MungBeing Magazine: Environment surroundings, resources, interactions, culture, settings. How do we interact with our surroundings and how do our surroundings feel about that? http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html Copyright © 2005-2008, Pencil Tenet, Inc. in association with Eschaton Media. Sun, 05 Oct 2008 12:09:53 -0700 Fri, 31 Oct 2008 21:18:44 -0700 Forward
We are moving rapidly through this year and are approaching a whole new environment for which I am wholly unprepared. Gotta get me one of them time potentiometers next time around.

How's your year been? What kind of space have you found yourself in? Me, I've been trying to create the kind of environment for my kids that will foster creativity, develop critical thinking skills, and be a clowncarload of fun. As such, and I'll only make this one mention of it, I've noticed a funny thing: modern kid's books, especially the ones that deal with facts, cannot help but include information about cute animals that are endangered, climates that are screwed, and kids in other countries who are not living in ideal situations. Makes for great fun family readin', learning about the myriad ways our earth is fucked.

But environment is more than just what's happening around us, the space we occupy, and the animals we're killing off. It's the spaces we create for ourselves, the variables we define (or at least contemplate), and the animals we surround ourselves with. It's the mood of the city, the sound of a train at 3am, the smell of cat piss in the living room. Our surroundings are chock full of interesting and wondrous things; shadows that wave back, and echoes that speak only to us. I love my environment and find it endlessly fascinating, in all its spit and meddle.

This issue of MungBeing describes quite nicely the broad view of our environment that we embrace. The talented pool of MungBeing contributors continues to flourish and grow, creating comfy environs in which to reside or dangerous places from which to run. Visually, aurally, tactilely, our surroundings are reflected in the canvases and piano keys we employ.

I hope you enjoy this issue. I've got to go clean up some cat piss.

Talk to you soon,
Mark Givens
Editor-in-Chief,
MungBeing Magazine

"... When he saw only one set of small carbon footprints in the sand, he looked up at God and asked, 'why did you put me on this Youforsaken planet with these Thunder Lizards, that I might drink their blood and dance on their bones?'
And God replied grinning, 'You've got it all figured out, don't you?"

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1330rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Mark Givens) Announcements -- Michael Dickinson Michael Dickinson, a British Stuckist artist in Turkey and a frequent contributor to MungBeing Magazine, was arrested in 2006 for "insulting the dignity of the prime minister" with a collage depicting the Turkish Prime Minister as America's pet dog. (see here) . A petition of support was created to be used as part of Mr. Dickinson's defense. On September 25, 2008, Mr. Dickinson was acquitted in what Charles Thomson, founder of the Stuckists, described as a "ground-breaking ruling by the judge."

from the Stuckist press release:
The judge read out a testimonial letter from Prof Mehmet Ozer, an art teacher at Marmara University saying that in his opinion Dickinson's collage Good Boy was more an example of "political criticism" rather than "insult".

The judge disagreed with this and said he thought that the collage was insulting according to Turkish standards.

He then went on to say that this sort of art was quite normal in the European community, mentioning cartoonists in Spain and Germany, who sometimes caricatured politicians as pigs or other animals without being accused of insult.

His conclusion was that as Turkey was trying to join the European community a collage such as Dickinson's should not be held as a crime.

Dickinson said, "So I'm free, without even a fine. I'm very relieved to have it all over now after having lived under the shadow of the charge for the last two years.

"My lawyer and I might talk later about possible compensation for the discomfort I suffered, but at the moment I'm just trying to let it sink in that I don't have to worry about this any more, and hope that my acquittal might have an effect on the decisions of the judges of the many other cases where Turkish writers and artists face criminal charges for having expressed their opinions in writing, speech or art."

Conviction carried a possible two year jail sentence.

MungBeing is thrilled that Michael Dickinson is able to continue freely expressing his artistic vision. We are also very excited and hopeful that Turkey will continue making these great strides regarding the freedom of speech and expression in their beautiful country. Congratulations, Michael!

News Coverage:

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1331&subID=1283 Announcements -- Circular Stairs, Distress in the Mirrors Circular Stairs, Distress in the Mirrors, a book of poems by Peter Klappert with Drawings by Michael Hafftka, has been selected by The Montserrat Review for the "Best Books for Fall Reading, 2008". You can read the review by Mary Morris in the current issue of The Montserrat Review.

Circular Stairs, Distress in the Mirrors is available at Amazon.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1331&subID=1297 Announcements -- The Lit World: Poems from History The Lit World: Poems from History by Tim Miller

The Lit World begins with God's voice just before creation, and ends with the destruction of Europe and the last days in Hitler's bunker. The poems between follow these two, either in their focus on atrocity and violence--a Roman consul's mistaken campaigns in the Middle East, a Byzantine Emperor's blinding of thousands of prisoners of war, the drowning and execution of citizens and clergy during the French Revolution, and the many wars against Native Americans in the West; or in looking to a more contemplative and peaceful life, with monologues from Siberian and Australian shamans, Catholic saints, and a Hindu priest who easily dismisses Alexander the Great's invitation to take him on his campaigns.

There are also voices between these, from Walt Whitman looking back on his years away from New York before the Civil War, to Hart Crane's highest moment atop a Catholic church in Mexico, celebrating an Aztec festival; from the Roman Cato of Utica, a suicide, surprised to find himself at the base of Dante's Mount Purgatory, to a sequence of poems from prehistory, imagining the world's first artists and priests painting in the caves of France and Spain amid music and ritual.

Available from Amazon]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1331&subID=1298 Announcements -- Reading Comics
Info: http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=articleandid=18247
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1331&subID=1299 Announcements -- Shirtless with Leather Pants October 11 - November 5, 2008



Opening Reception: 2nd Saturday Artwalk
October 11, 6 - 11pm

Last Saturday Reception
November 5, 6 - 10pm

Bunny Gunner Art Services
266 W. Second St.
Pomona, CA 91766
www.bunnygunner.com

Gallery Hours:
Tuesday - Saturday
10am - 7pm


]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1331&subID=1301 Announcements -- Spread the Lead
From the Gallery Hanahou site: "For this group show, gallery hanahou has challenged artists from all backgrounds and mediums to drop their brushes and computer mice and see what they can do with only a B2 pencil and a piece of paper. Just as compelling as the results on the gallery walls will be the visitors' reactions to so many artistic viewpoints rendered in shades of gray. The pencils the artists use to create their work will be included with sale of the artwork."

October 16-November 20, 2008
Opening Reception October 16th from 6-8pm

Gallery Hanahou
611 Broadway, Suite 730
New York City, NY 10012

rsvp: info@galleryhanahou.com

Gallery: www.galleryhanahou.com
Kirsten Ulve: www.kirstenulve.com

Here's a preview of Kirsten's work: ]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1331&subID=1302 The Bubble ]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1755rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Peter Cherches) Acrylic and Oil Pastel Works http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1743rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Jax Chachitz) Things Behind The Sun
The band and most of the crowd moved into the poolroom, and it was then that she got on stage, carrying a twelve string acoustic guitar. I think I only watched at first because of how she looked; the kind of beauty that makes you sink into some grim dark hole of desperate loneliness; and the sort of beauty that causes the bitter taste of reality to tear you apart deep down inside. The kind that you remember years on, when no matter how good things are going, that the sense of loss, for something you never even had, haunts and taints everything with emptiness and dissatisfaction.

She played and sang, but not to the small crowd that still lingered, just for herself; as though lost in the song; as though somewhere else; as though just a beautiful medium being possessed by even greater beauty, and by something not of this world. The tuning was some kind of open tuning; the bottom strings producing a wavering sitar-like drone, and the high strings some kind of gypsy raga. I can't recall the words, but the voice was like another instrument, not pure and sterile, but used like the wind; rising and falling; or like graveyards at night: cold and dark, and possessed of sad ethereal beauty. The melody was almost Eastern European: sometimes harsh and brutal, and sometimes of devastating yearning. And the voice became softer, almost a whisper, drawing you in, taking you to places more real, yet more terrible, and beautiful, than those you had ever been. And from out of this spellbound rapture, this heart-stopping transportation, came a sudden, loud, and defiant sustained note: like some kind of terrible accusation, while her fingers darted viciously and almost discordantly among the high notes. And although she looked out to the audience, it was not this world that she saw, but transcendent and desolate landscapes. When the music faded to its end, the applause seemed to slowly bring her back to awareness; like someone coming out of trance, and the real world once again started to paint its drab colours; conversations returned to the dismal and the inane; the hideousness of people and the world made more sickening and horrific: like eating hamburgers while the twin towers collapsed; like talking about reality shows in the presence of gods.

I caught her on the way towards the bar, and started to tell her how breathtakingly beautiful the song was. She smiled politely, but never even stopped walking. Possibly she thought that I was just another desperate fool hoping to talk to someone beautiful; possibly when you look like that everybody says that everything you do is special; possibly everybody tries to possess it, in a crude and ugly manner. Most probably she did not even give me a second thought.

Some other guy accosted her at the bar to ask her about the tuning, but before she could even speak, he was telling her of his past glories, and that he was now some professor of music. This place is full of sad old men who feel the telling of the past can somehow make their own failures not so real and painful; that they can somehow cast themselves as belonging to something important; that the only way to deal with real genius is to pretend that it does not exist; drown it in an avalanche of their own pitiful and desperate egos. But really they are just like me, with words and life dying on their lips: sad islands of lonely desperation.

She got her drink and went back to the stage, and began retuning the guitar. Some gypsy-looking guy with hollow cheekbones and deep, dark eyes got on stage with a violin. I assumed they were lovers; the beautiful, and the talented; the exciting, and the exotic: like a photograph of some perfect paradise to which I would always be denied.

But before they could play, some guy in a suit started talking to the girl; telling her that they had to be going; that he had an important meeting in the morning; that the real world didn't make allowances for people's pastimes. He wasn't angry or forceful when he said these things; sounded reasonable, but also like someone used to getting his own way, and someone used to winning arguments, no matter what pain it might cause. She smiled to the violin guy before leaving the place, but she too looked defeated; the weight of an unworthy world always conspiring against anything too good, too beautiful, or too elevated; something too much for anyone to withstand; the drabness and the greyness closing down from every quarter; the suffocating perversity of prosaic preoccupation like relentless millwheels forever grinding; flesh and bone, but mostly, and more horrifically, spirit.

I watched her leave; the defilement of beauty making nausea rise; the obscenity of meaningless and ugly life going on all around me, causing despair to take hold in a manner that I knew would be permanent. I looked down at my hand, and saw the wine glass crushed within my palm; blood streaming to the ground; and I clenched my fist tighter; the only way to stop the real pain from consuming me; the only way not to bleed tears.



It was years later when I saw her again: dropping off a parcel at a firm of accountants. She signed for delivery; her long nails rendering any questions about music too painful to ask; the look in her eyes giving cruel confirmation. She noticed the scar in the palm of my hand; a stigmata more telling to me of life and hopelessness; more visible than the deeper scar that ran through my soul. She signed the slip without a word. I looked to the floor, not lacking the courage to speak, but desperate not to allow the unbearable void to swallow me.

I walked out onto the streets: a grotesque cacophony of noise and concrete, but mostly of people. Across the road was a large billboard: a line of people holding umbrellas - dark and funereal. And below the billboard, a woman, dressed in black, struggling with her own umbrella in one hand, and dragging a young girl in the other. Drawing her away from a window display of ballet shoes; the child's dreams pulling her one way, and relentless life dragging her the other. I imagined the faint but deep scar starting to form, and reality already starting to tear her apart, and I felt myself dissolve into nothingness...
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1749rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Pablo Vision) Lands http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1760rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Gus Fink) Soul Egg http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1770rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Ian Pyper) The One-Way Cave
"Guess," I said. I pulled off my hiking boots, scattering grass seeds over the doormat. The boots were only a couple of weeks old, not yet broken in. My feet were covered in hot spots, some of them already turning into blisters. I peeled off my socks and rubbed the red skin underneath.

"Don't leave your shit in the middle of the floor this time," said Marshal. He was sitting at the table, flipping through a sporting equipment catalogue. Since he was being so free with his language, I knew mom wasn't around.

"Where'd mom go?"

"Fuck if I know." I would have bet he didn't even realize he was doing it.

I balled up my socks and tossed them into the laundry room, then kicked my shoes into the closet. There wasn't much room for them. I owned two pair: my hiking boots and my school shoes. Until a couple of weeks ago, I didn't even have the boots. The rest of the closet was for Marshal's football shoes, soccer cleats, white Sketchers, black Sketchers, and ski boots. Mom had started keeping all her shoes in her room.

"I'm gonna take a shower."

"Thanks for letting me know." Marshal took a Sharpie and circled something in the catalogue. Then he took a Post-It and used it to mark the page. That night, he would leave the thing on mom's bedside table. A week later, a package would arrive.

In two years, he would be old enough to get his own credit card. My guess was he wouldn't bother signing up for it, or wouldn't need to if mom kept it up.

I undressed in the bathroom I shared with Marshal. Like the closet, the sink was overcrowded with his products, leaving just a small square of porcelain for my deodorant and razor. Until a couple of weeks ago, I would get angry every morning, not only at having to share a bathroom with my twin but at having my share valued around ten percent, if that. Just one of those little things that start the day out on the wrong foot, like rolling over in bed and realizing a power outage has reset your clock, or being rattled awake at three in the morning because your brother snores like Moses.

Like I said, until a couple of weeks ago, my days were full of those kinds of wrong feet. Then, something happened that made me feel as if I had lowered both to the starting line, wrong and right, and every day since had started out all right.

I stepped into the shower and cranked open both taps, relishing the quick -- and quickly replaced -- stab of cold from the water that had been sitting in the pipes. As always, I was amazed at how much dirt sluiced around my feet, and at how dark it was, like charcoal, at first, then lightening to the color of caramel before going invisible. I hadn't been sent far that day, but the layer of grime was as thick as ever. Most of it came from the cave, from its close walls coated in ancient dust.

Every day since that Saturday when I had sort of run away from home, I had gone to the cave. I had gone down on my hands and knees, like a pilgrim, and scraped forward into the tight, cool path inside the rock. Crossing the threshold was like going to bed late in summer with the windows open and the sprinklers on outside. It was peace, held tight to the bosom of the mountain. It was old peace, with air that hadn't moved for centuries.

More importantly, it was mine. Something possessed me when I first laid eyes on the cave's small, pursed mouth, something like what my fourth grade teacher had tried to instill in us when she dressed us up in buckskin and had us blaze Lewis' and Clark's trail across a deserted park. I didn't have a flag, but I planted a twig of blooming forsythia at the threshold to mark it, and took note of the trees and boulders around so I could find my way back.

But, for a second there as I ducked my head into the hole for the first time, I thought maybe I had gotten myself all excited for nothing. There was light coming from the other side, maybe twenty feet in. A short tunnel, hardly worth naming, much less discovering. I sat back on my heels.

As soon as I let my focus slip from the cave to the backdrop of the hillside surrounding it, my temples began to throb. The ache pushed toward my sinuses, making my eyes feel as if they were about to pop out of their sockets with every beat of my heart. The last time I had felt a pain so sudden and specific it had been at an amusement park, watching a movie that was supposed to be in 3D. I had burned the tops of my ears, playing too hard in the sun, and it hurt to wear the special glasses, so I just watched the show with them off. Images that my brain knew were supposed to fit together had divided like cells across a screen too big for me to take in all at once.

I closed my eyes and rubbed them with my thumbs, igniting puffs of color as I dug in harder. The pain faded, and so did the colors.

When I reopened my eyes, it all made sense. The headache came back, of course, because there's a long path between sense and understanding, but I could see why it had come on.

The cave opened up into the side of the mountain like a belly button. The skin of the hillside was smooth and flat behind it, occasionally spotted by boulders, but with no gullies, no channels to cut through behind the cave's throat. It opened up right into the heart, or bowels, of the mountain. There was no way light should be filtering into the other end of the tunnel, not unless it was being reflected, or descending through a hole in its ceiling.

That's what I mean by making sense of the situation: I was clueless, knew it, and was getting closer to a migraine by the second. Sense wasn't enough to cure what ailed me. Understanding was at the point of light in the cave's throat. I leaned forward, took a deep breath, felt the cool ancient peace work on my headache like medicine, and disappeared into the ground.

Marshal and I never shared much in the way of interests. That summer, while I explored my cave, he sat on the couch playing Madden. We excelled in different areas at school, he in history and current world problems, me in geology. We played different sports; he liked them all except badminton, and I liked badminton. I think it was the silent N that did it for me.

Despite all that, our circles of friends overlapped almost completely. It was kind of hard for them not to, in a school the size of ours where even I could be the second ranked birdhound, but it's still worth noting that when we went out to hang with friends, we almost always went together.

After a month or so of spending my days on the far side of the cave, the carnival came to town. For three nights, we didn't do much more than dine on elephant ears and puke up our guts after long runs on The Zipper.

If there was one common point between Marshal's friends and mine it was Carlotta Hernandez. She was at the center of the overlapping rings, the star which we all orbited. That metaphor works especially well for me, because the girl had gravity. Not like mass -- though she called herself a "chub" all the time, for no good reason I could ever see -- but that she drew intangible things like attention, admiration, and lust to her without effort, by some dint of the natural world.

That summer, a lot of my friends were out of town. They were visiting one half of their parents or the other, counseling at camp, working on their grandpa's farm, that sort of thing. Not Carlotta, though; she had two babies to take care of -- a cousin and a sister -- not to mention the other, older children, and a house to help keep clean and stocked while her parents worked. The carnival was her chance to relax, to let loose, to get the smell of baby poop off her hands and replace it with the stink of sweat, old candy, and beer.

On the last night of the carnival, there were about a dozen of us altogether. It was getting close to midnight, and the barkers were putting out flags in the lines to mark when the ride would shut down. A few of us were waiting for The Zipper; I wasn't going to ride, but I stood in line to bullshit with Carlotta and a couple of others, including Marshal. The barker dropped the flag right in front of us and shrugged as an apology.

As soon as the barker turned his back, Marshal picked up the cloth flag and threw it over his shoulder. It landed further back in the line, where someone else picked it up. A flash of white fabric, like a gull catching bread in midair, and the flag was gone again.

"He's gonna remember what you look like," I said.

"Screw him. This is the last chance for me 'n Carly." All weekend long, Carlotta had been promising to ride The Zipper with him, only to chicken out every time it was her turn. Even then, more than fifteen minutes back in the line with a dozen people in front of us, her eyes were wide with apprehension. She kept tilting her head back to watch the ride as it spun and bucked.

If you've never ridden The Zipper, here's what you're missing: Imagine a chainsaw. The chain whips around the long, narrow blade. Pretend that there are tiny people nestled in every tooth of the chain. Now start those teeth spinning as if they were themselves little buzz-saws. Pretty bad, huh? And that's not even considering that the whole contraption is flipping end over end, as if being juggled.

I couldn't blame Carlotta for being nervous, especially since the rotation of the two-person cabins was entirely dependent on the sadism or masochism of its occupants, who could shift their weight forward and back to send the little metal box whirring like a pinwheel. Marshal wasn't one to much mind throwing his weight around.

The closer we got to the front of the line, the harder she gripped Marshal's hand, and the louder she laughed at everyone's jokes. She had a shrill laugh, a banshee sort of keening, which I only just caught myself from mentioning to her. It wasn't very pleasant, to be honest; easy, sure, but not very nice.

It was almost a relief when they reached the entrance gate. The barker eyed them suspiciously, but didn't bust them, even though Marshal gave him a big ol' toothy grin.

"In you go," the barker said in a voice with so little enthusiasm it made me wonder if he had ever had any. He yanked open the green metal grille that held the passengers in their coffin-sized cabin during the ride. The hinges made a sound like nails on a chalkboard only wish they could.

"I dunno," said Carlotta.

"Come on," said Marshal. "We're the last ones. He's tired. He'll go easy."

"Get in or clear out," said the barker. "I've got to close up."

At those words, the rest of the group behind us kind of disintegrated. The line stretching behind us snapped in a dozen places, coalescing again in as many pockets, thin conversations running like at the end of a long party.

I was about to offer Carlotta a word of encouragement -- her young cousins and nieces and nephews would hold her in reverence when she told them about braving The Mighty Zipper -- when she shook out her long hair, as if clearing out cobwebs, and punched Marshal in the upper arm. "You throw us around and I'll kill you," she said.

Once they were seated, the barker slammed the grille shut and pinned it in place with a bent piece of steel no larger than my thumb. That was the only part that made me nervous.

The other cabins were empty. As the machine ground into life I saw Carlotta sniff her hand, which had been gripping the oh-shit bar, and make a face. Metal and old vomit and sweat. I smelled it, too, or thought I could.

Then they were off, and I realized I was all alone, the leftovers from the line vanished from behind me and the barker, one hand on the machine's simple controls, with his back to me.

I backed away, found a low metal railing to lean against and watched Carlotta and Marshal go around as best I could. It wasn't easy; the old beast could still hit a pretty good clip, and all those wheels within wheels made it hard to keep my focus. I could hear them, though. Carlotta, anyway. Her high, thin laugh seemed to come from everywhere, so much like a scream that a few other carnival stragglers shot glances over their shoulders in her direction.

Even I, as accustomed to Carlotta's laughter as I was, had trouble marking the cutoff between mirth and abject terror, especially when Marshal started their cabin rocking, then flipping end-over-end.

The banshee howl formed words, briefly: "Marshal, stop!" He didn't.

After a few minutes, the barker brought the ride to a halt. The cabin's hinges protested twice more, open and closed, and then Marshal and Carlotta were staggering toward me. Marshal had his arm around her neck. Neither could stop giggling, building off of each other, until Carlotta capped it off with one last, delighted screech, which brought the night to a close.

The first time I passed through the cave, it spit me out on the other side of the mountain. It took me a couple of seconds to get my bearings, but I was all right once I recognized the foothills in the distance, the long cut off of the forest service road in the ridge to my left, and the stream in the valley below. I had entered the mountain on one side, crawled for twenty feet, and come out half a mile further.

The first thing I did was spin on my heels and check on the cave from this side. Okay, that's not quite true; the very first thing I did was enjoy the soft heat of the sun on the skin of my arms, but that was only for a fraction of a second. Bending down, I peered into the cave's mouth.

There was nothing there. No, again I'm misspeaking. If there had been nothing, I would have been all right. What there was was dirt, and rock: a dead end that made the hole a small burrow instead of the entrance to a cave.

For a panicked moment, I clawed at the dirt, but didn't make an inch of progress. I had to face it; there was no cave. I calmed down once I remembered that I wasn't far from home, and that I had been here -- or nearby -- dozens of times before. It was just that usually I had hiked the intervening distance.

I was late getting home that day. Mom gave me the silent treatment for not being there to set the table, like I was supposed to. I only wish Marshal had followed her example.

The next day, I couldn't wait to get back up onto the mountain, to find my cave and study it. I brought a notebook and a pen with me, and scribbled some thoughts that I'm sure, at the time, seemed relevant and profound. Then I crawled through again, the light at the end of the cave drawing me forward twenty-odd feet on my hands and knees.

This time, when I climbed to my feet on the other side I was dead lost. Nothing looked familiar. A steep bluff shot up to my left, and a thick stand of firs huddled in close in every other direction. I checked, just in case, but the cave's mouth had sealed up again. No going back that way.

It took me most of the afternoon to get to the top of the bluff, picking my way up the side like a young mountain goat, unsure on its feet. Once I had gained the high ground, I was pretty much home free. There was my mountain, a couple miles in the distance, and the forest service road ran just a hundred feet past where I stood. I followed the road back home, but this time it was after dark before I made it in the front door. Mom wasn't happy, and grounded me for the rest of the week. Marshal was ecstatic. I smelled beer on his breath.

When I was allowed out of the house again, I couldn't help but plan another trip to my cave. This time, though, I was cautious, in case the cave spit me out even further from home. I packed a backpack with water, food, a compass, and a lighter. I took off early in the morning, hiked to my cave, and dove right in.

This time, upon exiting, I was struck by a sense of familiarity, rather than the usual disorientation. I was at the top of a mountain; the cave had opened for me between a pair of granite boulders just below the summit. Sweet, cool wind brushed past me, in a hurry to go nowhere special. I scrambled to the top of one of the boulders and looked down.

There was my house, down at the base. Marshal was mowing the lawn. I could see him, but not clearly; he moved like a blob of mercury, sliding across the grass as one cohesive, unchanging shape.

No point in wasting good preparation, I figured, so I turned around to look over the valley behind the mountain, planted myself in the lee of the stone, and busted out the food and water I had packed. In the silence, I thought maybe I ought to be terrified, in the same absent way that remembering a near-collision makes your mind race, but not your heart. There was no explanation for the cave's behavior. I've never been one to get scared of the unknown, but jumping into it with no tether ought to at least have creeped me out a bit.

There was a big distance between knowing I should be scared and feeling it. Instead, I felt strong, accomplished, as if I were a subscriber to the ends justifying the means and it had turned out the universe was, too. I sat there, watching cloud shadows make two-dimensional shapes on the rocks, at peace. I guess partly because I hadn't had to hike much at all, and so wasn't tired out. Still, it's one of the first moments that comes to mind whenever someone tells me to relax.

As the sun dipped lower, I headed for home. It occurred to me, on the way down, that playing with my cave was the riskiest thing I had ever done, and, for no reason I could put to words just then, that made me very sad.

By the time the carnival season ended, mom had stopped caring when I stayed out so late on my hikes. I don't think it was for any reason having to do with me, exactly; it was that Marshal had started staying out later and later with Carlotta, and mom figured if she wasn't going to rag on Marshal, she couldn't very well pick on me. That suited me fine. I spent less and less time around our few friends, and more time exploring. As if to quell even those small tremors of fear I had felt on the mountaintop, the cave never sent me further than a few miles from home. The furthest was ten, by my guess.

Not that I was trying to turn into a recluse, of course. You know how habits start? Because they're the easy thing to do. You don't form a habit of difficult tasks; maybe you repeat them, consciously, until they become easy, but they don't turn into habits until there's so little resistance from your body that they go automatic. That's how it was with the cave. It was so easy to slip into the ground, to come up someplace far away, to own all the sunlight, breeze, and birdsong for miles around.

I only realized that hiking had become a habit when Carlotta invited me to her birthday party, and I almost made an excuse to miss it. It was her sixteenth; I couldn't just bow out. I said I would be there, and she sounded so pleased I didn't want to hang up. We chatted for a while longer. Marshal was still asleep from the night before. We didn't talk about him. Instead, we fell into the topic of her family and stayed there. Her youngest cousin, Jacob, was a precocious little thing of three, so she told me stories about him while I made a sandwich and a glass of milk and carried them out to the back porch.

Jacob had taught himself to tie a half-hitch. Jacob had said a bad word with such perfect timing Carlotta couldn't help but laugh. Jacob had detuned their little upright piano so it sounded as if it were underwater.

By the time my sandwich was gone, we were on to how Jacob had asked Carlotta what had happened to his mother, and Carlotta hadn't been able to answer with anything like the truth, and how she could see so much of his father in him, and how scared that made her. I hadn't known the dad -- he had been four grades ahead of us in school -- but I knew his reputation.

There was a long silence after her fear was out in the open. She was the one to break it. "I hate how I always tell you my problems."

"It's all right."

"No, I mean I hate that you don't tell me yours. It's... weird, I guess. Like you're not really a person."

I didn't know what to say to that. We said our goodbyes, I said I was sorry, and that I would see her at her party. "I'm glad," she said, but that was it.

Summer wound to a close. Our friends started reappearing in town, back from their summer jobs and vacations, each one of a them a little bit changed from the time and distance. I heard about them mostly through Marshal. "Damn! Trina lost her baby fat at the beach. Marty's spending all his time on the phone with some chick he met in New York. Bree's a stuck-up bitch, now, since her dad spoiled her the whole summer upstate."

I was too far gone by then, too caught up in my habit. In the last week before school started up again, I spent almost every waking moment up in the mountains, sometimes leaving home before the sun was up and not coming back in until the moon was high or setting.

That Friday -- the last weekday of freedom, thirteen days before Carlotta's party -- was the end of a week of light days. On Thursday, the cave cave sent me an easy six miles out, along the floor of the valley. I followed a stream back, enjoying the lively sound of clean water over sparkling stones. My reflection caught my attention now and again. I couldn't help feeling a bit like Marshal must have on a good day, in the best shape of my life, slim and balanced. Not much muscle on my frame, not so you could see, but plenty on the inside. Strong heart and lungs.

By the time I reached the back side of my mountain, I was full enough of pride to float right to the top. It was a strange sensation, impossible to reproduce in any other way. The confidence that my body could handle whatever hit it. Sun, time, distance, whatever.

I got home well before dinner, and took a shower. Marshal was in the living room, playing a video game, so I borrowed some of his free weights and then gave Carlotta a call to see what she was up to that evening. Busy with kids, it turned out, but I went to bed happy anyway.

Friday promised to be another lovely day of hiking, with a high sun shining through thin clouds, dappling the world like a careless painter. Reaching the easy slope at the base of the mountain, I pushed into the thin path I had stamped into the underbrush over my many trips. I hadn't gone far when I heard a voice say: "Ow!" followed by a quick gasp, which didn't seem to last long enough to have been of pain. It was lower-pitched, more like a breath. It had come from nearby, off to my right, somewhere in the wild juniper bushes.

I held my own breath and tiptoed off the path. Thin, dry brambles whipped my bare arms, stinging. They must have cut more deeply than I thought, but I didn't notice that until after. Right then, I just tried to ignore the itches they left behind so I could concentrate on moving quietly.

Ten feet in, the vegetation was thick enough to conceal pretty much everything of the world beyond, but a bit short, so it only did so from my chest down. The voice had become two voices, each exhaling rapidly, but neither seeming to pause long enough to breathe in. They were nearby, but I couldn't guess how close. I froze, because I sure as hell didn't want to stumble right into the two of them.

I heard Marshal's voice say: "Yeah," like victory. That's when I turned and crashed back to the path. I didn't care if they heard me.

You know how, when you go indoors after a day spent under the brightest sun, your house seems dim and full of pockets of the dullest shades of red and blue? That's how I saw the path ahead of me as I slouched ahead, up the first easy slope of the mountain. I doubt the world itself was any dimmer, but the embarrassed blood and the angry blood mixed behind my eyes, darkening everything by increasing degrees.

Before I knew it, I was standing hang-dog in front of the cave. Suddenly, I felt too hot in my skin. I shrugged my pack off, unable to stand its weight for a moment longer. I slid headfirst into the welcoming dark and the cool, dead air. Something smelled like rain. The far end of the cave seemed to float like a promise, which only time or distance keeps from being fulfilled.

I pulled myself to the surface, taking a moment to catch my breath before checking my surroundings. My backpack lay on the ground right in front of me, collapsed and shapeless. I turned around. The cave's mouth remained open. All it had done was turn me around. Some of the sick energy had lifted out of me, maybe leeched into the guts of the mountain. I sat with my legs crossed, my face into the wind.

That's when I noticed that my arms had been cut by the undergrowth, and some time in between then and now I had pressed them against my shirt. Cross-hatched lines of blood stained my white T-shirt, overlapping like the teeth of a zipper.

On the morning of her birthday, Carlotta called around to cancel the party. She wasn't feeling well, she said, and didn't want to have a bunch of people over. We had spent hours at her house the day before, putting up decorations. By "we," I mean "I." Marshal was there to start with, but as soon as the scissors, tape, and glue came out, he was off to the convenience store to buy a pop. It took him hours to choose a flavor, I guess.

So, when Carlotta called it off, I offered to come and undecorate for her. Her entire family was out of town, visiting yet more relatives. Carlotta had volunteered to stay behind and sit the house. If I knew her family like I thought I did, they probably wouldn't have had the presence of mind to tell her no parties, what with trying to shuffle all the various children into the minivan. Still, they wouldn't appreciate coming back to a house full of streamers and balloons. With a trace of reluctance that even I picked up on, Carlotta agreed to let me help.

I biked down the hill into town, getting a little sweaty in the process. At the time, I still believed a healthy musk held some sort of attractive power over the opposite sex, some sort of gravity I could harness. She answered the door in her pajama-bottoms, a gray sweatshirt, and big pink slippers. I hate to say it, but she looked awful. Her hair looked brittle, cracked at weird angles, and with no makeup her face looked as if it had lost all its depth and weight.

"Where can I start?" I asked.

"Whatever," she said with the ghost of a smile. I could smell vomit on her breath. Hugging herself, she went into the living room. It was as clean as I had ever seen it, thanks to our efforts the day before. All the kids' toys sorted and put into drawers, the carpet vacuumed, the dozens of family pictures dusted. There were still spots, origin unknown, staining the floor around the couch and coffee table, and the whole place smelled faintly of sulphur, but it might as well have been immaculate. Compared to how it usually was, it felt like another world, and not a bad one.

Carlotta curled herself up on the couch, her face half-buried in a pillow, while I hauled a chair in from the dining room. I climbed up and started pulling out the pushpins that held the streamers in place. Point-by-point, they came loose and dangled limply, some held in place by more pins down the line.

"Sorry you don't get to have your party," I said. "That sucks."

"Yeah."

"I was looking forward to it."

Pretty soon, a curtain of multicolored crepe paper hung between Carlotta and me. I kept on talking about nothing much, which was more than she had to say. In a long moment of silence, I considered bringing up some of my problems, like real people do, but they all started with Marshal. Instead, I talked about things we would both remember. That time when Mr. Beeheimer caught us gluing bugs to our desks. Or the year I sat behind her in English and we passed notes using our feet. Hiding from bullies inside the big tires at recess. The middle-school dance when I asked her for the last one, and she said all right because Marshal was out sneaking a cigarette.

I retrieved the last few pushpins. The streamers slipped to the floor, puddling on the carpet. Carlotta was looking at me. I tried to read the expression in her eyes, but without something on her face to bolster it I couldn't even begin to guess. Suddenly self-conscious, I fidgeted with the pins I had slipped into my pocket.

"This is one of those times," she said.

"Which times?"

Instead of answering, she sniffed loudly. I could hear junk in her sinuses. Stepping down off the chair, I set about gathering up the streamers. "You want to save them?" I asked.

Carlotta shook her head.

When my back was to her, as I bent, wrapping my fingers in strips of every color, she said: "I should have gone with you," as if she were second-guessed the answer she had picked on a quiz. It made me smile and shut up.

Call me oblivious, but I didn't figure out Carlotta was pregnant until the second week of school. She and I weren't in any classes together that semester, so I picked up on it through our circle of friends. I've got to stop putting myself in a good light like that; when I say I "picked up on it," I mean that Dominic sat down at the table where we were eating lunch -- Marshal, me, and a couple others -- and said:

"Carly's keeping it, man."

"No, she ain't," Marshal snapped back, with no hesitation.

Dominic raised his hands. "Just what I heard from Heather. Shit, it's not like they'll notice around her house."

"It ain't even been a month," said Marshal. "She's faking."

"Puked her guts up first period," offered one of the other boys, in a so-what voice.

"Yeah, 'cause she been sick!" Half of it came out in a squeak, Marshal's voice cracking as his frustration climbed. It vanished too quickly into the other shouts and laughter of the lunch room. Silence should have descended. People would have paid attention. Instead, Dominic and the other boys just shrugged and set back to their food. "God," said Marshal, exasperated. That's what pushed me over the edge, that he had the audacity to be annoyed.

I leaned over the table and slapped him, open-palm, across the cheek. My finger nails caught above his lip, two of them leaving red, stick-thin lines. Startled, he pushed backward from the bench, landing on his tailbone. He had had a fork in his hand when I hit him, and had held onto it as he fell. With a snarl, he threw it overhand at my head. I twisted out of the way, but not fast enough. It must have been the tines that connected, because afterward I found two bloody streaks just beside my nose.

I launched myself right over the table, slipping on Marshal's lunch tray, but at least hitting the floor right side up. By then, Marshal was on his feet. We didn't circle, didn't size each other up. There was no grace between us, not even the beautiful, animal ferocity that some folks show in a good, noble fight. We just fell on each other, swinging, kicking, biting, and none of it worth remembering beyond that he bruised my left eye, and I gave him a hell of a shiner on his right.

A varsity linebacker pulled us apart. "What the fuck? What the fuck!" Marshal kept repeating as we were separated. It started off as a question, but I don't think that's how it ended up. It sounded more as if he were trying to get the words to come out strong enough that he could beat me with them. I didn't say anything.

The vice principal suspended us both for a week, but decided that, rather than send us both home, he would keep Marshal on in-house detention, and let mom deal with me. He called her in. While we waited, the school nurse checked us out for sprains. My anger ran low, then died. I apologized, quietly, to the vice principal. My mouth almost kept going, almost said: "Sorry," to Marshal, but I caught myself in time.

Mom had some words for me on the drive home. "How could you? He's your brother." But he hadn't been my brother for a long time, not since dad died. Mom kept us together, confined us all in the same house, as if place could make family. Maybe it could, like with Carlotta and the dozen people that called themselves her family. I didn't want to take the chance. Mom was the force that kept us together; it would have to be another that drove us apart.

Four days into my suspension, while mom was at work and Marshal was at school, I gave Carlotta's house a call. One of her nieces answered, and told me that Carlotta was out shopping, but she'd call me back when she got home. I heard Carlotta's voice, wordless, in amongst the background hiss, and then a loud crackling as the phone changed hands.

"Hello?"

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Okay, today." She sounded cautious.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry." Casting the word out like a grapnel. It landed, but shakily.

"It's all right."

"And see if you had the time to listen to a problem I'm having."

"I don't have time--"

"I know it's Marshal's baby," I said, trying to also make it sound as if I didn't care that it was Marshal's baby. "He bragged about it," I lied. "And he's the problem." Silence on the other end of the line. "Can you come up?"

"Yeah, okay," said Carlotta. It came out as a sigh. "Mom left me the car."

She took her time, showing up forty minutes later, made-up and wearing her favorite jeans. I gave her a hug, which she returned, lightly.

"Want to go for a walk?"

"Okay," she said.

I took her along the path I had blazed all through that summer. We exchanged only a few words as we walked. I led the way, so I couldn't see her face, but I thought -- or imagined -- I could hear her steps getting lighter the further up the mountain we went.

I stopped just beside the sprig of forsythia I had planted as a marker, only a few feet away from my cave, and turned to look out over the town. Carlotta pulled up beside me, breathing hard.

"You're out of shape," I teased. She punched me in the upper arm.

We sat down on a granite shelf and breathed easily. The air was only a little colder and thinner there, but it was enough to notice. I took a long moment to order my thoughts.

"Don't," said Carlotta, as if she had been watching the gears in my head tick, though she had barely looked at me since we stopped climbing.

"It's not that," I said. "I want to share a secret with you."

"I know you hate Marshal."

"Yeah, that's not a secret. Gimme a bit of credit."

"So, what is it?"

"No, I have to show it to you. It's a place." I got to my feet and held out a hand to help her up. Then I led her past the bush and up to the cave's mouth. "Through there," I said.

"Gross."

"It's not very far. If you look in, you can see the light on the other side."

She bent at the waist and peered in, like I said. "It's straight down," she said.

"Just an optical illusion. It's actually pretty flat, and most of it's rock. And on the other side, well--" I finished with a shrug and got down on my hands-and-knees.

"That's all right," she said, taking a step back.

"Sure," I said. "You trust Marshal on The Zipper, but you don't trust me enough to go twenty feet into a cave?" I made it sound as if my feelings were hurt, just as a joke, but I think she took it seriously. Muttering a weightless complaint, she crouched and moved like a spider behind me, hands and feet splayed out, into the hole.

A few feet into the darkness, she giggled. "Like hiding in the big tires at recess," she said. Her voice sounded as if her lips were right against my ear. A shiver ran up my spine. We kept going.

"I wanna be that old again," I said, and maybe she didn't hear me. We were at the far side. I grabbed thick stand of cheat grass at the roots and pulled myself out into the spotty sunlight. The place I stood up in was unfamiliar, but I recognized a couple of the peaks nearby. Not far from home. A couple ridgelines at most.

I turned around to help Carlotta out and came face to face with a bare wall of rock. The cave was gone, had maybe disappeared the moment I left it. In the space of a single beat, my heart went to a dead run, pumping quick blood that burned against my suddenly frozen skin. "Carlotta?" I half-yelled, then gave it all up. "Carlotta!" I pounded on the rock, but only managed to cut holes in my fists.

I knew better than to think the cave was still open behind the rock; it just took me a moment to realize. When I did, I scrambled up the hillside as fast as I could. It was a deceptive slope; I counted three false summits before I made it to the actual top. Breathless, I turned in circles. The nearest peak was more than a mile away. I must have gone around six or seven times before my darting eyes caught the shape of another person outlined at the top of the ridge nearest the town.

It was Carlotta, I was sure. The cave hadn't sent her far, maybe hadn't sent her anywhere at all.

"Are you OK?" I screamed, but the wind was against me, catching my words and force-feeding them back to me. I coughed, my throat suddenly bone-dry. In the space of an eye-blink she disappeared over the lip of the summit, the clarity of her motion swallowed by the thickness of the air, the waves of heat falling between us.

I started out at a dead run; I had to catch her, to explain what I could to her. But what had happened? What could I say? I slowed to catch my breath, and the realization hit me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me.

I took the rest of the hike home at an easier pace; head down, sure, and not looking up much from my feet, but unhurried.

When I finally made it home, the driveway was empty. It was after five o'clock; school was out, and mom should have been home from work. The house welcomed me with a puff of cold air as I opened the door.

Inside, I thought about giving Carlotta a call. As I reached for the phone, I saw that the message light was blinking on the answering machine. I pressed the play button.

"Honey." It was mom. "We're at the emergency room. Marshal has appendicitis, and they think they're going to have to operate." She was just letting me know where they were, not asking me to come. Without thinking much about it, except to remember to lock the door behind me, I got on my bike and started down the hill.

I pedaled slowly at first, letting the revolutions of my legs drive the engine of my thoughts. They started with the times I had spent in the hospital when dad was dying. I turned down the slope into town, picking up speed. Dad had apologized to all of us, for whatever he could set his mind on at the time. The spokes on my wheels blurred to invisible. For the week after he died, we were like the center of a star, Marshal, mom, and me. Held together by a force much older than all of us added up. I kept my feet going steady, even as the slope lessened and flattened out; my thighs burned. I thought that maybe if I hit a bump in the road, I'd fly out into orbit, or past, maybe escaping the Earth altogether.

Marshal was already out of surgery when I got to the hospital. I asked for his room number at the nurse's station, but didn't really need to because mom was sitting on a bench outside his door. Her head was in her hands, and one foot bounced restlessly against the dirty tile floor. I gave her a hug almost before she realized I was there.

"He okay?" I asked.

Mom shook her head. "Bad infection."

"Can I go in?"

She nodded, the same rate as her juggling foot, for just a moment.

Marshal's eyes were closed when I slipped inside, and the lights were off. A sliver of orange from a streetlamp outside slipped in between the room's hanging blinds like a dagger through a ribcage. He still had his black eye, and I still had mine. I stood beside his bed for a long moment, with nothing at all on my mind. I think everything like intention had fled my mind the moment when I had turned and saw only the rock wall behind me instead of Carlotta. Since then, I had been operating by paths of least resistance, inventing reason after the fact, when imagination could win out fully.

Marshal opened his eyes long enough to turn them away from me. I sat down in an uncomfortable chair by his head.

"I'm sorry," I said, letting the words hang alone until even I started to think it was all I had to say. I had traveled so many miles, gone such a distance. Even though I ended up right back at home, I was so far away in another sense that the only force capable of acting on my body was my body itself, and the mind inside. Not mom's desperate gravity, not Carlotta's starlight, not the vacuum that dad had left behind. But which way should I propel myself? I took a deep breath.

"I told mom you didn't cry when dad died."

Marshal puffed out through his nose, scornful. "I showed her where you keep your porn."

This was it. "I told everyone the last time you wet your bed."

"I wish I hadn't pulled you out of the creek, that time you were eight."

"I laugh when you get tackled at practice."

"I know you've had a crush on Carlotta since Kindergarten."

We went on like that, back-and-forth with all the ammunition we had, heavy and light. At some point, the streetlamp burned out, and all that was left was our voices, separated by a gulf of nothingness, rumbling at each other like cannon-fire.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1758rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Ian Donnell Arbuckle) Oil on Wood http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1767rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Kim Richardson) A Letter To The Norwegian Nobel Committee you never consult the ghosts
of suicide bombers and dinosaurs
to determine who deserves
the Nobel Peace Price more.

You broke the award in half
giving it to Al Gore
and some useless UN committee

"for their efforts to build up and disseminate
greater knowledge about man-made climate change,
and to lay the foundations for the measures
that are needed to counteract such change"

I say nay to your decision.
In fact, I will turn my syllables
into sticks of dynamite
your founder created and blow
your minds with my nomination.

Once, there was a being
who worked with five gifted teenagers
to make our planet a better place,
safe for you and I to swim with dolphins
and snuggle with trees.

For six years, this do-gooder
valiantly fought against evil polluters,
poachers, mad scientists, and a nuclear
being so we could see a horizon
unencumbered by smog, trash, and fallout.

Then, he was forgotten, deemed uncool
in the thick of the Clinton years. We,
the youth of America, grew up,
and only cared about seeing someone's
private areas, deforested.

It is only now eleven years later
that I realize the impact, the epic deeds
of this altruistic hero.

Somewhere, Captain Planet cries
over your committees' nomination.
He cries so much, it drenches
the Amazon rain forest of his sadness.

Do you not realize this is the first time
Captain Planet ever cried? Even when Gaia
left him for Gi, even when Kwame and Ma-Ti
were trampled by the very elephants
he saved from poaching, even when Linka
drowned herself in vodka after
the Soviet Union fell, even when Wheeler
used his powers to incinerate himself
because he could not live in a world
without his babushka.

He was sad, even poured coconut milk
to honor his dead comrades, but he did
not cry, except now because your
esteemed panel believes
that talk talk talk equates to
action action action.

You are lucky Captain Planet
has Heart because he would use
Earth, Fire, Wind, and Water
to put you in traction. Anger, hate
make him ill.

Do you also not realize, Norwegian
Nobel Committee, that his costume,
his timeshare in Guatemala, his
50" plasma television, his mullet,
his dreams, are made from 100%
post consumer material?

Of course not. All it takes
to sway you is a Power Point presentation,
endless committee meetings,
and cold hard facts so flimsy
the lies melt the ice caps
the lobbyists whore to the oil companies.

I implore you, I beseech you, I
entreat you, I beg you, I pray you
change your minds and let
your powers combine. Shout
"Go Planet!" to show you made
the right choice for the Nobel Peace Prize.

The power is yours!
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1751rss_feed@mungbeing.com (J. Bradley) Trees "when a man is in front of a tree, - nettle tree or iroko, ebony, fromager or cedar of lebanon-, can he realize, he who doesn't have more than 200 000 years being a homo sapiens, that he is in front of an extraordinary longevity "form of life", that exists on our planet and marks its landscapes since the primary era ? (...)
a man in front of a tree, isn't it like a young bird that, just leaved from its nest, lands on a Notre Dame gargoyle, like a forgotten mobile phone on a Colisee step ?"
- francis halle, "plaidoyer pour l'arbre" ("pleading for the tree")
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1815rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Seb Cazes) World in Progress http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1805rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Nelly Sanchez) A Letter I Got in Prison Because of strict prison camp rules, this letter made its way to me via another prisoner who fucked enough guards to get privileges. She brought it to me furled in her asshole, stretched wide by much use, but not searched because of her ability to take her captors' cocks up her in this way.

Dear Jennifer,

My name is Muldoon. You may remember me from back in 2008 when we dated for a week. Do you remember that you liked my Zuni belt buckles? I still have them. The case I keep them in has been smashed though. The soldiers came in and ransacked the place. They used the buckles to break my windows, flinging them towards the glass like Chinese stars. I read that you're in a prison camp for distributing banned books, including your book ":", to your ex's kids. When you warned me about Sarah Palin, I thought you were a delusional hate monger, one of those ultra-liberals who usually lives in San Francisco. Strange to have met you in Tucson, but I guess you were too poor to ever get out. Delaware is now a military state too; it just happened yesterday. The Evangelical troops started with the A's and are going down the List of States in alphabetical order. I hear that's how they're rounding people up who appear on the List of Names, that they started with the A's and will save the Z's for last. I guess I fall in the middle. I moved to Texas, where I currently reside as you've seen by my return address -- if letters come in envelopes anymore; I hear the guards take them out and rub their shit-encrusted asses with the paper before they're distributed -- but, by the time you receive this, I will have left the country, most likely permanently, as, even if someone were to stop this madness, it'd be unlikely I'd feel safe ever again. I fear writing more than this because of harm that may come to you. I've thought about you all these years though, and when the List of Names appeared in the Evangelical Garden, I was not surprised to see yours among the thousands taken to camps that day. I hope your camp is not as bad as the ones I've read about or seen on TV. So I write to say good-bye and let you know that the copy of ":" you gave me will make it safely out of the country. Please keep yourself alive, even if it means not resisting when they impregnate you.

Your friend,
Muldoon
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1748rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Jennifer Chesler) Murky Menagerie http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1784rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Angie Mason) Jehovah's Nitwits
Some well-meaning Christians have summoned two rabbis to their small town to participate in a religious conference dedicated to reaching greater understanding among the people. The rabbis have missed their stop. One of the smiling red haired Christians sees us sitting on our suitcases.

Jerry starts to have a panic attack, so I try to calm him down and explain how our plight is all a part of chaos, one of the laws of the universe. I get on a tangent. I'm trying to explain fractional dimensions to Jerry and I draw the beginnings of what is called the Koch Snowflake in the dirt, a fractal that initially looks like the Star of David. We're surprised when the Christians mistake us for two rabbinical scholars, but we play along either to con money off them or so that our identities aren't revealed.

In the car, Jerry starts to remember the snippets of Talmud instruction he had as a youth and begins to pontificate, enlightening them on Judaism, throwing in some made-up parables of his own, that to me sound like cleaned up Farmer's Daughter stories, but on another level are curiously insightful and thought provoking. They take to us so strongly that they ask us to sit on a float in their parade.

Being Dean Martin, I'm at the end of my rope and start drinking and fucking all the young women in the town. I'm on top of this somewhat inexperienced naked French girl and I start feeling her up. She's pretty much lying there like a statue while I maul her. She finally moans for me to enter her, not realizing I've just prematurely ejaculated.

Meanwhile, Jerry has found his true calling. He magically disperses an angry mob of antisemites in the town using only his wits and some very wise words. Some of the Christian women in the town witness this and are so struck by him that they convert to Judaism and Jerry starts his own synagogue. He starts to grow a beard and wear his glasses full time.

As for me, I take a few slaps in the face, and end up hooking up with a woman closer to my age who is the proprietress of a restaurant in town with red checkered table cloths. She puts me to work in her garden and I stop drinking. Now months go by when Jerry and I don't see each other.

And we thought nothing could ever break up the act.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1750rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Mun Mun Mittelbach) Digital Works http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1789rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Callie Danae Hirsch) Seven Years in Guantanamo
We are the drunk, and America---God bless her purple mountains---is our careening Skylark. Appeals to conscience are wasted on us, as they are on even the most sentimental and self-loathing drunk. They might make us shed a tear the way a song on the radio can, or even make us feel good about our individual selves by making us feel righteously bad about our collective self. But none of this will alter our velocity. After seven years running Guantanamo and expanding it into a global franchise of secret prisons where individuals from all over the world are held for years without charges, and in some cases tortured, raped, and murdered, we are not likely to be slowed by the most graphic signs along the road. Not unless they're bright, simple, and all about what can happen to us right now or very, very soon. Here are few reflective hazard signs made visible by our remaining headlight:
  1. WARNING: People think you are an asshole. Remember how you loathed the Germans in Casablanca not only for their brutal regime but for the way they killed the buzz every time they set foot in Rick's Cafe Americain? People, who otherwise might sleep with you or loan you money or pull you from the burning wreckage of your car, are starting to see you that way.
  2. WARNING: People think you are a moron. At this point, it's becoming the only alternative to thinking you're an asshole.
  3. WARNING: You may be imprisoned, tortured, and possibly disappeared by the state. Depending on your religion, your complexion, or the color of your passport, you might see this as a slim possibility, but it's getting a wee bit fatter every day. What we allow our government to do to 'them' will soon enough be applicable to us, especially if we, through or choices, opinions, or affiliations, can suddenly be cast as one of 'them'. And when we say 'the state' we mean the state wherever it is, in all its grandeur. The acquisition of more power and less accountability is the daily aspiration of any state, and every state across the world has been emboldened by our experiment at Guantanamo, even as they condemn it.
  4. WARNING: You may be imprisoned, tortured, and possibly disappeared by non-state actors inspired and encouraged by the actions of your state. Of course this warning has long been dismissed as the "blame America first" argument by defenders of Guantanamo. It is nothing of the sort, unless the old good-for-goose-good-for-gander syllogism is also a piece of insidious anti-Americanism. The simple truth is that non-state actors that are engaged in revolution or holy war or whatever aspire to the same awesome powers, privileges, and "legitimacy" enjoyed by states. So they are heartened whenever any state, but especially one as big and conspicuous as ours, legitimizes tactics that are so cheap and easy to employ.
  5. WARNING: Your privileges have expired. Like every credit card or carton of milk, every empire has an expiration date. When our country engaged in similar tactics a century ago in the Philippines, we were a young power on the make, poised to become a global empire. The Panglossian predictions of PNAC aside, we are in a very different place today. The details are a bit fuzzy at this point, but it looks as though we may be standing by our Skylark very soon, no bars on our cell phone, trying to hitch a ride to the nearest gas station. Here's hoping we don't find ourselves on the road to an undisclosed location.



link]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1907rss_feed@mungbeing.com (R.S. Deese) The Way to Metropolis

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1787rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Muayad Muhsin) Remodernism: Inspiration and Honesty in Art "To stay fluid... "

That's the desire of Remodernist artist Matt Bray, a desire that is evident in this interview. He looks at the art world - the entire world, really - through the grizzled eye of a salty mariner yet retains a curiosity that keeps his explorations exciting. He sees the dangers and navigates the waters like a skilled seaman, acknowledging that the adventure changes him. A self-taught artist, Matt Bray adheres to the 1999 Remodernist Manifesto written by Billy Childish and Charles Thomson. He has been painting in Medway for about ten years and has just embarked on a Fine Art degree at the Ashford School of Art and Design. Like the movement he embraces, Matt is true to himself and continually growing, learning, and inspiring. We surveyed the stream of questions before us and dove right in.

Mark Givens: First, congratulations on the pursuit of the fine arts degree. How will this change your classification as a "self-taught" artist? Is being self-taught a necessary component of modern painting?

Matt Bray: I guess that now I am at college I can no longer be considered a self-taught artist, although even after the full three years, and I have achieved degree status, I would still feel pre-dominantly self-taught as that is how it all started. I failed my art 'A' level because graffiti wasn't considered art at the time.

MG: Is graffiti considered art now?

MB: When I was studying art at school, I used to get a hip hop magazine which had pages of graffiti art each issue, and I thought it was incredible; skillful and artistic, but youthful, and current, it felt like I got it but generations above me didn't. I liked that aspect of it. But of course my art teacher thought it was rubbish and certainly not art. I think the opinion now has changed dramatically - Banksy being the obvious difference. The art world has accepted graffiti, and advertising execs love it.

MG: Do you think graffiti is changing stylistically, either as a result of the involvement from the advertising world or from wider exposure from high profile graffiti artists?

MB: Well, I think the popularity of Banksy has made stencil graffito the way to go. It is a very effective way to work, you get an accurate and powerful image very quickly by using stencils, but its a lot easier too. You don't seem to get the artistry that you did in the 80s and 90s. That is a huge generalization of course, and I don't want to offend anyone, but I think it is valid. My only other criticism of Banksy is that he is a bit 'Greeting Card friendly'. A little bit wooly despite the seeming political edge.

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MG: Do the goals of street art change with differing participant viewpoints?

MB: Yeah, I think graf artists all do it for various reasons. But, I think the rebellious nature to it is central to most practitioners reasons. The most psychologically revealing reason I read for graffiti is youth society's reaction to advertising. The media has its slogans and images in our face 24/7 and as a reaction to that, we've begun to 'take the streets back' by painting our own slogans and images on the walls around us. I like that.

MG: Do you find the juxtaposition of these thoughts intriguing? What about the idea that graf artists create anti-advertising art, and yet advertising is working its way into the graffiti art world - using graffiti to sell products? This should be infuriating to graf artists who fight against ads, having their world usurped by the very folks they fights against and using the very medium they fight with.

MB: Thats exactly it. I'm not sure whether it was John Lydon or Billy Childish, but someone said once that it's like Barclay's Bank using swear words, it just demeans the swear word. So you have to come up with new words. It's the same thing, but with visual language. They've completely hijacked that 'street graf' look and are using it on packed lunch boxes and school homework folders. [laughs] Brilliant. So the kids will create a new style that isn't that but reacts against it.

MG: Do you consider yourself a street artist?

MB: I don't consider myself a street artist with all the connotations that implies, but I do consider myself influenced by the street, and street culture in a profound way.

MG: Are there courses at University in Graffiti or Street Art?

MB: I don't know that colleges yet offer courses in street art and graffiti, but they do have lectures and talks on the subject, and it won't be long before courses are offered as well, I'm sure. It may of course just be a fad however, we'll see.

MG: So, how did you learn to paint?

MB: I spent about 4 or 5 years learning how to paint with oils by looking at reproductions of Rembrandts, and Bacon.

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MG: Did staring at Bacon really help you or did it just make you hungry?

MB: Staring at Bacon did make me hungry (mmmm... bacon) but yeah, I learned a great deal from looking at his paintings. They are incredible. He creates figures, faces, and actions with heavy paint laden brush marks, that create swathes of color and movement unparalleled by anyone else. Rembrandt did the same thing, just a little more restrained. I have learned more from looking at paintings than any other means. That, and drawings by van Gogh and Michaelangelo.

MG: By watching and observing, studying technique...

MB: Trial and error. Self-taught with the help of the masters. Although, if I were to be critical of art college I could say that they don't really teach you much anyway, so perhaps the title will stick.

MG: So, why pursue a degree? What are you hoping to gain?

MB: Being at college allows me to get a grant from the government and a 'spend now pay later' loan and student overdrafts. So I have been allowed the time (3 years) to paint every day and think about painting every day, and totally immerse myself in art, rather than having to work to pay for the basics of life. This is fantastic. But, the college does of course challenge me to learn or adapt new approaches to the work, and they challenge me to know what I'm doing, they just don't really directly teach much, but hey... who ever said teachers had the answers.

MG: Is it more credible to be self-taught? How do other artists react to artists who are not self-taught?

MB: I believe 'self-taught' is probably a badge that carries kudos. Outsider artists seem to have a certain punk-cowboy image, and I think a lot of people believe if you went to college, you may be technically better, but you probably have less vision and are a more homogenized artist in the same mould as everyone else. Whilst there may be some truth to that view, it seems a bit dull-witted and obvious. I'm sure the truth is a little richer and nuanced.

MG: If you are self-taught and you have vision and you enroll in school to hone your skills, don't you have the same vision as before? What does education and training add to a painter's palette?

MB: There is always a danger when learning technique and skills from another, that in doing so you inherit some of their vision, and lose elements of your own. I believe it is a very real risk whilst going to college that you may accidentally replace some of your own ideas and vision with those of the teachers. I am constantly aware of this risk, and do all I can to shore them up.

MG: Unless you believe that accumulated knowledge is more elastic than that and can absorb new ideas and incorporate, refashion your thinking to include additional knowledge.

MB: I believe one idea could change everything you knew. And you wouldn't be able to see in that old way any more. No matter how hard you tried. Which has positive and negative connotations. But to stick your head in the ground is not the answer.

Education and training does however add more tools to your belt. It gives you more at your disposal to achieve your vision with, and more understanding about how that vision works in the grander scheme of art history.

I just try to stay fluid and aware. I have very few certainties anymore though, of which I used to have plenty.

MG: What are some of your favorite subjects?

MB: I love the face. It is infinitely interesting. The figure also can be used and looked at and represented in endless ways, which I love. Landscape has never particularly interested me, however my art lecturer Kath Abiker has recently been explaining about the concept of the sublime within landscapes which sounds cool. Abstracts tend to bore me. Dark, frightening subject matter tends to grab my interest more than pleasantness.

MG: Can you tell us a little about the Medway scene? Are there any outstanding features that make Medway special and especially conducive to an art movement at this time, in this place?
MB: The Medway scene is pretty cool. It's a total grass roots thing, it's not flashy and not even that obvious. It's a funny thing, but I would say the 'real' Medway scene isn't there for the public in the usual sense. I would imagine a lot of people in the area are unaware that there even is a scene. I only ever used to find the exciting people in certain venues, and more often in certain homes. It's more to do with circles of people than anything else. Six degrees of separation you know.

MG: Is the style of the Medway artists reflected in the signage, posters, cityscape, general look and feel of Medway?

MB: The signage, posters, etc in Medway do not reflect the scene, the council tries its best to make Medway feel like a modern city, but it doesn't work. You see the scene best in the people.
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Sometimes the best 'do' in town is downstairs in a dingy little hole under a fish and chip shop. You never know til it happens. But there's a lot of artists with fuck-all to do, putting shit on for everyone else, just to make the week more interesting. It's one of those places that could be thoroughly depressing, so the kids (and some hip grownups) make sure something interesting happens.

Visually Medway is pretty drab. Vincent Van Gogh walked through Chatham on his way to London once, and simply commented that the place was grey. Yep. pretty much. But it is still beautiful in that soggy English way. It has the river, which has interesting wildlife. There are plenty of rolling fields and hills, plenty of trees and birds. It's situated in Kent (the garden of England) so it is a pretty place. But there's also a lot of housing estates, and in Chatham a few tower blocks of flats.

Medway is essentially a commuter spot. A lot of the residents travel to and from London everyday to work. I did when I first left school. Its hard. And when you get home you just wanna get lit and have a mental night out with your mates. So I think there is a combination of factors which all come together to create the necessary environment for the Medway scene as it is.

MG: Are there particular artists who make up this scene?

MB: Billy (Childish) is kind of the godfather of the scene, but he just influences it with cred, you don't see him out much, other than buying paints in the art shop or riding his bike. Wolf (Howard) hangs out a bit, you can share a Woodbine and an ale with him in the downstairs of the Command House. Pete Molinari used to be a regular feature around Chatham, I always seemed to bump into him near the New Art Centre in the high street, although he's now a US resident. Clea Llewellyn (one of my best friends) is an angel with a guitar round her neck, sometimes found in Rochester Vaults. Dave Wise was one of the key players behind the scene, putting on gigs, festivals, readings etc. He ran the Urban Fox Press until it closed in July. They published so many legendary books, and a few albums too. Hats off to Dave.

MG: What other contemporary artists are you interested in?

MB: Billy Childish is a good bloke doing good shit (he has been a great inspiration over the years). Tracy Emin is nice enough (I met her a few months back), and I can dig some of her work (not the neon shit though). Lucian Freud is a great master, Jean Michel Basquiat, Guy Denning, Marlene Dumas - all inspiring. Sol Le Witt, Cy Twombly, Luc Tuymans - all very interesting. I am also very influenced and inspired by artists such as Thom Yorke, Tom Waits, Frederick Rivers, Henry Carver, Jeff Goines and Pete Molinari.


MG: What is/was the "Modernist vision" referenced in so much of the Remodernist literature? Weren't there many different movements within the Modern category (Fauves, Cubism, Surrealism, etc) with different goals?

MB: Although there were indeed many Modernist movements, I think the Modernist ideals that are referred to in the Remodernist literature are the general values and philosophies expressed at the time, which for me, relate to individual expression. It seems to me that before the advent of the camera, the painter's job was to record reality, however the camera could arguably do it better and easier, so the painter's job became one of recording how something 'feels' rather than just how it 'looks'. With this idea comes individual expression. You record the world as it looks and feels TO YOU.

MG: It would seem that you're following the Impressionism to Expressionism to Postmodernism lineage of Modernism.

MB: You could say objective truth was abandoned in place of subjective truth. I think Post-Modernism has abandoned the idea of subjective truth, believing instead there are no truths. It is a cynical view, that as you practice it, can slowly eat away at your sense of power and purpose. Remodernism seemed to me to be addressing this problem and allowing artists to again claim some kind of belief, and to begin creating from the heart, allowing self-expression back into the fray.

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MG: Is spirituality a necessary component of Remodernism or is spirituality something that the artist experiences during the act of creation, which may or may not be observed by the viewer?

MB: I don't know what spirituality means to a lot of people. I guess most people think of god or meditating or love or something like that. If that's the case then I think it would be a mistake to think this has anything to do with Remodernism. You may find Remodernists doing these things or believing in them. But for me, the spirituality discussed by Billy and Charles refers to a deep seated belief in and desire for truth. Existential truth. The truth of who you are. But the truth has to be with yourself. It is all a question of, when faced with that blank canvas and a brush full of paint, whether or not you are able to be honest with yourself and face your fears and desires and either portray them to yourself and the world, or rise above them and receive a message from your higher self. But the spirituality in question is one of existential honesty, which has always been with the powerful artists of the ages.

MG: Here's the problem I have with calling this "Spirituality"; The search for truth, and by extension honesty, is a noble goal and a worthwhile endeavor. Science, which quite literally means the "search for truth", has taken on a cold laboratory veneer while spirituality seems to have taken on some sort of inner-peace vibe. While I appreciate the effort to define the term "spirituality" in a non-religious context, I fear that it is in wide usage with a religious meaning. I think it would be equally wrong to call this search for knowledge "Scientific", even though that is closer to the actual action itself. I have heard, with increased frequency, people refer to themselves as "Spiritual, not Religious" - as in "I believe in a greater power but do not buy into organized religion." While that may be all well and good, it still includes religion in the equation. I wish there were some way to describe these desires and feelings without reference to god or a "higher power" (internal or external). Scientific discovery has the ability to be a transcendent experience, very intense. So maybe it's just my hang-up getting in the way of me viewing the Remodernist manifesto in its proper context, but that seems like a big stumbling block as far as ideology is concerned. That doesn't invalidate the manifesto, far from it, it just means that the manifesto contains elements that I don't completely agree with. But using the word Spirituality in this manner does kind of rankle my goat. Your thoughts?

MB: I understand your issue completely. I too dislike many of the connotations that come with some of these labels. I will try and define the terms as I understand them to create separation between the ideas being discussed. Spirituality is the study of the inner world (psyche/emotional body). Science is the study of the outside world (manifest reality). Religion is the organizing principle of both. In this sense I believe science tries to understand what we experience. Spirituality tries to understand our reaction to these experiences. And religion tries to control and dictate the results of both. From this perspective (ie:mine) Science and Spirituality are complimentary and Religion is simply a political imposter.

One's life experiences could be characterized as the froth on the surface of a chaotic body of water - you can rise above the froth and become conceptual and cerebral as the post-modernists have, or you can dig below to its universal causes; universal in the sense that they are common to all of us. This is what I believe is meant by the term spirituality in the Remodernist Manifesto.

I do not believe in any god or higher power, and don't consider myself religious, although I admit an intersest in religious characters and mythic stories because of their dramatic power. I do believe however in a de rigeur human experience, which I feel when listening to the blues for example. And it is this, existential experience, which for me goes beyond the everyday and becomes timeless and inextricable when considering the life of an emotional creature.

What you do with this awareness is open to considerable question, and it is the inability to come up with any satisfactory answer that has allowed the nihilism of post-modern society to go on for so long. Some eastern religions (Buddhism and Vedic writings) come very close to answering the unanswerable, but the trappings that go with it are tiresome. I think a kind of personal honesty, where one is true to their own internal intuition and feelings is the only justifiable path.

A documentary film exists called 'What the Bleep Do We Know?' that deals with some of these issues very well. It is a scientific inquiry into the ideas behind spiritual thinking. It is driven from a Quantum physics angle and talks about intention being a scientifically proven phenomenon that affects reality. It also talks about non-local positioning which has huge implications, and the power of thought to affect one's being physically.

MG: Do you see these kinds of ideas, the quantum nature of reality, reflected in your artwork?

MB: At the moment I don't think they are overtly explored in my work, but those concepts fuel my day to day thinking enormously. I tend to live in an abstract theoretical framework of quantum physics, personal magic, ritual, art and daydream to such an extent that nothing is easily explained anymore, I can view the most basic of actions through multiple viewpoints at once and see no absolute reality. I do smoke a lot of weed though, so that probably helps.


MG: It seems that a lot of the descriptive passages regarding Remodernism are personal and individualistic. Are you an artist in the Remodernist movement or an artist who practices Remodernism?

MB: I think Remodernism will be a movement of inspiration. One that will affect the peripheral artists more than the central players. It allows those that feel outside the loop, to come in a little and put their ideas on the same table as the big boys. They may laugh at us, but we have this wordy and proud manifesto that lets us feel like we have a right to be here too. But in answer to your question, I think I am just an artist that practices Remodernism, and don't feel affiliated or attached to anyone.

MG: What is your relationship with The Stuckists?

MB: I never really wanted to be considered a Stuckist and was keen to distance myself from them, primarily because of the way they were perceived. Their clown protests outside the Tate during the Turner prize was embarrassing as far as I was concerned. They were protesting conceptual art and demanding a return to painting, whilst almost staging a conceptual protest. It always seemed a little hypocritical and silly. Also I always found the artwork itself a little twee and cheesy.

MG: Can you talk a little about the differences between Remodernism and Stuckism?

MB: I think the main difference between Stuckism and Remodernism is that Stuckism demands that you paint whereas Remodernism includes most creative artistic practices. There is also a little less of the grandstanding and deliberate Bolshiness in the Remodernist manifesto, it is less aggressive and less insulting. Other prominent Remodernist include Billy Childish, Carson Collins, Ella Guru, Guy Denning. Remodernism is more about the approach to the work than the work itself, so even though I am a Remodernist, a lot of the artists I am into are not, and a lot of the ones that are, do not interest me. It is an odd thing, but I don't really care for the group aspect.

MG: What can you tell me about Mad Monk?

MB: Mad Monk - entertain. educate. inspire.

These are the ethics which Mad Monk lives by. First created when I was pretty young, it was a record label for me and my mates, most of the people featured on the label are still making bloody good music, like Clea Llewellyn - a total goddess and very good friend, and The Long Weekend - great bunch of guys, still going strong. Clea also sings for a band called Mooli and she writes and sings with Jah Wobble from Public Image Ltd. So even though the label never really did much, it gave everyone involved the enthusiasm not to quit (very, very, very important). It then languished for quite a few years as my life became bogged down with working and girls etc. However in 2007 when I split up with my girlfriend I was living with, I relaunched Mad Monk with my cousin Adam (aka Henry Carver), the writer, singer, and painter. We decided to make books the new focus of Mad Monk, and started the Mad Monk publishing house. Since then we have published several books of poetry and art, which I am pretty pleased with.

MG: What books?

MB: you can always check www.lulu.com/madmonk for the latest publications, which at the moment are....

Matt Bray :: Remodernist
A collection of paintings from Remodernist artist Matt Bray. Covering the last 5 years the work contains a variety of themes, although predominantly facial and figure studies. The paintings display Matt's unique style and approach throughout.



Bray's Lossindant
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'.



Building a Bridge of Burning Brick Selected Poems 1999-2007 Adam Bray
Poetry and Lyrics by Jairus frontman Adam Bray, part zen buddhist, part ranting artist. Gods buffoon and the Holy Spirit's muse. Witty, cutting, pulling on heart strings, and flaunting pain gleefully in the face of pretty young girls. In short, everything great poetry should be.



The artwork of Paddy Wan
Visions of Wan documents the artwork of Medway born and based artist, musician and poet Paddy Wan. Arranged chronologically it charts the development of his work between his graduation from Kent Institute of Art and Design, Maidstone in 2000 to present day April 2007.



Conversations with a Psyche :: Scattered Raingun
visual poetry from the mind of matt bray



Thought Crimes - The 24 hour psychedelic blog
Set in Chatham, the year is 2070. Art blogger Cohen Masters tries to get out his message via coded psychedelic poems on the underground interweb. It seems futile, but what isn't?



Art Through Food Poison
A collection of drawings and prose from Ashford based artist Dan Sendleking. Who whilst working as a record store clerk amassed some several hundred drawings over 7 years. They recall the cartoon gothic style of Burton, with a quirky humour more akin to the sketches of songwriter Daniel Johnston.



The Marked Out Words of Mark Badger
Mark Badger was confused. There were too many words in his world. He began to delete/erase/eradicate them. And found poetry in their absence. "I believe that Remodernism is definitely trying to put meaning back in art. "




Essentially, Mad Monk gives Adam and myself a joint focus which gives us something creative to join forces on (I love collaboration in art more than anything else), and at the same time creates art for the world that will both interest and inspire. The concept of inspiring others to go out and create their own art is one of the most important elements of my work. Perhaps more so than pleasing an audience, I hope my work inspires others to want to do something similar. Punk ideals.

MG: What's next for you? Any projects/shows you're working on?

MB: Well I'm still at college, so I'll be continuing to progress through that for a couple of years. I'm also writing an album of music at the moment, to be recorded this winter. I just finished producing the new album of my cousin Adam Bray, which has come out very well, so check that out on www.madmonk.org I also have a plan to create what I am calling 'neck poems' - scarves with poems and prayers printed on them, so that should be different. No shows in the near future as I am currently trying to create a new format for the displaying of paintings. I do not like white walled galleries and the quiet austere space they create. I want to recreate the painting exhibition in the mold of a small intimate gig, or even an informal jam. I would like art to be as approachable as music.

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MG: Can you talk a little about what makes a smaller intimate gig more appealing than a larger gallery show?

MB: I've always found going into galleries a bit intimidating, and I know I'm not the only one. The space is usually quite large (high ceilings where possible), white walled, and dead quiet. As you walk in silence; your footsteps echoing around the room, you are so self conscious of not 'spoiling' or 'breaking' the atmosphere, you can't relax. If you want to discuss a work, you do so in hushed tones, it's just all so stifling.

I would like art to be shown in a more informal setting, playing with the lighting (I hate bright lights) maybe just have the works lit, rather than the whole room, to create mood. Also comfy seats, books, music, a bit of social noise etc... would actually make the venue a bit more 'sticky' to use an Internet term, and audience members might actually stay within the works for a far longer period of time, looking at them in a different way.

I have only had one exhibition of my paintings so far and it was in a back room in the Tap 'n' Tin pub in Chatham, whilst my mates band played a live gig in the parallel room. It was wicked. I would like to build on that approach, perhaps showing them in a local cafe whilst we read poetry and play acoustic music or something.

One other way of showing work I have used is to just make a painting then put it out in the real world, leaning up against a tree in the park or something, let people just find it within their own lives, that's exciting I think. I just wanna pull down some of those barriers man, let the work be free....

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1733rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Mark Givens) Figurative Works http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1791rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Anne van der Linden) Mother's Meat Loaf
This is how a young boy, a battered child, is imagining his mother dead as he eats her meat loaf.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1754rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Peter Cherches) Watercolors http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1812rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Jay Davis) Ekphrastic Expressions -- When the Music Stops link

Lately, I've become absorbed
by the word green,
my mind opens up to lush hills
sprinkled with yellow polka-dots,
as clear rivers run like grateful tears,
whose ripples harmonize the air
with coolness and tingly peace.
I recall frisky freshness
of childhood games,
where excitement and laughter and
music seemed to go on forever.

Then I pause and pinch my fantasy,
watch streets and highways packed
with cars that could carry six people,
each with only one person inside,
empty houses lit like the Vegas Strip
burglarized by unneeded energy,
power plants blow carbon dioxide
into thick blankets
across an already smothered sky.

While trapped gasses tread
on unguarded soil, the world simmers
on a burner of masqueraded ignorance,

as adults play "hot potato" with the earth,
toss global warming issues as quickly
as they are handed them, to someone else,

not wanting to know what will happen
when the music stops.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1756&subID=1256rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Suzanne Bruce) -- Views (A Ghazal) I watch quiet blue clouds soothe notched mountains to soften the view.

In a perfect world, all colors would be awesome,
you would not need filtered glass as you thought, to accept the view.

Peaceful meadows hold their delicate breaths while rocky hills
pray human waste that hovers and haunts, does not destroy the view.

We spoke jagged words that unlocked our anger.
Like a torn landscape, ripped the calm of my heart’s view.

In the far lands decorated with dry desert wind,
tribes’ dreams waft of moist grasses and cool violet views.

Turn the knob and open the invisible door to your soul,
imagine the music you could concoct when you see the view.

The artist speaks with exotic silks and paints,
the poet with talking images. Both invite others to visit their views.
link]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1757&subID=1257rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Suzanne Bruce) Album Sleeves http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1762rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Bruce New) Famous
"Excuse me," I interrupted. "Is that a dessert or something?"

The slovenly waiter hovered over me, his thinly-veiled contempt perched stoically right above his nose, near his forehead crease. I had failed his transcendental pop quiz and could feel his starving artist of a deserted soul peeling my skin off, layer by layer.

"I suppose," he sneered, "we might have some frozen."

"Go check on that, if you will," I admonished. I would have said "Go check on that, you pithy little pubichead" but that would have precipitated a nasty bit of saliva-related residue in my dessert, if I hadn't already ingested said fluid during my main course.

The egg in the palm, indeed. I hated to eat out. It was too expensive and it wasn't safe. This night I was forced to. My entire apartment complex had been evacuated and barricaded because of an ongoing kidnapping/hostage situation. It was all going down on live TV, with the entire police force encircling the complex and helicopters buzzing overhead. I didn't give a rats ass about it. I was hungry, I was pissed and my only option was to go to Norm's Famous Brisket Bowl. "Famous" was a dubious claim. Paramedics saving victims of cardio-vascular mishap, that's what Norm's was famous for.

I hadn't been to Norm's in years, since high-school days, when the diner was gleefully named Fuzz's. "Get a furburger at Fuzz's," that was the joke. Fuzz's was located on the second floor of a gas station, all the better to fill up in two different ways. These days it was a check-cashing place, not a gas station. Ad hoc bargain stands of blue blockers and $5.00 framed paintings of country living were bartered upon where the pumps used to be.

Norm's was the only place that wasn't glued to the hostage crisis, so I chose it in desperation. I had already dodged a cadre of pre-pubescent cub reporters and their savage camera crews, who were racing around like a pack of wild animals, bent on discovery, applying their team coverage, flexing their right to point a menacing microphone in your face and get an immediate action response. (Emotional is good. Ambivalence is discouraged.) The camera sees all and is the purveyor of truth and all that face it will be required to field a response to a barrage of prying, personal questions. (Histrionics is preferred. Hesitation is frowned upon.) The quest for truth is a formidable one, oftentimes just coming in under the wire thanks to nifty editing, a sardonic viewpoint and well-placed classic rock music.

The media wasn't going into Norm's, however. There are some places they just won't go. Norm's, caught in its own gastronomic time-warp, seemed to be the hostage siege oasis. You couldn't even hear the helicopters. Their incessant buzzing was drowned out by the Western music on Norm's juke box - Jimmy Rodgers, Bill Monroe, Vasser Clements. Norm's walls were covered with faded 60s art deco wallpaper with fancy modern geometric designs that once were considered "far out" but no longer. They fit well with the foam filled vinyl seats in the side booth, where you had to negotiate around sinkhole sized rips in the material. The menu still included "Chipped Beef on Toast" and "Hash."

A long line of Mexican chefs and service workers had tweaked the offerings a bit. You could get a "chile relleno" now and "Ablondigas soup." But sometimes the culture gap precluded bad choices. I ordered the lasagna and was stymied by the misplaced ingredients. There was no ricotta or mozzarella cheese in the lasagna; I definitely tasted cheddar. I couldn't wait to come back on St. Patrick's Day and have their "Corned Pork and Cabbage."

My equivocal waiter was bringing me a cube of Jello with a dollop of Cool Whip on top. That's when the gunfire erupted. It caused only a momentary disruption in spirits, competing with Flatt and Scruggs' "Orange Blossom Special" on the jukebox. Finally, the cool ambivalence of Norm's was violently shattered by the one helicopter that had somehow lost control. We could hear it sputtering and clanking, getting much louder and irritating as it took a dead bead on poor old Norm's Brisket Bowl.

Momentarily, Norm's would be truly famous, and not for its wretched food.
]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1759rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Kevin Ausmus) Branches From the show "Branches" at Highwire Gallery in Philadelphia from 11/7 - 11/30, 2008.

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1806rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Ken B. Miller) MungBeat! -- Fallin Into Winter When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;To love that well which thou must leave ere long.


"Fallin Into Winter" is one of many in a series of my Shakespeare Project, and part of the bigger project of writing music to all 154 Sonnets. This particular sonnet is #73. Since 2002 I have written music to about a quarter of them.
In the past I have officially released two others. In the original album 'Best Kept Secret' I released the first sonnet I ever wrote to #132 entitled "Starslider." A couple of years ago I expanded 'Best Kept Secret' and included #109 'Contrary to Nature.'

You can hear 'Starslider' #132 at Soundclick
and 'Contrary to Nature' #109 at myspace


A collection of Shakespeare Sonnets to be released on CD are in the works.


Download: link]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1337&subID=1284rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Frances Mai-Ling) -- Rustscape link

"Rustscape" is about, rather than a total environment, part of an environment -- the metal part. Most things metal will rust, and without proper care (and money), there are large parts of our surroundings that will change over time. Imagine all the rust! "Rustscape" is a sonic version of this future.



Download: link

]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1738&subID=1242rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Mystified) -- Two Songs link

Download: link]]> http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1737&subID=1287rss_feed@mungbeing.com (jody franklin) Drawings http://www.mungbeing.com/issue_22.html?articleID=1780rss_feed@mungbeing.com (Liz Parkinson) Claudio Parentela's eXTra finGer Claudio Parentela: Well, first of all please tell us a little about yourself.

link
Aya Kakeda: I was born and raised in Tokyo, now live in New York.
I like cats, seals, receiving postcards and eating ice cream on a street corners.
I travel a lot, when I'm not traveling I draw and paints about my imaginary world. (which is as good as traveling, fun things happens in my imaginary world that keeps me entertained.)

CP: Had you always planned on being an artist [or had you other hopes]?

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AK: I loved drawing since I was little and often daydreamed and made up silly stories.
And as a child my dream was to become an artist, scientist, and explore. So I guess 1/3 of my dream came true! hehe
No pressure from my family, there are no artists in my family so I was always a bit of an odd one.

CP: Do you have a preferred medium to work on? Why?

AK: I have lots of medium that I like, I guess I'm a curious person that I want to explore a lots of things.
At this moment I'm very much into drawing with brush and ink, embroidery, and making a soft sculptures with cloth.
Oh, I always love doing silkscreening, too. I've been doing silkscreen for 6 years! I just love all the processes and smell of ink and the atmosphere of the printing studio.

link
CP: How would you describe your style?

AK: CUTE and SCARY!

CP: Do you go through any certain processes while trying to produce your work?

AK: My works are always a series, and have a story through. So I usually make a story first and think about a medium to see what will fit the story. And lots of sketches and then start producing the works.

CP: What are you working on at present?

AK: I just finished a series for my Solo show at Metropolis Gallery in Lancaster, PA.
It was a story about 3 girls and sick cave seal. And I created 11 images for it. So I need a few days off to start a new project!

CP: What about recent sources of inspirations?

AK: I get inspired talking to my friends, watching film and walking around town.
Recently I went through a loss of my family member... so it gets me thinking about life and death a lot, and circle of life and stuff like that.

link
CP: What are some of your obsessions?