding of the Earth and everything on it was sketchy to the point that beyond the next village, geographical fact often merged into fantasy. Blank spaces on maps are not good for the cartographer's business, so to provide money's worth to their customers, cartographers filled out the empty spaces on their maps with invented countries and fantastical creatures, including that old standby margin filler: 'Here be Dragons'. Factual and fantasy cartography diverged in the 18th Century when exploration and map-making greatly improved and more reliable information edged the unicorns, gryphons, and dragons towards the borders of modern maps until they disappeared altogether. But during the same period, the birth of the mass produced printed picture created a large demand from a still largely illiterate population for illustrations of popular stories, including maps of fictional places. The public was keen to see an illustration of Dante's nine circles of Hell (perhaps thinking that by memorizing a street map of Hades they could find their way out if they were unfortunate enough to be cast there in the afterlife) or the journey of Christian in 'The Pilgrim's Progress' -- a road map to salvation which if followed meant that Dante's map would not be required.<br />
<br />
But the true father of the modern fantasy map did not arrive until, a couple centuries later, JRR Tolkien created the universal expectation that every story of fantasy fiction be accompanied by a map, preferably hand drawn in a faux medieval style. Generations of post-Tolkien fantasy authors have obligingly complied with the convention of presenting a map upon the flyleaf of their novels, with results spanning the inspiring to the vapid. It is to Tolkien that most modern mappers of fictional realms owe their greatest patronage. But interest in drawing fantasy maps was soon to expand from the small company of fantasy authors to people of all professions and from all walks of life and the person responsible was Gary Gygax.<br />
<br />
In the late 1970s, Gygax created Dungeons and Dragons, the prototypical fantasy role-playing game ("rpg"). DandD was set in an imaginary Tolkienesque world populated by the same fantastical creatures which had long ago disappeared from maps of the real world. "Here be Dragons" was back on the map, but this time the map did not lie; at least, in the minds of the DandD players. While a few fantasy realms were published commercially, the vast majority were "home-brew" creations of teenagers and college students on shoe-string budgets who often spent days, weeks, or even years on the genesis and evolution of their new worlds, describing in detail matters of climate, culture, and political boundaries, which they illustrated with felt-tip pens on graph paper. So it was that the 1980s heralded an explosive birth of tens of thousands of new fantasy realms; today the number of unpublished, player-evolved fantasy worlds is beyond count. Gary Gygax's DandD and the next three decades of rpgs have become the most successful indoctrination into the art of imaginary cartography of all time. Yet until the 1990s this multitude of maps remained unseen by all save their creators' circles of friends, until the arrival of Tim Berners-Lee in the early 1990s.<br />
<br />
There are still a surprising number of people who do not know that Berners-Lee invented the world wide web. The web revolutionized world communications and over a few short years the mass circulation of information and images at little or no cost became possible. And fantasy cartographers responded. As Berners-Lee's brainchild evolved and expanded, the old "handmade" maps of the '80s were pulled from dusty ring-binders by the thousands and either redrawn directly into the computer or scanned and uploaded to the Internet. Today cyberspace teems with maps of imaginary places created as gaming aids for rpgs, illustrations by authors of speculative fiction, or simply pieces of art created for its own sake. But the computer was also to revolutionise mapmaking in another equally significant way.<br />
<br />
Running parallel with the rise of the Internet was the growing power of the computer as an illustrative tool. More and more cartographers switched from traditional drafting tables in favor of creating their maps on the canvas of the PC monitor. The advantages for the casual artist of using a computer to draw were many: errors were instantly reversible, there was no need to buy expensive illustrative materials and the computer was able to effortlessly carry out repetitive tasks which might otherwise have taken hours or days to accomplish using traditional methods. Consequently, the general quality of fantasy maps improved, aided also by map-specific computer programs such as Campaign Cartographer, Fractal Terrains, and Dundjinni, all of which allowed even the least artistic user to produce a passably attractive map. Almost all computer art programs can trace their provenance to a greater or lesser extent to the industrial standard: Adobe Photoshop, created by Thomas Knoll in the early 90s. Today, by using Adobe Photoshop and Illustrator (or their free, open-source cousins the GIMP and Inkscape) professional quality maps are within reach of the amateur with only a little skill and patience.<br />
<br />
Tolkien, Gygax, Berners-Leee, and Knoll: a worthy collection of benefactors for the creator of fantasy maps, and each a patron saint in his own way. But is this list complete and closed? Possibly not. Although an idiosyncratic little corner of the artistic world, creators of imaginative maps are a strong, artistic, eclectic, and ever-growing group, with more wide open space for invention and achievement than ever before, their numbers reflected by a multitude of organizations devoted to fantasy mapping on the internet.<br />
<br />
One of these collectives dedicated to the creation of the fantasy map is the Cartographers' Guild, founded by Robbie Powell. Powell noticed that web communities interested in fantasy cartography generally revolved either around worlds based on fiction (such as Tolkien's) or particular fantasy rpgs (such as DandD), or they exclusively used a specific program (such as Campaign Cartographer). These specialized interest groups were keen on drawing maps but tended to work in isolation from one another. So Powell created a discussion and map sharing forum focused upon fantasy maps in general, regardless of tools or artistic intentions, and encouraged feedback, discussion, and tutorial creation on all aspects of fantasy map creation. The success of the Cartographer's Guild can be measured by its membership boom--presently about one hundred new members per month. Such lively activity tokens the wellbeing of fantasy cartography.<br />
<br />
It is too much to hope that even if fantasy cartographers grow to be a significantly large community recognized by modern culture they will be offered a patron saint of their own, but if by some extraordinary chance that either in the near or distant future one or more patron saints are adopted, let us hope they are as worthy as the options presented here. Or, at least, let us hope that it is not St George, because we fantasy cartographers happen to like our dragons.<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Map to Nowhere</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1570" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.15</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T02:04:39Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T02:04:39Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Map to Nowhere" by Michael O'Briant, acrylic and glue on plywood, 24x24, 2008
</summary><author>
		<name>Michael O'Briant</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Map to Nowhere" by Michael O'Briant, acrylic and glue on plywood, 24x24, 2008<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>I Vow</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1538" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.16</id>
		<issued>2008-03-23T01:03:22Z</issued>
		<created>2008-03-23T01:03:22Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"I vow to learn this city
as I would a lover's body,
every landmark a beauty spot
along her..."</summary><author>
		<name>Jeb Ebben</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[I vow to learn this city<br />
as I would a lover's body,<br />
every landmark a beauty spot<br />
along her perfect spine,<br />
and I will concentrate<br />
on each blemish<br />
until it becomes as if<br />
my own and I feel<br />
pride swelling in<br />
my belly.<br />
<br />
I leave footprints beside the river<br />
like kisses up her thighs,<br />
hoping to find<br />
that mysterious delta<br />
where life and love<br />
are made into<br />
one.<br />
]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Destinee 1/ Fate 1</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1575" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:5:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.17</id>
		<issued>2008-04-06T12:04:43Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-06T12:04:43Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Destinée 1/ Fate 1" by Nelly Sanchez, collage, 10,5 cm x 16 cm</summary><author>
		<name>Nelly Sanchez</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Destinee 1/ Fate 1" by Nelly Sanchez, collage, 10,5 cm x 16 cm]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Recipes</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1294" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2007:26.18</id>
		<issued>2007-08-22T12:08:05Z</issued>
		<created>2007-08-22T12:08:05Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"The Barber's Closet was a Madison, Wisconsin institution. Located down a stairwell and behind a..."</summary><author>
		<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[The Barber's Closet was a Madison, Wisconsin institution. Located down a stairwell and behind a secret panel in the venerable Hotel Washington, also home to Rod's, the Club de Wash, and Cafe Palms, the Barber's Closet mixed a diverse and happy clientele with a diverse and mean drink. The atmosphere alone kept the patrons happy but the booze added a delightful glow. This beloved building was tragically lost in a devastating blaze in the early hours of a dark and freezing morning in February 1996.<br />
<br />
Fortunately for you, the MungBeing readers, a copy of the infamous Drink Menu was discovered deep down in the murky depths of the Cache Cow Archives. The original copy was salvaged by a peculiar sailor named Kenny and his boyfriend Paul in the last few months of The Barber's Closet's life and has been stored, seal unbroken, for eleven years. It is with a mixture of profound sadness and nervous excitement that we are offering to you the last remaining vestige of this long-lost and much loved watering hole, available in the coming months, one piece at a time.<br />
<br />
With only one further ado, MungBeing Magazine proudly presents the Barber's Closet Drink Menu!<br />
<br />
<blockquote>Here is a detailed description of <a href='barber_closet_reference_sheet.html' target='_blank'>Glass Classifications and Garnish Specifications</a>.<br />
<br />
Previous Chapters<br />
<a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_15.html?articleID=835' target='_blank'>Part 1</a> - <a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_16.html?articleID=847' target='_blank'>Part 2</a> - <a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_17.html?articleID=1459' target='_blank'>Part 3</a> - <a href='http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_18.html?articleID=1294' target='_blank'>Part 4</a><br />
<br />
</blockquote>]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		<entry>
				<title>Recipes -- Ice Cream Drinks</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1294&amp;subID=1041" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T04: 0:3:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.18.16</id>
				<issued>2008-04-01T11:04:41Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-01T11:04:41Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"Heath CliffIn a blender cup
1 level scoop ice
1.5 oz. Half & Half
3..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>No Author Stated</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<h2>Heath Cliff</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>1/2 oz. Frangelico<br />
<li>1.0 oz. Vodka<br />
<li>1 piece Heath Bar<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and 1/2 piece Heath Bar</ul><br />
<h2>Dreamsicle</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. O.J.<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Amaretto<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: 1/2 Orange wheel</ul><br />
<h2>Banana Split</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Dark Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Creme de Banana<br />
<li>1/3 piece banana<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip</ul><br />
<h2>Oreo Split</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Creme de Banana<br />
<li>1 piece Oreo Cookie<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Oreo</ul><br />
<h2>Mocha Monkey</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Creme de Banana<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Kamora<br />
<li>1/3 piece Banana<br />
<li>1.0 oz. Chocolate<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Chocolate drizzle</ul><br />
<h2>Grander Alexander</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Kamora<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Brandy<br />
<li>1 oz. Chocolate<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Nutmeg</ul><br />
<h2>Cricket</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Rail Irish Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Menthe<br />
<li>1.0 oz. Chocolate<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Green Menthe drizzle</ul><br />
<h2>Strawberry Mint</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Menthe<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>2 oz. Strawberries<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Green Menthe drizzle</ul><br />
<h2>Brandy Alexander</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Dark Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Brandy<br />
<li>3 drops Vanilla<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Nutmeg</ul><br />
<h2>Cherry Cheesecake</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Cherry Brandy<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Amaretto<br />
<li>1 Lemon Rind<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Cherry and 1/4 Lemon</ul><br />
<h2>Blind Russian</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>1/2 oz. Rail Irish Cream<br />
<li>1/2 oz. Kamora<br />
<li>1/2 oz. Vodka<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip</ul><br />
<h2>Pink Squirrel</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Creme de Noya<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Creme de Noya drizzle</ul><br />
<br />
<h2>Grasshopper </h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Green Creme de Menthe<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Green Menthe drizzle</ul><br />
<h2>Blue Tail Fly</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Blue Curacao<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip and Blue Curacao drizzle</ul><br />
<h2>Golden Cadillac</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>1/2 oz. Galliano<br />
<li>1.0 oz. White Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>3 drops Vanilla<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip</ul><br />
<h2>Velvet Hammer</h2><ul><li>In a blender cup<br />
<li>1 level scoop ice<br />
<li>1.5 oz. Half and Half<br />
<li>3 level scoops Ice Cream<br />
<li>3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao<br />
<li>3/4 oz. Triple Sec<br />
<li>Blend<br />
<li>Pour to 1/4" below rim of Ice Cream Glass<br />
<li>2 long straws<br />
<li>Garnish: Whip</ul><br />
<br />
]]></content>
				</entry>
				
	<entry>
		<title>Quiet Paintings</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1583" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.19</id>
		<issued>2008-04-06T12:04:43Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-06T12:04:43Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">'untitled' by Krzysztof Wlodarski, oil on canvas, 80x100 cm, 2007</summary><author>
		<name>Krzysztof Wlodarski</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA['untitled' by Krzysztof Wlodarski, oil on canvas, 80x100 cm, 2007]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		
	<entry>
		<title>Trygve at the Map</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1557" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.20</id>
		<issued>2008-04-05T02:04:15Z</issued>
		<created>2008-04-05T02:04:15Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"Trygve at the Map" by Mark Givens, pencil on manipulated photo, 2008</summary><author>
		<name>Mark Givens</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="image/jpeg" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA["Trygve at the Map" by Mark Givens, pencil on manipulated photo, 2008]]>
		</content>
		</entry>
		<entry>
				<title>MungBeat! -- Extended Leave of Absence</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1295&amp;subID=1040" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T05: 0:2:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.20.17</id>
				<issued>2008-03-18T02:03:18Z</issued>
				<created>2008-03-18T02:03:18Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"The Last Days of Russell is the brainchild of Mars Nova. Mars Nova operates alone.

Mars is a..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>The Last Days of Russell</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[The Last Days of Russell is the brainchild of Mars Nova. Mars Nova operates alone.<br />
<br />
Mars is a multi-instrumentalist (guitar, keys, drums, turntables, percussion, sampling) who utilizes Russell to speak larger truths. He currently lives in Memphis, TN, and adopted the Last Days of Russell name from a failed black-surrealist TV pilot.<br />
<a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1070">link</a><br />
Mars cites Frank Zappa, DJ Spooky, Madlib, Karlheinz Stockhausen, Parliament/Funkadelic, Rammelzee, J-Dilla, the Residents, Outkast and Firesign Theatre as some of his most profound influences. Under the Russell guise, Mars presents both abstract and defined lo-fi exercises in instrumental hip-hop, ambient, Surrealist and "illbient" musics. This presentation is referred to by Mars as Urban-Experimental Music.<br />
<br />
Russell has contributed to multimedia projects such as CBC's "ZeD" program, has releasd works with spoken-word artist Miss Augustina under the guise Karmen Jones and has collaborated with poet/performance artist Sarah Corson as A/Voids.<br />
<br />
Mars is of a southern Baptist background, but has been a practicing Buddhist since 2005. He has composed works dedicated to Burning Man, his ex-girlfriend and his late father.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, Mars Nova intends to record exactly thirteen Last Days of Russell albums, film and release a movie, and then dissolve the project in the year 2012.<br />
<br />
<h2><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1069">link</a></h2><ol><li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1068">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1058">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1059">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1060">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1061">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1062">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1063">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1064">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1065">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1066">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1067">link</a><br />
</ol>]]></content>
				</entry>
				<entry>
				<title> -- Amor de Cosmos in Lotusland</title>
				
				<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1593&amp;subID=1102" />
				<modified>2008--0-4-T07: 0:2:Z</modified>
				<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.20.18</id>
				<issued>2008-04-06T03:04:51Z</issued>
				<created>2008-04-06T03:04:51Z</created>
				<summary type="text/plain">"


Sunset on the mountain. ..."</summary>	<author>
				<name>Rubaboo</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
				</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/"><![CDATA[<br />
<a href="center","http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1111">link</a><br />
<br />
Sunset on the mountain.  Orcas in the Strait.  Bears under douglas fir trees.<br />
Memory is the center of everything.<br />
Once again.<br />
<br />
<b>Rubaboo: Amor de Cosmos in Lotusland</b><ol><li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1103">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1104">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1105">link</a><br />
<li><a href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?id=1300andsub_id=1106">link</a></ol>]]></content>
				</entry>
				
	<entry>
		<title>The Three Romes</title>
		
		<link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_19.html?articleID=1532" />
		<modified>2008--0-5-T07: 1:6:Z</modified>
		<id>tag:www.mungbeing.com,2008:26.21</id>
		<issued>2008-03-18T02:03:05Z</issued>
		<created>2008-03-18T02:03:05Z</created>
		<summary type="text/plain">"HONORIUS


At this point, the Empire is permanently sundered, Honorius Emperor of the..."</summary><author>
		<name>Buzzsaw</name><email>rss_feed@mungbeing.com</email>
		</author><content type="text/html" mode="escaped" xml:lang="en" xml:base="http://www.mungbeing.com/">
		<![CDATA[<h1>HONORIUS</h1><br />
<br />
<br />
At this point, the Empire is permanently sundered, Honorius Emperor of the West, Arcadius the first officially regarded Byzantine Emperor in the East. I will now follow the history of the West exclusively as much as I am able, and leave it to the readers of MungBeing if I conclude my compositional labour with the extinction of Roman rule in the West in 476 or continue down a survey of Byzantine history to the fall of Constantinople in 1453. <br />
<br />
The pathetic Honorius was at first protected by the revered memory of Theodosius and the horrible events of his reign could not bring about his ruin for he played no part in them, a captive in his palace, first at Milan, then at Ravenna, isolated, ignorant of the calamities as control of the Empire was at last ceded to the barbarians. He was oblivious to the cares of state and devoted to the needs of his pet rooster, Roma. To paraphrase one of my heroes, Edward Gibbon, in describing Honorius' reign, it 'will be scarcely necessary to even mention his name.'<br />
<br />
Theodosius did leave a negative legacy for Honorius in one Rufinus, a grasping and ambitious creature who abetted by his mastery of rhetoric and a deft tongue that felt its weight lightly, was propelled through the army ranks into the company of emperors where he addressed the commands of his avarice through the revenue of entire provinces in his post as Imperial Comptroller, and was the prime voice in prompting Theodosius to chastise the mischief of Thessalonica. Through the threats of Bishop Ambrose of Milan, Rufinus submitted himself to the rule of the Church, and spent the final days of Theodosius' reign bound in an at least affected posture of timidity and contrition. The accession of Arcadius in the East, however, speedily dissolved his ties, and abetted by the sluggishness and ignorance of Arcadius, he fixed these binds upon Arcadius. Rufinus then had thought to expand his authority by the similar treatment of Honorius, but he was thwarted by the vigilance of the Vandal Commander of the Troops in Italy, Stilicho. Though of that savage tribe, Stilicho, virtue dwelt within his virile frame and he advanced swiftly in the army, serving with distinction under Theodosius, mastering military strategy and the greedy passions of the soldiers. After his signal contribution against Arbogastes, the Frank Commander of the Troops in Italy, Stilicho inherited his position, and soon after, as Theodosius lay on his deathbed lost to murmurs and whispers, one of these communicated to Stilicho that he was entrusted with the care of his sons and his Empire.<br />
<br />
Two rivals nonetheless contested him, Gildo the Moor in Africa and the envy of Rufinus in Constantinople that still coveted power in the West. Rufinus loathed Stilicho and plotted his downfall as Stilicho, aware of the danger posed by Rufinus had begun a march eastward, his Gothic soldiers most eager, and soon attained the confines of the Eastern capital. Stilicho called a halt a mile short of the walls, and attempted to lure Rufinus out of the city through a ruse. Appealing to Rufinus' vanity, Stilicho sent a messenger into the city to find Rufinus and assure him that Stilicho was inclined to present him with the crown. Overjoyed, Rufinus strutted, swollen in breast, and followed the messenger out the city gate and into the midst of Stilicho's troops, whom Rufinus regarded with a haughty contempt, stopping to strike Imperial poses before them from time to time. The silence of the soldiers fired Rufinus' suspicions, but before they could speak urgency to his limbs, they were at once pierced by a thrust of sword, Rufinus expiring with a scream. His mangled body was dragged through the gate and about the streets of Constantinople, up the steps of the palace and thrown at the feet of the affrighted Arcadius. There was a general cheer over the fall of Rufinus, but Rufinus' creatures that teemed about Arcadius did not hear the applause, drowned out by the inward din of their desire for revenge. They abhorred the Vandal Stilicho, continued to plot against his life and sought to dispossess the Empire of him.<br />
<br />
These wishes were vested in Gildo, a swarthy Moor of North Africa, the brother of one Firmus placed by the needs of Theodosius to keep Africa quiet as he campaigned elsewhere. Gildo at once overthrew his brother, secured his ill-gotten position by the importation of wild natives fetched from the savanna and the forests to the south of the Sahara, these forming a dance of blade about Gildo that only civil war could again force into the scabbard. The death of Theodosius confirmed Gildo's claim to authority, and he exercised this by the exaction of gold and maidens from the wealthy families of his realm. An invitation to dine with Gildo was the opportunity for him to teat a new poison, and ultimately he discovered the efficacy of a slower-acting toxin, that of hunger, as he cut off the grain supply from his domain that fed Rome ever since the corn from Egypt was diverted to Constantinople.<br />
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A general outrage of the mob seethed in Rome, as their lives depended on the North African harvest, and their cries to remove Gildo were at last heard in the Senate House and Stilicho was called upon. Stilicho firstly secured a measure of wheat and barley from Gaul to refill the granaries, whilst gathering the Gothic soldiers that had inflicted doom upon Arbogastes, In 398 they crossed the Sicilian narrows and began an invasion of Gildo's province, led by one Mascezel, a younger son of Gildo's who had fled to Milan after a quarrel with his father. <br />
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Gildo met this emergency by importing yet more denizens of the African depths, from Ethiopia and south of the Sudan down the Nile and providing them with a lavish display of generosity in gold. He next resolved to dispute the landing and scald the presumption of the warriors of the north with their destruction on the burning sands of the south. Mascezel had meanwhile landed, established a camp along the coast, and set out to meet Gildo's army. Mascezel arrived at the enemy encampment, offered a general pardon, and when Gildo's standard-bearer refused this, Mascezel suddenly struck off his head, the banner falling into the crimsoned sand. The few Romans who had been pressed into Gildo's service at once broke into a happy tumult and acclaimed Stilicho and Honorius, and the Nubians and the Ethiopians beholding this sudden change of allegiance at once fled. Left bereft of an army, Gildo emulated the flight of his Bantus. He seized a boat on the beach, and put out to sea in a bid to reach Constantinople, but the winds were in the service of Stilicho and Gildo was forced to shore, where the residents of a nearby village seized him and cast him into a dungeon where he soon succumbed to despair and the loop of a rope. His son Mascezel was feted in Milan, but this praise was but a veneer; as he left the palace, his horse flung Mascezel off a bridge into a river.  Assistance was delayed by contempt, as a smile was seen to spread on the face of Stilicho watching the scene, broadcasting to all that Mascezel's use and worth had perished before him.<br />
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The memory of the African triumph was soon trampled under the hooves of a new Visigothic invasion, and the frail brace upon which the rotting form of Rome had been propped by the deeds and campaigns of Theodosius, dashed to the ground after his death. The redounding echo of this was soon carried to the ears of the Goths, and before the end of 395, the Danube frontier had been breached again, and the Balkans once more was their hapless prey, and the scene of their rampage. The unhappy inhabitants, long accustomed to calamity, tamely submitted. Having quickly exhausted the scanty supplies along the Danube they bounded into Thrace, appeared before Constantinople, Arcadius again tremulous, the denizens in a panic. The impregnable walls and geography of the place compensated the want of valour in the city, and the Visigoths abandoned the thought of an assault and turned to the westward, led by their resourceful and intrepid chief, schooled in the art of war by the Romans and ultimately to instruct his teacher in surrender, Alaric. <br />
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The Visigoths traversed Greece, the cities of Athens, Corinth and Sparta capitulating at once, before continuing their march into Ilyria. The smoky plumes of distress belched from Greece were broadcast to the West, and the masses of the Empire looked to Stilicho as their last hope to deliver them from being strewn about in the calamities in Alaric's wake. Stilicho heard the clamour and cry and responded by despoiling many a wooded slope to furnish the material for a fleet, which then manned, speedily sailed to Greece, marched upon Visigothic camp and visited a rare defeat upon Alaric. However the bravery of Stilicho was matched by the invention of Alaric; the victory of Stilicho's army contributed to lay a heavy hand of languor and complacency on them and Alaric exploited their inattention by a secret transfer of his warriors across the narrow Corinth Gulf and out of the prison of the Peloponessus and into Epirus in northwestern Greece which was taken into Alaric's possession and soon there after the title Master General of the East, Arcadius and his cringing court presumed that to indulge Alaric would be to send him to the West, this plan abetted by a discernment of the Visigothic chief's designs. Alaric used his office to command the manufacture of a plentitude of sword, shield and helmet, forged by individuals who devoutly hoped that these arms would be used elsewhere.<br />
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Supplied, Alaric marched out of Greece, and detoured to the Danube, there to draw on a fresh provision of Gothic fighters before crossing the Alps and in 403 descended on to plains of the Po, exhaling a gust that swept away much of the monuments of civilization, and indeed even clearing Honorius out of the palace in Milan. Unlike his forbears who in such a time of emergency would have called for their armour, Honorius merely summoned his carriage and screeched in the most pitiable cries that tore through the palace for his Sacred Person to be carried off at once to Gaul. Stilicho alone was able to bind the screams of silence, and urged Honorius to remain in Italy, lest it be handed over to Alaric. Stilicho, quite aware of the decay of the Italian soldier, was compelled to strip away most of the Roman defense to the north and the west of the Alps. The Rhine frontier was denuded of all but a mere screen of a force that would collapse at the first harsh bellow to sound out of a wood across the river. In Britain, the legions were completely withdrawn, the provincials abandoned to Hengist and his Saxons, the fall of Romano-Briton civilization and centuries of upheaval, all in the cause of defending Italy. <br />
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Stilicho hastily led the trod of boots out of Milan, depending on the spring torrents of the rivers swollen in snowmelt to delay Alaric. A detachment of Visigoths seized an important bridge over one river and poured over it in a sudden lunge towards Milan. Honorius gave out his most sorry scream on word of this, and he presented Alaric with the view of his terrified flight out of the city, Honorius' carriage-horses churning up dusty clouds as a mad, insouciant Imperial attempt was made to attain a sanctuary in Gaul. His designs of escape were stopped; a group of Gothic warriors halted his carriage, surrounded by a bearded and fur-clad host that prompted yet another race of pathetic hue from Honorius. He was only released from this predicament when these soldiers were called away by the news that Stilicho was approaching. Stilicho had courageously swum across rivers, including the Po itself in order to save his Emperor, followed by the mass of his army. They scampered onto the final riverbank and with scant time to organize, pounced upon the Visigoths, slashing their lines, reducing them into a sanguinary gore on the grass. The Visigoths quailed, assembled in conference at their camp with Alaric who rebuffed their unease and cursed their fear, boldly stating that he had come to Italy either to mount a throne or to be lowered into a grave. Their gathering was interrupted by an onrush of the Imperial cavalry that raised a tumult and caused a rout and wooed Ruin to come upon the Visigoths. The brazen Alaric was unbowed; he withdrew from his encampment not towards the Alps, but southward, along the spine of the Apennine Mountains southward to Rome itself, resolved to conquer or perish. At this point, Stilicho, utterly exhausted along with his troops decided to offer tribute, readily accepted by Alaric who dispensed most of it into the hands of his semi-independent chiefs who would have put Alaric to the sword had he rejected easy spoil.  <br />
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As Alaric retreated across the Alps, in 404 Honorius was encouraged to stage a Triumph in Rome, presiding over celebrations of the deliverance of Italy. Wild beast hunts were held in the Coliseum, the Circus Maximus thundered in a series of chariot races, and though in official disfavour since the reign of Constantine, a gladiatorial contest was offered until a monk by the name of Telemachus strode onto the crimsoned sand and separated the combatants before being stoned to death by the livid spectators. Under pressure from the bishops, Honorius followed up his liberal gifts to the shrines of the past martyrs by the final abolishment of the games in the name of a current one. After centuries of slaughter as amusement, the doubtful spectacle forever disappeared from Rome.<br />
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After some months in Rome, Honorius departed for Ravenna, a fortress city by the Adriatic Sea, which afforded an easy means of escape the defenseless inland locale of Milan could not grant. It also boasted a plenty of vineyard wreathing about its confines in a salubrious setting that could not but tempt and secure the fancy of Honorius who with alacrity retired behind its walls and dared tempest to approach, and Tempest duly gratified him as a furious cataclysm was about to burst upon him. Impelled by savage tribes in their rearward, the Huns commenced a new excursion to the west, descending upon the Germans in a fresh rain of catastrophe. The Germans in their turn began a mass exodus, fleeing their forests and morasses in the hope of a refuge across the Rhine and to confound the appetite of Doom.<br />
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One band of confederate Germans under one King Radagasius passed the Danube seeking to reverse their fortunes in the treasures of Italy. Radagasius' forces met little resistance as his howling, blade- waving host tumbled down the Alpine slopes, cavorting and gamboling about the plain, many of Stilicho's troops joining the standards of Radagasius, as Honorius, behind Ravenna's walls consoled himself with the rich local wine, gulped from a shaky goblet regretting his hasty dare.  Alaric was at least a nominal adherent of the Nazarene with respect for the Roman achievement, at least in its Christian affectation, familiar with the trappings of civilization; Radagasius was a savage freshly descended from the Baltic, a pagan Fury destitute of any such notions as Alaric's. Radagasius encamped before the walls of Florence, the moans and cries of the hungry behind the encircling stones quite drowned out by the massed growl of the beasts without, anticipating their violence soon would be satisfied on freshly drawn blood.<br />
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A harried Stilicho rushed off to the relief of Florence, and as he knew that this was the last army available, he did not attack Radagasius, but merely besieged the besieger, throwing a strangling line about them, cutting them off from the provisions the surrounding country might still offer and imposing a speedy privation upon Radagasius' forces. The decrees of empty bellies soon forced surrender, and those troops who served under Stilicho begged a pardon. Radagasius was seized by his these men and turned over to Stilicho's axe and in their turn were granted to the slave auctioneer. <br />
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Stilicho could barely wipe the sweat from his furrowed brow as in 406, a second group of confederate Germans, swelled in their numbers by a number of Radagasius' fighters who had fled Italy and vehemently sought revenge on the final day of that year, crossed the frozen Rhine, overwhelmed the remaining sorry garrisons on the far bank and flooded into helpless Gaul, that frontier forever breeched. The Frank, the Vandal, the Burgundian never again retreated, the seeds of France brutally sowed in their footsteps upon the expiring soil of Gaul.<br />
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Stilicho was impelled by the unparalleled disaster to seek the friendship and alliance of Alaric, remembering Alaric's valour and genius, and taking care to keep him at a distance from the temptation of Italy, a treaty was duly signed. Alaric at length, discerning his value to the Romans and esteeming it not cheap, soon transmitted a series of demands to Stilicho, including gold, and a  province in the Empire in which the Visigoths would permanently settle in return for his assistance in rescuing Gaul from its unspeakable distress.<br />
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The Senators in Rome were outraged and indignant over such a price, but the emergency of the time quenched their disquiet, and Italian gold was dispatched to purchase Gothic iron. But the Senator's unrest did not subside entirely, and one calculating ivory beard by the name of Olympias wished to punish Stilicho for the Roman disgrace and inherit his authority. Olympias poisoned Honorius' mind against Stilicho, foraying to Ravenna, sitting with Honorius in his palace, pouring another measure of wine and describing his lamentable condition as a puppet. Another gulp of wine, and then Olympias prophesied that soon Stilicho would divest himself of Honorius and assume the purple himself. Flushing, Honorius eagerly agreed to Olympias' accession to power and Stilicho's assassination at his camp near Pavia in the north of Italy where a mutiny was roused up against him, nourished on false rumour perpetrated by a Visigothic guard. This was first visited through the massacre of Stilicho's friends, a desperately required collection of veteran generals. Inflamed, the Visigoths resolved to conclude the matter by their approach to Stilicho's camp. Alerted, Stilicho quit his tent, with the utmost difficulty fleeing to Ravenna, where he claimed sanctuary in a church, clutching the altar cloth, upon his knees. The bishop suspended his protection as a mass of legionaries forced the doors and advanced on Stilicho, tearing his hands away from the fabric and dragging him out onto the steps where he was executed, Stilicho bowing his neck with firmness and dignity. <br />
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And thus, through the jealousy and ingratitude of an indolent affrighted shadow of an Emperor in Ravenna, Italy and Rome itself were delivered to Alaric.<br />
<br />
<h1>THE SACK OF ROME</h1><br />
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The murder of Stilicho provided a firm pretext for Alaric who sought to invade Italy a second time. He posed as the offended and violated compatriot of Stilicho, and privately and even more importantly, he mulled over the payment of 4,000 pounds of gold that was still due him. Alaric sent messengers to the Senate to inform the ivory beards that once the coveted metal was in his possession he would depart Italy. The Senators, falsely emboldened by an incorrect estimation of Alaric's weakness and his respect for Rome, refused his offer with contempt. They basely insulted Alaric's embassy, had them driven down the steps of the Senate House with swords and presumed that Alaric would at once quit Italy, prompted by this stern and resolute display.<br />
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This display prompted only a southward march. Alaric rapidly passed the Alps again, pillaging several Italian cities then turned over to the aggressive appetites of his forest host. He bypassed the fortress of Ravenna, and marched again along the mountainous spine of Italy before descending into the rich plains and farms of Umbria. With no Gallienus or Aurelian to oppose him, Alaric glutted his warriors on the storied hams and cheeses and olives and wines of the area before continuing his victorious procession under a series of arches decorated with the spoil of past victories over barbarians, and soon pitched camp before the very walls of Rome.<br />
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Alaric at once threw a line of soldier around the city, commanded the gates and all but cut off Rome from its surroundings, from the produce of Umbria and the grain of Africa and introducing the novelty of famine. The citizens of Rome at first seethed in outrage that the Capital of the World should be so treated by barbarians, but the speedy exhaustion of their cupboards sapped the energy to sustain anger and soon the mood of the inhabitants was reduced to a dumb distress. The mob saw their rations of wine, bread and bacon reduced by the day as prices suddenly attached to them conversely rose. The mob soon fell into utter penury for a sip of wine and a bit of bacon, and all subsisted thereafter for a time on the charity of wealthy matrons who threw open the doors of their mansions and larders to the starving population, most notably Lacta, Gratian's widow. But these noble shows of generosity could not forestall the grim progress of hunger that soon presumed to dwell even in the palaces of Senators. They were  driven to surrender their horde of treasure to obtain a paltry and increasingly inedible fare, as below their windows, the famished began to fall in the streets and were at once pounced upon by others as a sudden blessing of meat, their revulsion mute. Soon, too many bodies dropped to the pavement to be devoured, and their swift putrefaction begat an overwhelming stench and its fatal companion, pestilence.<br />
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After an attempt by the surviving pagans of the city to draw down bolts of fire from the clouds through the auspices of magic to smite Alaric, the Senators, having squashed this expedient for fear of divine punishment added to their earthly predicament, decided that Alaric's clemency must be implored. A number of emissaries were appointed to approach Alaric, led by one Basillius, a Senator of impressive courage. He was brought to Alaric, and consumed with fancy for his reputation, Basillius strode into Alaric's tent haughtily, fixed his glance into Alaric's eye and boldly stated that if Rome was refused an honourable surrender, he would call upon the desperate denizens to arise and scatter Alaric's wretched little camp. Alaric snorted in derision, well aware the martial prowess of that city long ago perished , vanquished by the consequences of victory. Alaric declared that he would immediately attack Rome unless ALL the gold, ALL the silver, and ALL the slaves of the metropolis were turned over to him as ransom.  When Basillius, casting away his bravado and face running in tears cried that they would be left with nothing, Alaric replied, "Your LIVES will be left you." A bellow of dismissive laughter escorted the embassy out of the tent as a lash. Shortly thereafter Alaric moderated his terms, settling for 5,000 pounds of gold, 30,000 of silver as well as ample measures of silk and pepper. These were paid, and Alaric retired, his camp broken up and the bounty of Umbria was again allowed to flow into the city relieving its misery, and Rome seemed released from calamity.  Alaric established his headquarters in Tuscany, freeing a Visigothic legion cast into servitude there after Stilicho's murder, relating their  manipulation by Honorius and Olympias, and eagerly joining his warriors already increased in numbers by a fresh migration of Goths across the Danube and the Alps.<br />
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Alaric was still determined to raise a Roman province into the status of a Visigothic kingdom, fed on a subsidy of corn, as well as secure the title of Master-General of the Soldiers, and he still attempted a negotiation to secure this ambition cheaply or, if required, to confound the Roman intentions with subterfuge. Alaric proposed an exchange of hostages as a token of mutual good faith; Alaric even dispatched a number to Rome. Olympias met them with intransigence, and they were ejected under an affected military escort, an honour guard called upon to accomplish the tasks of an army. Alaric still called for a Roman embassy, and one was assembled, led by the Bishop of Rome, Innocent, whose authority surrounded them as a cordon of Praetorians and kept at bay the hazards of the road to Ravenna.<br />
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Olympias was thereafter overthrown by intrigue, but he escaped, wandering about before ignominy embraced him permanently, Olympias expiring under the lash. The workings of the Roman governmental machines were then assigned to one Gennerid, a German who still worshipped the Oak of Wotan and offered a final moment of liberty to the pagans and applied his hearty spirit upon the peasants of Ilyria and along the Danube in the guise of a harsh military discipline to revive the elan of the ancient legion. Gennerid invited Huns to join the Imperial forces and to bring along their ample supply of oxen to feed and strengthen a sword arm. But the court of Honorius was the scene of constant jealousy and pettiness nurtured on corruption. Honorius' named was attached to a letter in which one corrupt official was to be given the free use of the public monies while a vile barbarian was rebuked for sullying the sacredness of  Roman soil with his name and nation. This insulting missive was rashly sent to Alaric who reacted with fury and summoned his troops to the standards and commenced a new march upon Rome. He bypassed the metropolis, and descended upon and took into the Visigothic possession the grain port of Ostia at the Tiber's mouth, where the harvests of the Empire were disembarked and gathered up in a vast complex of granaries. Rome was tartly informed that only surrender would unbolt the corn magazines. The memory of the recent siege and famine counseled a speedy submission and the need to name a new Caesar to mount the throne, one Attalus, the city prefect. Nominated to the purple, secure in Alaric's protection, that might use him, Attalus attired himself in a facsimile of majesty and took up residence in the long-forsook palace upon the Palatine Hill, spending hours carefully adjusting garlands upon his head.  The remaining wealth of the city, plate and ornaments, were plundered and attached to Attalus. He soon bounded into the Senate House, striding imperiously across the floor, loudly declaiming the restoration of the Empire's unity and only the contempt that the assembly held for Honorius restrained an eruption of derisive laughter. Encouraged by this tenuous loyalty, Attalus dispatched messengers to North Africa and the furthest reaches of Italy to announce his authority that was won by unsheathed Gothic swords. These swords remained estranged from the scabbard and attended Attalus on his march to Ravenna, which at once threw open its gates and disgorged several emissaries of Honorius who then kneeling, announced that Honorius was quite willing to divide the West.  Attalus instantly rejected this, and from within a cordon of spears haughtily announced that Honorius must resign and seek the remedy of exile to alleviate his grim situation. Honorius' creatures trembled and considered defection as Honorius made ready a ship in the harbour as he traversed the halls of his palace, anticipating his life's denouement lunging forth from behind each pillar he approached. <br />
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The son of Theodosius was rescued by a sudden arrival of thousands of veteran soldiers from Constantinople, appearing in the port and they were at once transferred to atop the city walls and this display of reinforced purple was a slashing blade to the counterfeit weaves of Attalus' pretension. The news that his authority in Africa was overthrown, the troops sent to restore his right there slain, and the governor transfixed the flow of grain to Rome was fatal to Attalus' position and compromising to Alaric. Alaric wished to evacuate some of his Goths by sea, but the emboldened Senators refused to permit any Visigoths to depart across the brine. Alaric was outraged by the intransigence of the ivory beards and sought rapid redress. Attalus was summoned from his tent in mid-tremble and brought before Alaric. He stripped Attlaus of his robe and ornament, Alaric announcing that he would gift them to Honorius, in a guise promoting friendship between them.<br />
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The Sack of Rome was ensured by the word that one Visigoth by the name of Sarus, an enemy of Alaric, had secretly been received in Ravenna with a stout detachment of hundreds of Visigoths as Attalus, clawing at Alaric's furs, begged in between shrieks that he allowed a return to Rome irrespective of disgrace. A city gate was opened and a sally of warriors led by Sarus burst out to sculpt a substantial portion of Alaric's forces into the various gory postures of fatality. Triumphant, Sarus and his men retired into the embrace of the walls and of Honorius who declared that Alaric's friendship was a commodity both filthy and despicable.<br />
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Alaric at once indulged his revenge to the full. A quick tromp of boots brought him again to the walls of Rome, helpless and destitute of arms. The Senate regretted their defiance; phantoms of the martial spirit of Trajan or Decius were proposed and rejected in their frantic conclaves, as back at their mansions and palaces, their slaves, animated by the thought of avenging a thousand slights and humiliations, attached themselves to Alaric's cause. Their resentment was a vital ally to Alaric, and in the early morning of August 24, 410, the Salarian gate was opened quietly and the fighters of Alaric surged inward.  Slumber ceased at once as the tremendous blast of a Gothic trumpet sounded forth and the city that had subdued the world was now the possession of the rude host of Alaric.<br />
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Great massacre and desolation were forestalled by the reverence of Alaric, who despite the proclamation of his right to despoil and plunder the treasures and luxuries of Rome, declared the churches and shrines and apostles' tombs to be inviolate. When an adventurous Visigoth transgressed this order and was sternly informed by a city priest that they were the possessions of Saint Peter, Alaric, having been informed of this, ordered the ecclesiastical treasures transported to the Vatican palace, attended by a procession of Goth and Roman, there to join many city inhabitants who had fled there to ride out the tumult that had seized the city. But many Visigothic warriors were as wolves in the hills above a vast flock of sheep and conducted themselves fittingly. Even a feeble resistance was punished by the sword as bodies piled up in the streets, the stench of putrefaction mingling in air with feminine cries, as the crime of rape was announced from a hundred houses.  Following the warriors, a train of wagons was brought into the city, and uncounted wares of art, exquisite vases and priceless statues were cast onto a bed of gem and silk already massed in the carts. The lash and the axe were the reward of those who pleaded a poverty that the Goths regarded as meanness and parsimony and yet more screams were added to the Roman air as the sack encompassed all.<br />
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After five days in Rome, his kinsmen sated with spoil, Alaric gave the order for the city to be evacuated. The wagons creaked from their burden as the Visigoths departed through the city gates, advancing southward through the unresisting countryside and the opulent pleasure cities of the Campania. They surrendered instantly at Alaric's approach, and even in this age oozed Luxury at the feet of their conquerors, attempting to entrap them. The rude Visigothic warrior was confounded by the sumptuous variety, indifferently casting aside the dainty morsels offered them by a shaky hand of a local noble but eagerly accepting goblets dripping with the finest of Falernian wine, quaffing them to excess and falling into slumber in a shady grove by the Mediterranean. <br />
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Unopposed, Alaric continued his southward march until he reached the southern tip of the Italian peninsula. He cast a covetous glance at Sicily across the straits and beyond that towards North Africa, but he was entirely destitute of any ship or boat and he reached the utter limits of the Visigothic advance. Alaric turned again northward, but this advance was interrupted by the event of Alaric's death. This was marked by the bellow and howl of his fighters and soon thereafter local peasants diverted the course of the nearby river, the Busento, for the moment so that the remains of Alaric might be interred in the streambed. These peasants were then subjected to the sword to ensure the secrecy of Alaric's resting place.<br />
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Alaric's brother-in-law, Adolfus next assumed the kingship and he at once sent off a message to Honorius seeking an alliance. Honorius' court, overwhelmed by the need to rid Italy of the Visigoth, readily accepted, the terms stipulating that Adolfus depart from Italy, pass the Alps and battle on Honorius' behalf the Frank and the Vandal that had overrun Gaul. Adolfus assented, his host, uncorrupted by the diversions of Italy, bounded over the Alps, advanced into the south of Gaul, subduing the territory, and soon extended their conquests to the Atlantic, establishing the foundation of a Visigothic kingdom.<br />
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Adolfus had often professed an attachment to Rome, and sought to exercise it through marriage to one Galla Placidia, the sister of Honorius. She had been seized during the Sack of Rome, and compelled to join the Visigothic journey. Her hardships were lessened by the surrender of her heart to Adolfus and their mutual ardour grew until gratified by matrimony. The ministers of Honorius were devoured by outrage over the union, but mindful of Alaric's power, they bound their disquiet. The wedding was celebrated in the Visigothic camp with great magnificence, and Galla suppres