AMANDA PALMER INTERVIEW

NEW TRANS FICTION

absentcause

DUALITY
$3 or trade

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BISEXUAL BIPOLAR BODY CONSCIOUS DEAD OR ALIVE DIALECTICAL DOPPELGANGER GENDERED MIRRORED RADICAL SCHIZOPHRENIC VAMPIRES

Life consists precisely and primarily in thisthat a being is at each moment itself and yet something else. Life is therefore also a contradiction which is present in things and processes themselves, and which constantly originates and resolves itself; and as soon as the contradiction ceases, life, too, comes to an end, and death steps in. Frederich Engels In the contradiction lies the hope. Bertoldt Brecht

Dedicated to the memory of Ziggy Klein, a true comrade and a beautiful freak

Mirrors 1 Front Cover by Disdane

Sakechan@japan.com

http://disdane.deviantart.com
Copyright 2009 by Disdane

Do You Know My Story? Back Cover by Lailati Nar

lailatinar@gmail.com Brian Viglione and Amanda Palmer, New Years Eve show at Bowery Ballroom, NYC. Photo by redguard Special thanks to: Brandi Lee, Hannah Neurotica, Jessica, Jolie, Laura-Marie, Kelly, Mae Undead, Melissa Ann, Sarah Rose and Tina. This zine made under the influence of: Who Killed Amanda Palmer?, Philly Zine Fest, Let the Right One In, Icarus Project, Zinecore Radio, We Make Zines, Dominion Radio, relationship turmoil, troubled sleep, Wall St. crash, Obama election victory, Republic factory sit-in, Gaza massacre. Happy 50th anniversary to the Cuban Revolution!

Explore the dark side with Absent Cause

Underground cultures, hidden histories, feminist and queer sexualities, chosen families and radical politics; vampirism, the gothic, horror and the macabre; surviving abuse, coping with mental illness/ dangerous gifts, self-harm and suicide.
Absent Cause #2, Published January 2009, edited by redguard $3 or trade ($4 postpaid) from Absent Cause, P.O. Box 1568, New York, NY 10276 redguard@gmail.com * http://www.absent-cause.org * http://redguard.etsy.com Absent Cause is copyleft 2009 by redguard. This zine may be reproduced in its entirety, with credit. Individual pieces are copyright their respective artists and writers. Please contact the creator if you want to reproduce an individual piece.

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The mirror cracked

By redguard
Out flew the web and floated wide, The mirror cracked from side to side, "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Fight ImperialismStand Together (FIST) http://fistyouth.wordpress.com Womens Fightback Network http://www.iacboston.org/WFN/wfn.html International Union of Sex Workers http://www.iusw.org/ FIERCELGBTQ Youth http://www.fiercenyc.org Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist) http://www.cpnm.org Socialist Unity Centre of India (SUCI) http://www.suci.in Korean Central News Agency http://www.kcna.co.jp/index-e.htm Free the Cuban Five http://www.freethefiveny.org Leonard Peltier Defense Ctte http://www.leonardpeltier.net Peoples Justice Coalition Police Terror http://www.peoplesjustice.org Generation Five End Child Sexual Abuse http://www.generationfive.org

Anti-imperialist Activist Resources Workers World Party http://www.workers.org International Action Center http://www.iacenter.org Troops Out Now Coalition http://www.troopsoutnow.org New Jersey Solidarity http://www.newjerseysolidarity.org May 1 Immigrant Rights Coalition http://www.may1.info Millions for Mumia http://www.millions4mumia.org Granma InternationalCuba http://www.granma.cu/ingles/index.html Popular Front for Liberation of Palestine http://www.pflp.ps/english Philippine Revolution http://www.philippinerevolution.net United Socialist Party of Venezuela http://psuv.blogspot.com Colombia Action Network http://www.colombiasolidarity.org The Icarus Project http://www.theicarusproject.net

When I chose duality as the theme for the second issue of Absent Cause, I thought the focus would be on the ways doubling is portrayed in horror films and macabre fiction. But as the submissions poured in (and they did), they reminded me of how much duality permeates all aspects of our lives. From how we feel about our bodies and troubled minds, to our most intimate expressions of gender and sexuality, to how we try to live in one world while struggling for another, better one we are all split personalities. Those who are most conscious of the contradiction activists, artists, survivors, people with mental illnesses and dangerous gifts may have the hardest time living with it. These profound social issues are well-covered in this issue. But I want to talk about another very personal struggle with duality. Me? I dont like mirrors. They make me uncomfortable. I
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hate my body thats part of it. No matter how heavy or thin I am, I always look fat to myself, and that reinforces my feelings of worthlessness. But its more than that. I have developed a genuine fear of looking into mirrors; a fear of seeing my reflection watching me, doing something it shouldnt be doing, or of being vulnerable to something else I may see. It began in my early 30s. For almost a year I was housebound in my apartment suffering from severe agoraphobia (fear of public places and social situations). I became intensely afraid of looking into mirrors, or windows at night, or anything else that might cast a reflection. I would stoop and turn my head to avoid catching a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. The fear of mirrors is called Eisoptrophobia or Catoptrophobia. Many psychological disorders have some relationship to it: the syndrome of subjective doubles, mirrored self-misidentification, Cotards syndrome, all of which concern loss of sense of self or fear of another self the doppelganger.

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A Google search of Eisoptrophobia turned up postings on several message boards from distraught people describing symptoms like mine. Frequently a scary movie involving mirrors or a mirror-related superstition seems to trigger the crisis. That was true for me: my fear took hold after seeing The Ring, a horror film with disturbing mirror imagery, and was reinforced when I got my hands on a bootleg tape of the 1913 German doppelganger film, The Student of Prague. Doppelgangers are a prominent, if not predominant, theme in gothic fiction and horror films, so it comes as no surprise that Im fascinated with the idea. If you encounter your double, its said to be an omen of your death. And what could be more uncanny to use Freuds term for something strange and terrifying that also feels familiar than seeing yourself, your movements, your feelings reflected in a mirror? Its you, but its not you. People who suffer from Eisoptrophobia generally understand that their fear is irrational. Clearly, there must be something deeper at the root of it. In my case, you can take your pick of possible causes: post-traumatic stress from do-

mestic violence and childhood abuse, suicidal feelings, lack of self-esteem, body-hatred. Or the stress of living with all of them making my brain chemistry go haywire. Oddly, it was embracing my identification with living death in the form of vampires that helped me regain my bearings. The vampire, of course, is said to cast no reflection. Its been over five years since I experienced my fear of mirrors in such a disabling way. But its still there, just under the surface. My anxiety shot through the roof while researching the terms and definitions for this essay. My heart raced and my breathing got shallow. At this moment, I am frightened to get up and walk past the mirror. To some extent, we all put on an act to get by in an oppressive capitalist system that belittles and terrorizes women, people of color, queers, fat people, poor people, the mentally ill, and all kinds of freaks. We must hide our real selves at least parts of them to survive. We wear masks on the surface of our lives. So who is that person you see reflected in the looking glass? How can you trust it? What might be lurking behind?

Read more zines!

Fat Grrrlz! #1 & 2 by Brandi Lee $2 or trade I feel obliged to include a disclaimer, since Brandi is a good friend of mine. However, I read the first issue of her zine before we met so I feel okay gushing about it. The first thing I read when I flipped it open was this statement: Im an immoral fat fuck. I love to eat and I love to fuck. Hell yeah! That won me over immediately. Its blunt and radical; its workingclass and Brooklyn. You can easily read this in one sitting. A great way to introduce people to fat-positive ideas, or get re-inspired if you already have them. Includes interviews with Krissy of Figure 8 zine and PonyBoy Press in #1 and author Jennifer Weiner in #2. fatgrrrlz@gmail.com http://killyrfears.etsy.com Pan de Muertos / Bread of the Dead #2 Free Web zine The second edition of Ghoulirias free web zine is the Horrifying Halloween Issue. It includes everything from hair-coloring advice and recipes to cemetery photography and sex tips. Learn how to mix your own Halloween cocktails and read palms! Professor Morte of Atlantas Silver Screen Spookshow and Burlesque is interviewed. The site is easy to navigate and lots of fun. www.pandemuertoszine.com Pulse Zine #7 by Kellyrose $2 (includes shipping) I always look forward to new issues of this zine. With a theme of life, feminism and learning to love yourself, Kellyrose strives to keep it upbeat and fun. The core of this issue is a powerful article on her struggle with bulimia. Shes apologetic for getting so serious, but says she has to be honest about her problem to keep things real. Courageous and insightful. www.myspace.com/pulsezine1

redguard (a.k.a. Gregory Butterfield) is the creator of Absent Cause. He loves multiverses, Doppelgangland and Vampire Willow. Contact: redguard@gmail.com

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Favorite things
Jerk Alert Dirty Slurs LP
Reminds me of the first time I heard Dead Kennedys when I was a teenager a jolt to the spine, racingfighting guitars and drums. There's a lot of horror- and macabrethemed tunes, which I certainly enjoy. Melissa Ann's screamed vocals are what make it thrilling, though. Topped off with a zine-style lyric sheet. "Fucking in the Graveyard" indeed! Unfortunately this Bloomington, Ind., band has broken up, so grab this while you still can. www.myspace.com/ rocknrollwithjerkalert

Upon reflection
By JC Reilly
The mirror casts distortions. Who stares at me might be the woman whose clothes don't fit, might be the quiet advisor who hoards confidences, offers support like flying buttress or bulkhead. The mirror catches surfaces. Who stares at me might be the thwarted poet, whose words, finding no audience, lay despised under a mattress, a secret felony, might be the wife you used to know, and forgot. The mirror colors impressions. Who stares at me might be the twenty-year-old girl in the crone's body, might be the one whose tears seep into the pillow but whose eyes are bright when others stand close. The mirror clouds reality. Who stares at me might be the distinction between dew and drizzle, might be the place where you've left your conceit like a non-descript box that disguises a pipe bomb, might be the color yellow, the unattended funeral, the china doll, the power bill, the Janus-faced politician, the house in foreclosure, the battered mother, the death-row inmate, the crack-addict, the orphan, the slick C.E.O. drinking Mai Tais on Bora Bora while the workers wipe their asses with their pink slips, the American nightmare, the vagabond freezing under the bridge in filth and rags and second-hand dreams.

Batman and Robin Im a Bat, Im a Rock-n-Roll Animal EP

I had to check out this Austrian band because I admire anyone with the chutzpah to challenge the Time Warner empires copyright domination of the Batman myth. Wasnt expecting much musically, since it seemed like a one-note joke band. But I was pleasantly surprised; its great fast throbbing garage punk that makes me want to dance. Hilarious lyrics and artwork, plus an insert of the Gotham Gazette roughly translated into English. Who the fuck is Superman? www.myspace.com/holymaccaroni

Gonzoriffic Blood Witch DVD

This was my first encounter with the world of Gonzoriffic, a women-centered film collective in Atlanta. After the witch-bashing of Dario Argentos Mother of Tears, it was refreshing to watch a film that puts its empathy for the witch front and center. There are no easy sympathies here the character who starts out looking like the heroine gets hoisted by her own petard. If you dont like blood, you may have a problem with this. I loved it. The short film only costs eight bucks and comes with scads of extras. www.gonzoriffic.com

JC Reilly is a far-left-leaning poet who lives in Atlanta. You can reach her at chickenpinata@gmail.com

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and when I was done, left my body to cool until it was found late the next day. ~**~ After the bleeding, the yelling, the dying Dressed to the nines, I was myself again. My high heels clattered against the silence of several hereafters. Lost, stumbling in the dark, I settled down to a hoar-frost silence.

Sometime later, disturbing my dreams, a cold hand clasped mine and pulled me from my slumber. Looking up, moonlight blistered my eyes. Clouds passed, the brilliance faded, and I saw the blue goddess I had worshiped in my old life. Bending over my grave, she put her frozen lips to mine. Too pretty to be alive, but all the prettier dead, she whispered. Nodding, I quietly agreed. And standing, I followed.

James Rush is an intuitive writer devoted to the goddess/muse known to him as Erato. His anima is sensual and strong, yet tragically imprisoned inside a male body. Only music lifts him from this condition. Ever striving to understand his curse, he has committed himself to a study of female characters in his fiction. James can be contacted at www.myspace.com/darthbotis (and loves to email/post); his favorite electronic muse is Dominion Radio (give it a listen!) and Absent Cause zine (youre reading it right now).

http://dominionradio.net
Vampire Angel by Diane Carroll http://beachbead.deviantart.com Copyright 2009 by Diane Carroll

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Tucked under Barbaras ashtray, a twenty and a note waited for me. From a distance, I could feel its icy intonations. Josh, Heres the twenty. Take it on down to Felixs and pick up the roses. Kay told April to expect you. Dont mess this up. Your father will be home tomorrow. Im thinking a date with April is just the news he needs to hear right about now. Barb Sealed with a tawdry red kiss, the note bit into my hands. It was last stand time, even if it meant I had to come clean. My mother, the real one, would have expected honesty from me. I could do that for her memory, at the very least. Ignoring the ringing of the phone, I busied myself at the mirror again. I knew the phone was Barbara calling, and if I answered, Id ruin the magic. Puckering, the red waxed on smoothly; blinking, the eye shadow was next; blushing, my cheeks glowed. Sliding them up, the black thigh-highs snugged tight. Going to bed early, I cried myself to sleep, ruby-red fingernails woven over black nylon knees. I prayed to my goddess for inner strength. Faggot, queer, tranny, I whispered to myself, quaking at the strangeness of such things. In the morning, thats just what Id be for eternity after my father beat me.

Faintly, I heard the goddess steal in. Closing my eyes, I took the cue. Swooshing over the carpet to my bed, I felt her frigid October-fingers lifting and pulling the covers back to see the scarlet harlot that was me. Touching me gently, she did her worst against the bulge in my panties. Contorting in the heat, I confessed it all. I hated football. I hated being a boy. I hated myself totally. All I wanted was to wisp away into the vents, vanish into the frosty vaults of my ladys wintertomb down deep below in the belly of the world itself. They all know about Phillip, she whispered to me, her voice vodka flavored. I love you, Joshie. Always have and always will. But I cant take the rap this time. Not again. Not after last time. All Im asking of you now is to give in. Can you give in, Joshie? Just for me? Just to make it easier on all us? Pressing a butcher knife into my jittering fingers, she let go of my soaked slackness. The aching vanished slowly in the wake of two flashing gleams. Drenching the nightgown a deeper shade of red, my agony drained from me in a slow, spurting ebb. Putting lips to my cooling body, the goddess thanked me for my sacrifice,

Amanda Palmer:

'None of this is gonna be right, but its all honest'

Call her a Brechtian Punk, call her Dark Cabaret, just dont call her late for dinner. Amanda Palmer of Dresden Dolls unleashed her first solo album in Autumn 2008: Who Killed Amanda Palmer? Shes currently touring North America and Europe. This interview was conducted Dec. 1, 2008. redguard: Youve been touring intensely with the Danger Ensemble to promote the new album. How are you doing? Amanda Fucking Palmer: We just hit the tour wall where everybody on the bus is starting to get a little irritable and cranky. All the guys are dealing with tour PMS. Its really hard to describe being on tour to someone on the outside because its just such a weird lifestyle. The tour is special apart from that because of the personnel. Im used to touring with the Dresden Dolls and thats what Ive gotten used to for the past seven years, me and Brian and our crew on a bus, and this is an entirely different group of people. It's been fantastic so different and inspiring, all these incredible fucking people on the bus with me. I feel insanely lucky that things worked out the way they did. redguard: Are you doing creative work like songwriting on the road, or is it so allconsuming that you have to put everything into each nights show?

AFP: Its pretty much the latter. I dont tend to write unless I have a lot of mental space and privacy, and thats something that you dont even taste on tour. Sometimes its all I can do to get my practice piano set up in a closet so I can run over rough parts of the set for 10

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minutes a day, much less have privacy to do writing. Also, Im so connected with the fans and with my business, I tend to fall behind when Im on tour just with the general upkeep of the empire. (laughs) And thats the price that I pay, but I wouldnt trade it. redguard: Im struck by how your work and especially the new album speak to creative people and activists who struggle with mental illness, survivorship and other dangerous gifts. You seem to have a special empathy for these issues. What fuels you to pursue these themes? AFP: Yknow, Im not exactly sure what it is that motivates me to write what I write about. I try not to think about it too hard for fear of crushing some fragile magic thats at work when I write. I think it has to do with what motivated me to write in the first place. I didnt come from some classical background. Im pretty much self-taught and learned how to play by ear. From the very beginning, playing the piano and writing songs was the way for me to channel my aggression and frustration. Everybody approaches music and writing from a different

way, and thats kind of how I got my start. I saw it as a tool for release I never saw the piano as a tool for making nice music. That never occurred to me as a kid! (laughs) Thats continued to be my pattern, although as I get older I find myself wanting to break that pattern because I think, like

any artistic habit, you can fall into a rut. But you also cant argue with or change what it is that fundamentally inspires you. Generally, Im drawn over to the piano or I find myself coming up with songs in my head when Ive got feelings or situations that I need to work through that arent really discussable in a logical, rational

my stomach tossed, rolled and sucked at the back of my eyes. We all make choices in life, she said smiling, and as we all know, though we shoot for the best, we often fall short of the glory of Jesus Christ. Nodding, I stared at the silver crucifix that lay inert against her freckled skin. Jesus swayed there for a moment, and then vanished into a pinch of fingernails and pale, fidgeting fingers. Pulling Jesus against his chain, I felt Mrs. Harold grow impatient. What I mean to say is, she said, backing away from me, leaning against a crowded counter of coffee cans, paintbrushes, and colored water, if you ever just want to talk to someone about it all, Ill be more than happy to do so. I mean, being on St. Joes football team aint all there is to life. You dont have to prove anything to anybody. Never. Not here at St. Joes. Nodding, I felt her perky blue eyes studying me, still pulling on Jesus like he was the latest in charms against boys like me. I looked at the floor. It felt like the thing to do. Parental types like to think youre soaking it all in as they talk. I was saved from the Holy Ghost by the interruption of a St. Joes cheerleader. She spoke quickly, her voice resounding against the storeroom cabinets like a flaming seraphim.

Steven Herbert just broke an ink bottle! Storming from paintbrush heaven, Mrs. Harold went on automatic, issuing orders for the boys to back away and for the girls to grab paper towels and a janitor if possible. Turning her bright, blonde head to me, the seraphim sneered. Stay away from me, queer! Walking away, she was a melting pot of school colors and Christian pride. And though she had already forgotten about me, mixing again with her clique, the name hung over my head in large, pink letters: queerqueerqueer. Whispering spells to dull the senses of mortals, my goddess wove a protective cocoon of hate around me. It was by her power alone that I survived the day. The bell sounded at two, and I left on cue, mixing effortlessly with the tossing tide. With wraith-cold hands, the goddess pushed me away from St. Joes and bustled me down lonely brick-paved alleyways, through yards with yawning garden gnomes, and over busy thoroughfares. Skulking through Scottsdale Place, weaving through the seas of parked cars, I keyed the lock on apartment B3 and made it my business to transform once and for all. I wasnt going back to being me. The goddess had changed me forever.

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curse in Spanish, and then he nodded at me in the failing light. Lets go. Getting dark in here, fucking batteries and shit. Smiling in the shadows, the goddess pushed me on with her songs. And because she said so, I let Phillip take me home. Later, sleep was bittersweet. Peeping in, Barbaras eyes burned me. Made me have bad dreams. Slinking like a sidewinder, she snaked up next to my bed, the tendrils of her long black hair whispering over my flesh. I knew she was looking down on me, smiling a smug smile. She wasnt going to burn this time for my failures. Not this time. Not by a long shot. ~**~ In the morning, I pretended to be a boy again. Walking through the crowded halls of St. Josephs Preparatory, I fooled absolutely no one at all. Fumbling at my locker, I felt their eyes on me. How they knew what I was, I could only guess. Thered been talk overnight, certain parties calling other parties of interest in search of good drugs. The neighborhood thug had it all. Grass, coke, meds of any hue, and a cross dresser hanging off the end of his cock. My classmates had put it all together in their heads. I was a revealed

formula, a quotable couplet in a rather sordid sonnet that they could dissect, critique, and of course, bully and beat. Catholics, even really bad Catholic preps, hate fags. Josh, Mrs. Harold, the AP Art teacher, caught me off guard at my locker, can I talk to you for a minute? Nodding, I shrunk into my blue wind-

The name hung over my head in large, pink letters: queer queer queer
breaker, wrinkled my nose against her coffee-creamer breath, and thought of complimentary things to say to her about her abstract art. I wasnt her best student, I couldnt even sketch properly. She led me back to her little supply room, and rounded on me suddenly, coffee cup in hand. She smiled a benevolent smile, waxed cool, her eyes beaming support. Josh, can I ask you a rather personal question? Nodding yes, I felt it coming, a wave of nausea in

way. Theres something really magical about poetry, songwriting and putting chords together that can express things that sitting around and complaining to your friends over coffee just cant do. I do also find myself gradually moving away from that and finding myself less fearful of embracing my pop sensibilities, which are really strong. I had a compulsion growing up to feel like I had to make all of my art very barbed and very ugly; simplicity was simply not allowed. Everything had to be totally fucking intense all the time. Its been a really slow process to mature out of that. This album is the first time those changes have seen the light. It tends to take a while because of the way the music industry is structured. There are songs I wrote in my mid-20s that are just finally seeing the light of day now because of the way things work. redguard: Last week there was this discussion on your blog about having suicidal thoughts while waiting for the train. Do you remember? AFP: Yeah, I think it was only three days ago.

redguard: You talked about how everybody has these thoughts but most people cant

acknowledge them. How do you see your place in the spectrum between artistry and madness? AFP: Therein lays the challenge of everybodys life. As soon as you do something, anything, youre risking doing the wrong thing, disappointing someone, making someone angry, or even disappointing yourself. The challenge and the difficulty is that theres no right answer. I could drive myself crazy, and I do sometimes, with the question these things always pose: is this the right thing to say, is this too much to reveal, is this safe, is this offen-

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sive? At a certain point I just need to take all those doubts and throw them out the window and throw caution to the wind and say, I know none of this is gonna be right, but all of this is gonna be honest. Im therefore making the decision to put myself out there, knowing that at the end of the day, no matter what happens, this transmission is gonna hit some people in the right way. And there might be a lot of hits and a lot of misses. But its a choice between doing that and doing nothing and playing it safe and saying, Oh my god, I had such a great show today and went shopping. But I see a lot of other musicians and rock stars blogging like that and its just so superficial and so obvious. The thing with my blog is that I came into it really gradually. I started blogging when I was just starting the Dresden Dolls, and that was ages ago, seven years ago or something. And I started with things that were somewhat personal, but not personal to the extent they are now: posts about what was going on with band and what it was like to be touring. And then it became a conversation as I saw what people really responded to and started to feel safer and safer. I delved a little bit deeper. I didnt just get online one day and say, Hey everybody, here are my innermost secrets. It took a lot of building of trust.

The weirdest thing about the blog is that it feels like an actual relationship. All those people who read it are kind of mosaic-ed into one friend. That relationship has had its own evolution of growth and care and feeding and mistakes and apologies and reconciliations. In the pie chart of my life and relationships, theres my mom, my best friend, my boyfriend, theres this and that, and then theres my blog. It takes the kind of time and energy that any other significant relationship in your life takes up. Once I started looking at it that way it started to make more sense. I dont even see it as a business tool anymore, although I sometimes use it that way. I see it as a relationship that like any of my other friendships needs to be sustained. And it needs caretaking. redguard: That really comes through in how you present yourself online. Its striking because you think that the more of a public figure someone becomes, the more theyre in the public eye, then theyre gonna withdraw. And with you its the opposite. Its exciting to see and also hear from your end how that can be a positive thing to have that relationship with other people and not just withdraw into your own little world. AFP: I think that the miscon-

and wet carpets. He was telling me he knew the fix-it guys and that this was cool with them. No need to shiver, baby. Not going to jail or anything. Jus gonna suck some dick. Relax. We entered a small bathroom, the kind with a tub and a toilet right next to each other. It was smaller than the ones we had over on Glasgow, but as he closed and locked the door, I realized, it really didnt matter. The darkness here was absolute. Stumbling backwards on my heels, I met the wall. Phillip opened a cabinet, light flickered, and a lance of yellow fought back the shadows. Planting the butt of the small travel light on the stark white sink, he turned to me and smiled. Unbuckling his pants, he let them fall unceremoniously to his ankles. He flashed a wolfish smile at me, put his firm hands on my shoulders, and pushed me gently to my knees. Bobbing there, rousing brown and fat against the false shadows, I saw my cue. Parting my lips, I choked it down, coughedsaliva a sticky web between my mouth and his needs. Being pushed back to my place, I went down a little more, coughed again, but then got my wind and sucked for all I was worth. Thats it my sweet, the goddess said. She was there beside me, her blue-lipped

whispers coaching me onward toward my reward. Stroking my long hair, she comforted me, told me what a good girl I was, how my true nature was more important than what any school had to say about me. Youre too pretty to be a boy, she advised, and too handsome to be a girl.

Youre too pretty to be a boy and too handsome to be a girl

Thats why you will always be mine, dearest. Always my little pixie bitch. Phillip pistoned into my throat, hand on my head, his finish unstoppablelong in the expectation. Sucking it harder, I felt his heartbeat flare suddenly into my mouth, and because the goddess warned me, wasnt shocked at the flooding rapture that spat at my tonsils, overran me, and flowed warmly down my chin. Dripping hot, it gobbed on my hose, my bra, my nightgown. I felt him finally go slack. Jesus, he rasped, tugging up his pants again. There was a long, awkward moment, a

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tight, a black pair of seamy thigh highs, and made a special study of the gleaming red panties that were fresh from the dirties. Honking as they went by, drunk men whistled at me. Blushing down to my painted toenails, everything suddenly felt better. My calves glowed with the attention of the nylons, my fingers glistened and winked rubies at the new moon, and my facetransformed by eye shadow and lipstick pouted expertly at a passing stranger on a bicycle. Woah, woah, woah, he was saying, bike dangling between his legs, hand going out to grasp my crimson train. Excitement brimmed as I stopped, turned, and glared at him. There wasnt much that his eyes couldnt see. Swirling and swarthy, his hair tossed in the flames of the street titans, their beams igniting the peach fuzz under his nose, the smooth brown hue of his skin, the rippling shoulder muscles under his white t-shirt. What? I asked innocently, my loins pounding as he jerked tighter on my nightgown. Folding my arms dramatically to my chest, I remembered not to move too suddenly because the grapefruit in my bra might come tumbling out. I was trying for sultry and defiant. Girlie, girlie, he smiled, no need to tremble, he

coaxed further, coming closer, his front tire bumping into me. You like to party, girl? Want to get high? Want to go fuck? Holding my wrist, his needs were evident. I felt his heat sink into my body, ignite my stomach, shorten my breath, blush my face. Wordlessly, he led me, his left on my small wrist, his right guiding his bike. The rubbing of the tire against the street stopped once we left the streetlights to their war against the night. Exchanging the long ribbons of concrete for the soft whisper of alley-grass, he brought me to terms. His name, he said through whispers, was Phillip. Wanna do Phillip? Want some of this? You can hit it, no problem. His vague whispers intoxicated me, made me stumble in my heels as we prowled past apartment windows glaring white with the dull glow of television sets. We were well behind Scottsdale Terrace, a long three story square of doors, access alleys and burnt out souls. This one, he said to himself, gently laying his bike in the tall grass. Turning to a blind window, he put his rough fingers under the lip, and with a grunt, budged it open. Wet paint, he explained as he stepped into a living room, holding the drapes aside for me. Reclaiming my quaking hand, he led me past vacant bedrooms that stank of plaster

ception there is that withdrawing makes you safer. redguard: Right. AFP: I have a theory that the reason Ive never had any stalkers, even though I seem like a perfect stalker target, is that theres no intrigue, no mystique, so Im a really boring target. (laughs) No one would ever go through my trash because theyd know exactly what they were gonna find! Theres nothing exciting about it. As a quasi-celebrity in a small, indie way, I feel safest when everybody knows me. That means I have an army of friends instead of an army of fans. An army of fans is terrifying. But a couple of thousand friends out there who care about you and have your back is really powerful. redguard: Speaking of that: Your record company was unhappy with how your belly looked in the video for "Leeds United." Apparently they thought you weren't skinny enough to show it in a music video. When the word got out, your supporters started posting shots of their own fabulous tummies and its grown into the Rebellyon. How has this experience affected your own feelings about body image? AFP: Its just so inspiring to me. I love the fact that I had nothing to do with it. I love the

fact that I threw out this piece of information and a couple of days later I got online and it had sparked something completely new. I love that about the Internet, that something like this is now possible. When something like that catches fire, it tells me that thats an area where mutual support is desperately needed. Ive been talking with a lot of people lately and doing press with feminist magazines and its I feel like theres been a lot of backsliding lately and the so-called feminist agenda has been nicely swept under the rug. Because technically everything is all finished up and women are empowered and isnt it great? Its just such bullshit. I think theres a very false sense of security that weve made a lot of progress, but I find it impossible to buy as I look at my teenage fans and the struggles and the conflicts that theyre having because theyre living in a culture that demands that they be so oversexualized and so body-conscious. Its really upsetting, because it just seems like all of these kids are living inside a giant contradiction. Theyre being told at every turn to be themselves and be free, yet theyre really shackled by strict rules and regulations. redguard: Congratulations on Who Killed Amanda Palmer?

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Changeling
(Continued from page 37)

Its winning people over when they hear it. AFP: Its odd, I feel like Im going back to 2002 when it was just me and Brian and a little record label knocking door-todoor and trying to get people to support it. But this is the way the industry is going. Were all going back to the roots, to the

days when theres no money left in anybodys bank account after the tour. Its a good challenge. I dont take the albums success for granted. Its going to be a very slow build. But the record is solid and so are the people who are supporting it. Keep up with AFPs adventures at blog.amandapalmer.net

exotic dancer, she was on her way to tell Kay that her sensitive stepson, yeah the one who didnt make the football team, would be asking her daughter to the dance. ~**~ I bathed at nine, two hours after Barbara left. Turning the water on, my hands quaked. They knew what I wanted to do. The goddess was running in me again, her ethereal song wafting through the air conditioner vents, entering my heart like a shot. She knew what I liked. Whispering to me that good old dad was away on a business trip in Baton Rouge, and that Barbara wouldnt be home till long after twelve, if at all. You have time. You have time to be with me, she promised. And it was right, so right. The blue goddess knew my true nature, celebrated it, made me feel good about it. Fuck the Aprils of the world, I wasnt made for them, not by a long shot. Opening the medicine cabinet where Barbara kept her things, my hands glowed as I touched the slick silver cylinders of lipstick tubes. With shaky fingers, I rolled one outa bright flame of crimson promise.

Gliding it on, just like Id seen Barbara do, the lipstick stained my lips red, blood red. Blinking through eye shadow, there was no escape from the strumpet in the mirror. Patiently, I glossed my bottom lip, puckered, hit the meaty portions, did the top once more. Smiling, the scarlet scent soaked into my blood. It was a magic I could not deny, even if I was just a stupid boy. Closing my eyes, I slipped out of the noose the world had made for me and danced to the song of the goddess. Singing in tempo to the thudder-thumpthump of the blood in my veins, she taught me parables, songs, sonnets of completion. She said all I needed was to take one more step. A tiny step ... really. Later, the click-clack of high heels on concrete told me I was doing those tiny steps, stepping right over the weedchoked seams in the sidewalk, letting the crimson red wake of my stepmothers nightgown drown the drowsy dandelions that grew there in spite of chemical sprays. The streetlights glared orange, bending down like long-necked titans to inspect and exploit me. They showed the world my sex, their lights bouncing off my black leather shoes that were too

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This day
By Alison Roh Park
The world I would choose holds me in its arms the air is an embrace each time I touch it every street lets me pass, sure and certain without fear or trepidation. In this world tall lanky shapes at the end of a dark street cause no fear. Young boys never say words that make me feel small, and a man who respects boundaries and safety is not extraordinary. In this world I decide when, how and how fast I am touched, without contention. Here, there is no regret for unseen warning signs and red flags no crushing responsibility for the jeopardy I am in no fear of retribution or threat of injustice for what must be done to protect myself. I would rewrite the world into one where my body is not a slate for men to make mistakes, erase and start over where I find kinship and love with sisters over something other than the survival of history where safety and healing coexist in time. Here, families are open arms brothers, not parodies of masculinity at their sisters expense where my sister believes what I see in her one of the most beautiful women I know.

The Icarus Project is an incredible source of information, analysis and opportunities for interaction with others. This poster was designed by one of my favorite comix people, Sophie Crumb. Its tacked to my bulletin board as a reminder of all the things I should do. Visit www.theicarusproject.net

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I am open here the breeze moves against my skin, through my hair the weight of my breasts against gravity comforting not shameful. Here, I move through bright streets with strong and certain steps freely without deference. Here, I am surrounded by my sisters and hand-in-hand with my mother my fathers and brothers are with me as well we stand tall together and there is no smell of death and there is not even a thought of caution and on this beautiful day we are laughing.
Alison Roh Park is a poet and writer who lives in New York City. Contact: alisonpark@gmail.com.

Ax Wound: www.axwoundzine.com Toxic Shock: http://lickmylit.etsy.com Zinecore Radio: www.blogtalkradio.com/thezineshow

Cerveauxxx by redguard

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same, but all the rare books have been salvaged. Its a huge place where you can find any book you want about anything. The waves of the sea have this odor of stinging salt. At night the waves hit the rocks at an angle that echoes. There's something very poetic about it. The sea has a similar feature to the Sphinx. They have both witnessed Egypts decline. The fishermen would tell you that the Sphinx is a symbol of the people because even though he has the body of a lion and the brain of a human he is quiet and harmless; but the sea in Alexandria is furious, it's upset at what the country has become. The sea in Egypt is the symbol of our anger and revolt. redguard: What are your hopes for the future for yourself and your country? Walaa: I dont want to live in Egypt straight away. I want to live in Latin America, maybe learn some things from other cultures, and then move to Egypt. If all goes as Mubarak plans and his son Gamal takes power (they anticipate it to be

in 2010), then we are either headed for a revolution or the most violent times of Egypts history. Gamal Mubarak will not be as benevolent as the American media portrays him; he is a businessman and thats how he will always be. If a National Front is created and the Muslim Brotherhood and the Leftists learn to compromise in the sake of the people, then I am anticipating a revolution. The reason why the U.S. supports Mubarak and will continue to support his son against any sort of resistance is because of Egypts geographic position. Egypt needs to be an undemocratic country because any democracy would mean the people would get to choose whether or not to support Israel. And the Americans dont want that. But then again, we were never waiting for the Americans to give us democracy on a plate of gold. We know that we will have to continue to shed our blood for it. People who cannot free themselves do not deserve democracy.

Arab in the American world

(or the other way around)

By Andria Alefhi
I was this close to being
bilingual. Arabic was around me, just not daily conversations, and none directed at me. My parents and their whole generation reserved it for grown-up talk, for when my grandparents were around or on the phone. Arabic was the first language of my parents, but there was no necessity for my brother and I to learn it. Our grandparents were already really old and there were no expectations. While my parents grew up almost exclusively socializing only with Arabic-speaking family or friends, the opposite was true for me. Not that my parents avoided or were embarrassed by their culture; just that for them and for the entire Arabic community, the interaction was need-based. My parents moved one town over, they are first generation American, and the need was gone. Now that I look back, I can say the same was true for my aunts and uncles. Arabic was the first language of my parents generation, but there was no necessity for my brother and I and for all of our cousinsnone of us speak Arabic. I learned phrases, names of foods, numbers, cursesbut all incomplete. Are you what you choose to be or what you speak? What you look like or what you tell others that you are? My hometown was an old immigrant town, a mini Manhattan: Utica, N.Y. Full of factories and mills, sectioned off into neighborhoods and quadrants. The largest population was Italian, and another large population was Christian Syrian and Lebanese. My parents are Syrian and Lebanese. Because of a few reasonsphysical proximity, cultural similarity, religious similarity (Catholic)if you weren't Italian by blood, you were Italian by association. Growing up, people were either us, Italians, or just other. We didn't bother to know more about the others, they were just Caucasians. Syrians/Lebanese and Italians felt right at home with each other, and the marriage between the two was not verboten. We knew who was who and didn't mistake the two, but for the rest of the Caucasian world, it was often hard to tell which of the olive-skinned people you hailed from. And

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my experience has always been that people want to know. Identity issues started early. I can remember telling my fifth grade teacher that I was Syrian, not Italian. I felt it even then. Being Italian was safe, was European. Being an Arab was not. I never learned anything of the history or accomplishments of Arabic countries outside of the chapters on ancient Egypt. Same is true for the unit on flags of other countries. I remember it clearly, showing my mother the book with the flags of countries around the world, and when looking for Syria, both of us agreeing that it just wasn't there. I remember in the elementary level health and nutrition unit having to write down what you had for dinner and share it with the class. Not knowing how to spell kooseh and feeling embarrassed by the obscurity of the food, I replied that we'd had hamburgers. My mother, LebaneseSyrian, looked Austrian or German, with slight features, porcelain skin and blue eyes. My father, Syrian, looks like stock footage of Ellis Island Arab immigrants, having orange skin. My brother is more of a cool tan color, and when he was young, looked Puerto Rican. I look like a Jew. A Middle Eastern Jew. This has been my whole life since I left for college. Outside of Utica, people didn't know what to make of

me. They knew I was something, and Jew was everyone's best guess. Ask anyone who knows me. Anywhere I go, coast to coast, country to country, people, and especially Jews, think I'm a Jew. They don't ask me, they just assume I am Jewish like them and include me. They ask me what temple I go to. They give me jobs, apartments, friendship,

lution and we wont get the chance to taste its fruits. But this is for the next generation, its for our children. As I said before, many of my peers at school are brainwashed into being indifferent. redguard: Young activists from Egypt, including you, have been using social networking sites like Facebook to organize. What has been the governments response? What are the pluses and minuses of organizing that way? Walaa: The government responded to the activists brutally. I mentioned before that this government does not include callous politicians but businessmen and military leaders. They are afraid of this sort of technology. It's something new to them. It isnt that the communists are sending flyers telling the workers to hold a strike; it has become way more sophisticated than that. They tried to censor Facebook; it didnt work. Cell phones with cameras are used to secretly tape the police brutality and then put it on YouTube. Search for the channel Wael Abbas and youll find them all.

This government is used to underground meetings between revolutionaries, but they are not used to people networking from all around the country and orga-

Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?

because I am one of them. It would be so much easier if I did study Hebrew, learned the holidays, and converted. Maybe I would finally belong somewhere. Instead, I know the drill. Its happened to me thousands of times. When a reference to being Jewish is made, or if I am asked (wait, you're Jewish, aren't you?), I always tell the truth. What? They are upset and shocked. Some feel fooled. And then there's always a small percentage of Jews that just go back to treating me like a fellow Jew because dammit, I look and act like family.

nizing protests. Those are young people in their twenties that understand what theyre up against and cannot be threatened easily. redguard: Tell me about Alexandria and why you love the city so much. Walaa: Alexandria has a long history of resistance and cultural revolution. In Alex you can find bohemians and fishermen with the same sense of revolution. In Alexandria there is a very famous library that was built before Christ, it's still there. The building is not the

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between those two groups, preventing them from creating a National Front. redguard: What are the biggest issues confronting young people in Egypt right now? Walaa: Ah, where shall I start? The educational system is not programmed to produce inventive people, but to produce obedient workers. It has become extremely corrupt under Mubarak. The teachers are very underpaid so they simply dont teach in class. Students can take extra lessons after school if they pay a great deal of money. This system of fraud has evolved so much that students hardly go to school and only take the extra lessons. Then when they graduate from universities, the public sector does not employ anyone anymore. The economic situation is terrible but the Egyptians always try to adapt to a terrible situation. For the last 27 years that Mubarak ruled he went on a privatization spree. The weakness in his government is that its not ruled by callous politicians. Its controlled by businessmen and military leaders who have no understanding of politics. They have no understanding of the effects of student movements; thus when they suppress it, they do so in a way that makes the rest of the population very bitter. With the

brutal suppression of activists people are becoming very bitter towards the Mubarak regime. redguard: What is life like for revolutionary activists in Egypt? How much are you able to speak out in school and among your peers? Walaa: I dont think I deserve the term activist yet, let alone revolutionary activist. Real revolutionary activists are the hero bloggers that are imprisoned for shedding light on Egyptian governmental and business corruption. They really earned the title; they are humiliated in prison cells. There is this great blogger who first started a group on Facebook promoting the general strike of April 6, 2008. He is being chased by the police, lives in his car and is always on the move, yet he continues his political activism using Internet cafes all around the country. There was also a brave student named Belal Diab who attended a lecture where the prime minister [Ahmed Nazif] paraded himself saying the usual crap. The student shouted, Free Egypt, free the political prisoners, free the people. That student has been targeted ever since; he got beaten up by the police. That student was talking about revolution. I think he said the most beautiful thing: I know we are planting the tree of a new revo-

Why did this happen to me? Why didn't it happen to anyone else in my family? I want Michael Moore to follow me across America and into other English speaking countries, with the camera and the boom mike, tape others interacting with me, and then go back and interview them. So, did you think Andria was a Jew? Why, she's not? It's like those old commercials for Folgers instant coffee ... weve secretly replaced their coffee with Folgers crystals. But really, now I'm in New York City, where there is a huge Jewish community. There are Arabs here too, and lots of them. Why the mistaken identity still? A friend recently gave me an answer that actually made sense, something I'd never thought of before. I left my home, I am educated and independent minded, traveled, artistic, and most especially, bold and blunt. But why do I have to be anything ethnic or religious? Why this need to be labeled, stamped by country of origin? I see people talk: at work, at school, at a party. Lots of people interact without one burning with curiosity about the other. Only those of us who look, dare I say it, exotic. People have said this to me! After a few minutes of conversation, I can always see it coming. The look downward, the pause, the question. Do you mind if I ask

you a personal question? I usually just go for it: I'm Syrian and Lebanese. Then after the blank stare, It's in the Middle East. Maybe that's it, my brother doesn't look exotic, and he just looks like a tan, blackhaired guy in Old Navy. I want to make it clear, my association with being a mistaken Jew has ALWAYS been positive. I feel guilty that I haven't suffered discrimination or pain like I know happens to some Jewish people in certain neighborhoods, towns, cities, states, etc. Let's talk about that! There's a lot going on in that one statement. Have I been discriminated against for my Semitic looks and just not known about it? How have I been so lucky that being a Jew has often been to my benefit, and I'm not even really a Jew? I can completely testify to getting both a job and an apartment on two separate occasions, both in California, explicitly informed I was being hired and housed because I was a nice Jewish girl from New York. Being an Arab in America was not popular when I was growing up. It was private. Famous people of Arabic decent on TV didn't tell America (with the exception of Jamie Farr on the show M*A*S*H, who disclosed being Lebanese and speaking Arabic; it came up several times during the series).

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Then being an Arab was unpopular because it was unknown; now it's just misunderstood and negative.
And now? Tony Shalhoub is a Lebanese-American actor. When you see him in movies or shows, he plays an Italian, a Latino, an American. You don't see him talking about being Lebanese in interviews. I don't really follow his career so I could be wrong about this, but I'm right about the ethnic casting. The same is true for Ralph Nader. I saw the documentary about him, An Unreasonable Man, and not once did he mention his background, even when he said his parents were immigrants. The man ran for president; he could have done a lot for Arab-Americans by disclosing his background. Then being an Arab was unpopular because it was unknown; now it's just misunderstood and negative. People hear Arab and they hear Moslem, and that's a dirty word. Again, I haven't felt personal discrimination, but is that because I don't look like an Arab to nonArabic America? If I were tanner, if I wore a headscarf, how would it be different? Where is the separation in people's minds between Arab and Moslem? I STILL have friends who think I'm Moslem based on absolutely nothing more than association. Where is the solidarity amongst Christian Arabs and Moslem Arabs? This is what prompted my article. I took my father to the Arabic strip on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. Even using the word Arabic is loaded. My hometown, my parents, their friends and family, would never use the word for anything other than the language. Otherwise, the food, the strip, the culture, the stores, it's Middle Eastern. I thought we would find some Syrian-style bakeries, a coffee shop, some produce markets, and we would stroll and he would talk to strangers, ehelo seheleh! and feel like he was back in the old days. We got there to find one block of Mos-

country had this beautiful authenticity and originality. You could feel the magic in the accents of the people. They were not rich in many senses but they were way richer than anyone I know in sense of culture. Then I read a little about Fidel Castro. I posted a question in two different groups on

My friends and I are being manufactured into the future tyrant elite
Facebook. I asked, Is Fidel Castro a good guy or a bad guy? And then I read a little more about Cuban history and this reading really clashed with what I was learning at the same time about American imperialism. How can a country thats been so economically isolated from the rest of the world have such a great cultural renaissance? How can it have such great medical conditions when in Iraq an economic embargo caused a million children to die? The answer is simple; Cuba does not program the

schooling to get obedient workers, but thinkers who are able to understand the real fundamentals of life. I read more and more about Fidel Castro. I adored the man. A friend of mine on Facebook told me that the Fidel Castro fan page she was in had simply disappeared. Then I made a new one. I asked people to tell me if they wanted to become administrators, so this Cuban guy that lives in Miami told me that he had met Fidel Castro and he would like to become an admin. So I added him on Facebook; I started talking with him and I learned a lot about Cuba from him. redguard: What is the state of the progressive movement in Egypt today? How much connection is there with other movements in the Middle East and North Africa, such as the Palestinian resistance? Walaa: Pan-Arabism is a strong feeling inscribed in Egyptian culture. Although there is a great sense of solidarity, there is no connection whatsoever. People are too scared. There are two main opposition factions in Egypt: the Muslim Brotherhood and the Leftists (this also includes the liberal left and the seculars). Ever since the overthrow of the monarchy, the government has always created a lot of tension

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Walaa Quisay
(Continued from page 22)

were under British colonialism and I knew it all could be summed into one question: With all the things you do, are you enhancing the agenda of imperialism or you enhancing the agenda of the oppressed people? Frankly the answer was very obvious. We have a course in our school called Careers. I now understand what the message is in giving us such a course. It was telling us how to program our studying in school to be able to get to a job where we can earn the most amount of money. The teacher was telling us about the shit load of money that Arab inventors get for selling their inventions to the U.S. I always thought that I was being smart, but in fact my friends and I are being manufactured into the future tyrant elite. We are going to be the next rulers of our Third World countries. But weve never felt the pain that our people had to endure and thus we will feel closer and identify more with the American imperialists. The sick thing about this whole charade is that even after we sell our people more to the Americans, they will always think of us as dumb Arabs worth nothing. Another method they used was making us feel cosmopoli-

tanmeaning they brainwash us into thinking that we are global citizens, therefore we have no obligation whatsoever to our peoples. redguard: How did you come to identify with the revolutionary left and the Cuban Revolution in particular? Walaa: I became interested in socialism before I knew anything about Cuba. I was watching a documentary about Palestine and I saw graffiti of Che Guevara on the walls of a refugee camp. I had no idea who he was even though I had seen his image often. I asked my dad about the guy on the wall and then he got me to listen to an Arabic poem that was called Guevara is Dead by Ahmed Food Nag. It really hit me. I searched a little more about this Guevara guy and found out he fought for three revolutions. He died as a martyr; he gave up his family and life for that. Che Guevara had a lot to loose. He could have been a doctor living in a rich suburb. My older sister forced me to go and watch the Michael Moore documentary Sicko. That was a good film, even though I have my reservations on liberals. The part about Cuba was enchanting. The

lem Arab stores. Different dress, different looking stores and things for sale, even an Imam calling worshipers to prayer at noontime. My father was uncomfortable. He didn't see himself in the company of kinship at all. I asked him to go into a store and ask someone if there was a more Lebanese strip. He wouldn't do it. Finally after badgering him he went and asked someone, speaking English. I was really shocked. So I asked him about it. My father said that his brother had advised him that you couldn't just go up and speak Arabic to another Arab-looking person, not today. We walked and conversed about what it means to be an Arab today. Finally, we did find the Lebanese block, after he spotted a Lebanese-looking man in front of an Orthodox church and inquired in Arabic. We had lunch at Cafe Tripoli, Lebanese restaurant (the sign said so). Once inside, my father started a conversation with the restaurant owner and they spoke in Arabic back and forth about where they were from. And for a few minutes, for a change, I was the American in the Arab world. The old man addressed me, and

while I kind of understood him, I couldn't reply to him. My father told him I didn't speak Arabic, but I caught the translation, and the way the phrase goes is, Who knows why, but she doesn't know Arabic. Smile. As if I had not learned Arabic on purpose. As if I wanted to look like a Jew to fool and confuse Jewish people all over the world. As if I could act and talk like an Arab and help set the world straight on the nonexistence of us, be the model for indie rock ArabAmericans. When will it be the right time on the census form to check other and in the blank, fill in Syrian? Author's note: I interchange myself as Syrian and Lebanese because I am both, because I don't want to hyphenate SyrianLebanese over and over, and because the cultures are nearly identical for me and I don't have much use to separate them. The dialects are similar, the food is similar. However, they are not identical, and not all Syrians are quick to compare themselves to the Lebanese and vice versa. This article is just about my own personal experience.

Andria Alefhi lives in New York. She is the editor of Well Never Have Paris, a literary zine devoted to all things never meant to be. She also makes cool clocks! www.neverhaveparis.blogspot.com

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Egyptian student Walaa Quisay:

We will continue to shed our blood

Walaa Quisay is a force of nature. An Egyptian highschool student living in Qatar, Walaa is a well-known voice of radicalism among her peers and online. On Facebook shes been threatened with expulsion, had numerous pages and groups deleted, and recently had her account disabled, all for giving voice to revolutionary solidarity on behalf of the peoples of the Middle East and worldwide. redguard: Tell me a little about your family background. Walaa Quisay: We were originally from a rich family; my great-grandfather was a landowner and my greatgrandmother was a Turkish woman. As rulers of the Egyptian monarchy, the Turkish elite were not to intermarry. However, my paternal greatgrandfather was granted the highest social level called Pasha as a sign of some kind of nobility and that is how he was able to marry my greatgrandmother. The military coup of 1952 lead by General Najeeb eventually overthrew the Turkish monarchy. Two years after the coup, General Najeeb was overthrown by a fellow officer called Nasser. Nasser adopted a socialist approach. He nationalized many of the organizations that existed and ended the Egyptian feudal system. I admire Nasser for doing that, even though it very much hurt my family. But he made fatal mistakes that were irresponsible and unforgivable. This led to my great-grandfathers untimely death, leaving my young grandfather to care for his family. As time passed my grandfather worked several jobs he wasnt accustomed to and raised his family. My father was born in a small village in the Egyptian Delta. As the eldest child, my father was the instant favorite and was given a lot of what the family had been able to afford in the past. My father then gave back to his family by getting a scholarship and going to a good university, where he first became politically active with the Muslim Brotherhood. President Hosni Mubarak wanted to be rid of the Muslim

Self-Portrait Nov. 08 by redguard

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BTT: What is happening in Nepal has to a certain extent impacted the Chinese. As far as I can see, the majority of the mainstream youth do not care about it. However, there are some young people who give up the good life in China to participate in Nepal's socialist construction. In China, some cities re-establish the statue of Chairman Mao. From Mao Zedong's social transformation practice and its results, we know that philosophy belongs to the people rather than the ruling class, everyone is a philosopher, and it's possible that everyone will be able to master the world at the macro level. We know it's possible for culture to really belong to the people, that ordinary workers can play an important role in the field of culture, that not-for-profit culture can exist. We know that the educational system is not only to get a diploma and that a low-tuition education system is possible.

We know a free, universal health security system serving the people and not for profit is possible. We know it's possible for people not to have to worry about unemployment and cutthroat competition and that everyone can have a sense of security. Mao Zedong Thought is critical for the Third World. Mao Zedong Thought led the people to liberate themselves from the oppression of the foreign colonizers and the capitalists, the feudal nobility, the reactionary ruling class, and to get the status and power of justice and equality. redguard: How can people in the West listen to your music? BTT: We are trying to have our records issued and organize tours in Europe or the Americas in order to make our music spread at a deeper level in the West. You can hear some of our songs on MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/ breakingtotopband.

Brotherhood movement. My father was arrested and put in political prison for two years. He was severely tortured. Years later he was able to sue the government for wrongful imprisonment and won his case. Mubarak allowed these trials only because in the 1980s he was weak and he didnt want to anger the public just yet. My father was still a member of the Muslim Brotherhood until he had a falling out with the movement over their rising political activity. He believed that they were a religious opposition movement, not a political party. redguard: Where have you lived and attended school? Walaa: I lived in Cairo until I reached the first grade. Cairo was a mixture of sadness and fun. The view out my window was one of poverty and broken houses. People I interacted with were beggars by the sidewalk and food merchants that sold their merchandise illegally. I witnessed the police raids as they sacked the food carts of old men and women whose only crime was not being able to afford a shop space. I also witnessed the knife fights that were overlooked by the arrogant police, and I saw how they

dragged beggars from the street. From the second to the third grade I lived in London. That was an uneventful but somewhat fun time. It took me a while to adapt to the English language, which was completely foreign to me. Then I

Walaa Quisay came back to Egypt for a year but nothing had changed! I then moved to the United Arab Emirates and lived there for five years. My political thinking was dormant and I was a typical kid until the eighth grade. That was when I started writing English poetry and became interested in a singer who greatly influenced my philosophical thinking: Bob Dylan. I became a pacifist for a

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year, but then I started to read more which made me understand struggles and the idea of revolt. To annoy my teacher I started reading Karl Marx, since she would not allow me

asked to write a project about any subject. I chose to write about the Palestinian-Israeli crisis. I went through many stages in my political thinking until I became a socialist.

sized cities, are home to the development of punk. Most of the shows are underground, and there are some punks [who] participate in business shows. redguard: What impact did the Summer Olympics have on the punk scene? BTT: None. At least we still had shows. Growing up with children of the elite and with the rightwing propaganda I got from my schooling, I started making excuses to sort of explain the social imbalance. There were people who told me it was Gods decision to make us rich and we cannot rebel against that. We have to enjoy it while it lasts. Some said that poor people did not work hard enough to get where we are. Discovering the idea of an empire was very depressing for me. I used to read the works of Egyptian nationalists when they
(Continued on page 78)

Photo by Gehad Quisay to make my term paper topic about communism. This brings us to the present, living in Qatar. In Qatar they canceled debate club because the head wanted to debate communism; they said it was too sensitive and controversial an issue and that some parents would not feel comfortable having it discussed on campus. redguard: How do you describe your world view? Walaa: I have always been interested in politics. When I was in grade four we were

redguard: Are there a lot of political bands, or are groups like Breaking To Top and Gum Bleed a rarity? BTT: Here there are fewer political bands, but we are not the only ones. Its just that we and they have different political directions, or they do not have a direction. redguard: As a band with a revolutionary Maoist perspective, how do you regard the current Chinese government? Do you relate to other communist forces inside and outside the Communist Party?

BTT: The nature of the revisionist government is very clear. With the so-called Communists we have no internal links. [We work with] our own external communist revolutionary forces, and we have some exchange with other people who share common beliefs. We are opposed to the revisionists whose betrayal of the working class handed the workers to overseas corporations on a silver platter. This has manifested a great schism within the rank and file members of international socialist and communist organizations. We'll do long-term struggle with those revisionists and capitalist-roaders whom Mao had jailed before. redguard: You give strong support to the Maoist-led struggle unfolding in Nepal. Why do you think this development is so important? Do you see what is happening in Nepal affecting how young people and workers in China think?

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Chinese punks Breaking To Top:

Its possible for culture to belong to the people

Based in Beijing, Breaking To Top describe themselves as Maoist Hardcore Punx for the Working Class. The band asked that their names not be used. redguard: How did your band come together? Were you all active in other bands before forming Breaking to Top? Breaking To Top: I met the bass player in the punk scene and eventually we came together. During the previous 10 years I have participated in a number of other bands. The other musicians have played in other bands as well. Our band was established at the end of 2007 in a small bar. After only three hours of rehearsal, we started our hardcore arena tour. We formed hardcore music of our struggle as our tools and weapons to protest against what we heard, saw and experienced. Since we formed the band we have participated in bar performances. We learned that the bars are not the only places of the ideological battle-fighting. This year we locked on the target at the universities and even high schools. We have to finally destroy the capitalist economic system and all operational bases of the corporations. And so we have created communist punk music for their employees and workers because we understand the people can move and march for the establishment of a new order. We look forward to using our strength to wake up the sleeping youths, we know that the future belongs to the young! redguard: Who are some of your musical influences? BTT: Black Flag, Strike Anywhere, The Clash, SkaP, Inadaptats, Dropkick Murphys, The Pogues. redguard: What does the Chinese punk scene look like? Does it exist outside major cities? Are the shows completely underground? BTT: The Chinese punk scene is still in the initial stage of development in comparison to the West. Beijing, Shanghai, Wuhan, Zhengzhou, Chongqingthese big cities, and other small- and medium-

The un-american aesthetic

By Brandi Lee
Ive never truly been part
of the american* aesthetic. Well, my face might have been, but not my body. The swell of my hips has never been slim enough to fit into the confined limits of Western beauty standardsat least not within my years. I never understood anything to have more than one meaning until I realized that what was being presented to me excluded meexcluded my hips and excluded my strong arms. And that is just fucked up. There is a language being used in american culture that deals specifically with beauty standards and exclusion. The words contained within this language reinforce the beauty myth, an idea that is believed to be true by most, but isnt. In this language, there is no re-defining of words, no dual meaning, and no discourse on definitions. They are what they are and you live with it, or you dont live. This isnt my reality. I dont believe in other myths, so Im not sure why I ever participated in the myth of beauty. In the language of beauty, there are a couple of situations where duality is present. First, we have the definition of words in the language of beauty, and then the other definitions provided to us outside of the language of beauty. This ultimately provides us with more than one meaning for a word, often a dual meaning. Second, there are two inherently opposite feelings, positive and negative, in the dichotomy of american aesthetics when speaking of humans and beauty. One is either ultimately beautiful or ugly and one can either feel positive or negative about it. As long as I stay fat and take up space, I am ultimately ugly and I feel negative that there arent broader definitions of what is beautiful (and the cultural norm of what is accept-

Imagine if we took a word like fat and turned it into something positive
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Inside this
able). In order to get out of a mono or dual definition of words, there needs to be an actionist approach. In order to shift a word into a multimeaningful, malleable definition, we need to start using the words the way we wish. One word I feel needs the most work is fat. According to the language of beauty, there is a negative understanding of fat. Fat means to be ugly, lazy, and unattractive. While it seems there are multiple meanings, there is really only one presentthat is unacceptable. Outside the language of beauty, fat can be defined to mean vegetable oils, the richest or best part of something, an abundance of desirable elements, fertile or well stocked. Most of these definitions are positive and there are multiple definitions. Imagine if we took a word like fat and turned it into something positive, like the definitions available for nonhumans. I feel fat wouldnt mean I feel unacceptable; it could mean I feel like I have an abundance of desirable elements, or I feel like the best. I figure that since I had no say in how someone else defined my body or what was acceptable, I might as well have a say in how things are defined in the future. If the words were understood to have multiple meanings, maybe they wouldnt be used as tools in the beauty myth. Maybe if there werent only two ways of feeling or accepting, there could be a broader way of doing both. At least, this is what I hope as a woman who feels like she has an abundance of desirable elements of the un-american aesthetic. Authors note: I have used american to translate into the United States of America, as that is where I can truly speak from my experiences.

body, there is...

Im 16 years old in a house 10 my senior. Mommy, daddy and brother should be here. But that wont be possible because of my mind. I ran from my house that cold, windy night.

I was 14 years old that first night alone. When I ran from myself, my family, my home. Sometimes I walk by the house they still live in. Tears down my face; no jacketIm freezin. How could I say that Im sorry to you? Im homesick and tiredif only you knew. But something still tells me, "They wont understand." Go back to your place thats loveless and bland. Now at the place that is blue, black and purple. Im gothic and smartgod dammit Im beautiful. I like my dark colors and diligent ways. The one purple gift under the tree will just stay. To say that Im happy would never be true. Im gothic and pretty, but nothing without you. Jessika was the subject of an interview in Absent Cause #1.

Contact: Vampiress_Jessika@yahoo.com http://www.myspace.com/decadentvampiress

Brandi Lee lives in Brooklyn and does tons of shit, including making zines (Fat Grrrlz! and Oh, Dear!), collecting tattoos, riding her bike, taking really long walks, taking flicks of grafilthy, dancing, baking vegan bread and making lowercase a art (killyrfears.etsy.com). You can contact her at fatgrrrlz@gmail.com

www.gonzoriffic.com
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Inside this
Untitled
(for a gloomy holiday) By Jessika
Waking from slumber I slip out of bed. I walk in the hall and the air is still dead. Creep down the stairs and stop on the last. Look toward the tree and head for the stash. All of the lights and all of the hype. Blue, black and purple are all of the types. Blue lights, black ornaments, and purple wrapping paper. Red, green, and white have all been but tapered. Dressed in my nightie from mid 19th century. I kneel on the floor, a presentdont tear it. Alone in the cold of that 25th morning. Im all by myself, little, not smiling.

body, there is...is

My story
By Stephanie Eversole
I'd like to tell a bit about my
road to acceptance, if you'd care to read. I haven't always been like this; quite the opposite. From the time I was a kid to the time I was about 20, I tried thousands of diets and weight loss programs. I even went as far as to keep a "diet journal" and on in life. My mother was always dieting and putting my dad on some diet. That resulted in me thinking that my body was ugly, unnatural, and that dieting was a very normal way of life. The funny thing was, I never learned good, healthy eating habits because of it. My dad died when he was

write everything I'd eaten and done that day in it religiously, mostly, I realize now, because I was bored and it gave me something to do. But as soon as I got interested in something else, the diet was abandoned. My parents were both fat, as were my grandparents later

54 after being sick for seven years. People assume it was because he was fat, of course, but what they don't know is that that my dad smoked two packs a day for 40 years and it ruined his lungs, making it impossible for him to live without a respi-

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a fat person
rator or oxygen after he got pneumonia. But because my father was a fat man, people go, "Oh, he was fat. That's why." I was 16 when my dad died and it wrecked havoc on my life ... at 18, I became anorexic. My mother and I didn't get along, I was scared to come home from school, and my father was gone. I thought if I was thin, I would get love, which I really needed. So I started an exercise and conditioning class at my school and stopped eating. It was easy because I was very involved with choir and spent most of my time after school working on stuff for the school musical. I didn't eat lunch, but then came home and told my mother I had eaten a lot at school and wasn't hungry. I did this for five months, only eating an apple once a week to sustain myself. I overworked myself in my exercise class, even working extra time after school. Eventually, I lost 40 lbs and EVERYONE was complimenting me, telling me how great I looked and it felt GREAT. I felt loved. But it caught up to me. It wasn't until I saw a video from a speech I did at a choir banquet that I realized how horrible I looked; I was pale, my face was gaunt and I had huge bags under my eyes. I eventually almost collapsed in gym class. My teacher, a huge health nut, took me aside and talked to me about being healthy while being fat. I thought it was bull; everyone KNEW that being thin was the only way to be healthy or to get love. So I started eating again while exercising and gained it all back. I entered college that fall and fell in love with a man who would never love me back. I was so infatuated with him and so longed to be with him that I didn't care that he made comments about my weight; comments like, "you could have better orgasms if you were thin," or "you look pretty, but you'd look better if you were thinner." He kept me strung along, took his own body issues out on me, and I just took it in my desperation to be loved. It took awhile for me to see that he had major hate issues with his body and that he didn't love me and never would. It was hard to come to that realization because I was so blinded by love, but once I did, I started taking a good, long look at myself. Why did I hate my body? Why did I hate myself? Why was I letting what other people thought affect my happiness? So I started researching loving myself, getting books and reading up on it. Pretty soon I found there was an entire community that promoted loving your body just the way it was and I immersed myself in reading about it and the concept of fat acceptance. I have always

trying to be free!
tells her everything she wants to hear like hes reading it from a script. Tonight, she wonders if it was all real as she watches him from afar, lost in a sea of people that idolize and worship him. And she just stands there as he performs for the crowd, and she is lost. And now she wonders if it was all just a fantasy. Hes an actor when hes on the stage. He has an image to maintain but its just an illusion. Maybe its all an act. Maybe the world is his stage. Its all for entertainment purposes only.

Jolie Noggle straddles the mighty HorrorDoll Productions empire like a riot grrrl colossus. Shes been publishing per-zines and recording spoken word since her teens. Her current zine, Mrs. Noggle, is up to issue #17. Check her out at mrsnoggle.etsy.com and mrsnoggle@yahoo.com

Gimme Brains!!! zine distro www.youreinsanehoney.com

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a fat person
The rock star
By Jolie Noggle
As the rock star takes the
stage, her heart skips a beat. He skillfully strums his guitar and girls swoon as he croons the song that he wrote just for her. His voice is heavenly. With a twinkle in his eye, he looks straight at her every time he sings this song. Her pulse races and she sways and sings along. She smiles to herself when she remembers the acoustic serenade performed in his bedroom for only her to see. He had just written the song devoted to her and excitedly played it for her. She applauded and kissed him on the cheek when the song was over. He writes such heartwrenching songs about girls and bad relationships. These somber songs make her want to cry. They make her want to love him. She throws her arms around him and embraces him and whispers in his ear and she tells him that shell never break his heart like those other girls. She often thinks back to when they first met. It was a cool summer night last June. She had gone out to a bar with a few of her friends. The meeting was just by chance, but she thought it was fate. His band happened to be playing at the bar that night. Once she saw him she could not take her eyes off of him. He lit up the room. She struck up a conversation with him after his band performed. She was so nervous and her stomach filled with anxiety and butterflies. She

trying to be free!s
loved researching and there is a LOT of material out there on this subject, and in no time, I'd found out that there was nothing wrong with my body; it is beautiful just the way it is. I started exercising and practicing healthy eating habits (as in eating LOTS of fruits and veggies and grains and water but NOT depriving myself of something I really want if I want it!) and loving myself instead of hating, and pretty soon I dumped the guy I'd loved who was bringing me down so badly. I got confidence, I got respect, and I got a feeling of inner peace. Mostly what I did was read; I read books like Fat!So? by Marilyn Wann and blogs like BigFatBlog.com and bought magazines that catered to women my size. I practiced affirmations; instead of telling myself I was ugly and stupid, I told myself I was beautiful and smart. It worked on both counts. I surrounded myself with images and art and things that promoted love and selflove and tossed the negative things out. Do I still have bad days? Oh yes. There are still days when I look at myself and think, "Oh lord, maybe I should lose 50 lbs...Maybe I'd fit in..." But then I realize that is because there is a $40 billion industry telling me EVERY DAY, EVERYWHERE, that I am not okay the way I am and I'm still unlearning all that. Those days are very few and far between (we're talking once a year, maybe) and I'm thankful for that. I've been the same weight, 320 lbs exactly, for two years now. No weight loss or gain. I feel wonderful, have lots of energy (probably too much), and feel more loved than ever ... especially by my fantastic fianc who loves me and the way I look. This just goes to show that I never had to lose weight to be loved; I had to learn to love and be myself. Hopefully my story continues for a long time. If not, then at least I lived my life full and happy instead of not living at all by depriving myself of all the things I wanted and hating myself. The most important thing of all is this: I love my body.

He has an image to maintain, but its just an illusion

held her mixed drink in front of her like a shield. She laughed nervously as she told him that his band was amazing. His eyes sparkled and he thanked her and he handed her his bands cd and encouraged her to come to their next show. And she does. She falls in love with him. And every moment she spends with him is like a dream. She thinks he is poetic and charming and he sweeps her off of her feet. He

Photographer Stephanie Eversole: I work mostly with fat models because I am a fat acceptance activist, but I use myself for a lot of my art because I work for cheap, I can work long hours, and I don't argue. See her work at http://winterbutterfly81.deviantart.com

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Reclaiming
Eye-opener at Dorney Park
By redguard
For my birthday, my partner Michelle, my daughter Ripley and I took a road trip to Dorney Park, a water amusement park in Allentown, Pa. Michelle and I were both feeling pretty self-conscious about displaying our bodies in public. The day we spent there was an eye opener for me about the absurdity of fat-phobia in U.S. culture and politics. Who did I see at Dorney Park? Considering that it was a weekday, it was very crowded. There were a lot of kids and tweens on summer day camp trips, but also many families, couples, college-aged people and teens. The folks I saw were majority white, particularly the kids from nearby areas. But not overwhelmingly so; there were many African American and Latino families. It was overwhelmingly working-class people from easily commutable distances most probably from northern Pennsylvania and New Jersey, a smattering of folks from NYC and Philadelphia. Most of the adults I saw and I dont mean half, or even a slight majority, but most were fat, at least as that word is defined by our society, the media, and advertising/modeling industries. The point is, seeing this cross-section of Middle America, people of all colors from urban, rural and suburban areas, most of them fat, just pointed out the absurdity of our thinobsessed society, especially where women and their bodies are concerned. Whats more, the thin people I saw at Dorney Park, aside from young kids, were generally the unhealthiest looking. It was particularly apparent when mothers and teens were depriving themselves they did not look well. Meanwhile, mothers who had bellies, full hips and bosoms, meaty legs and arms, looked much healthier and robust. So did younger and older women with meat on their bones. So did young and middle-aged men. Please dont take this as a slam at anyone who is thin. Not at all. The point is, we all have different body types, and all should be okay. The problem comes when the powers that be tell us we all have to fit into one mold of what is healthy especially when that is clearly not the healthiest size for many folks.

our bodies
With your company man and other souls you devour With your torpedoing sad machine guns over a single flower You set foot in their laws, transform it to your flaws And then you snatch em from their ma with your satanic claws And you climb unto their holy mountain top Thats were you carve your face with blank eyes and do not stop As he constitutes permits and refuses idealistically neat orders and rules A dictator he states and authorized authoritarian imperialist based schools As the weapons get harder and the pain gets easier and the labor is capital And a hammer and nail bumped to his head to show how he is insignificant and small As the battle cry lit from my weeping mother vibrates their ears You shouldnt have killed me and caused all suffering for years But you wont stop at her or me and thats whats so sad Until we all be painless fighters with a Goths uniform clad And you search and kill to yellow blood spill From the natives to the gun and warfares toxic pill As the sheath masking the unknown Your ideology of nobodys freedom makes all just a pawn With your complex patriotic smile and your golden teeth The neocolonial men of conscious now are hidden underneath As the proletarians are eating Antoinettes cakes And your unlimited apple pie is televised to be not at stake As the slave owners great methods of heroic textbook reforms Unaware horror of knowledge makes him in anger storm Judas befriended you and you paid him the price To fight freedom of love and availability of rice As working competes for the wages and the blood Of nobler men that have not yet stood The stinging smell of burning iron flooded the breathing air Know that you or maybe she has killed me, I have not got nights to spare The minute takes a year to pass away The moon to me complains everyday He too now is ripped from his rocks with sad petty nostalgia He converses in romance language about guerre and the ideology of utopia With blood and sea regretting the genocide he in you oversees Read an interview with poet and student activist Walaa Quisay beginning on page 20. Contact: sweet_devil_925@hotmail.com

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Reclaiming
With the only nation of God
By Walaa Hamed Abdelmajid Quisay
The glimmer of the sun and the golden seas Thrashes with the shattered unborn dreams As the fugitive runs to his unknown land But the vagabond with nationalistic pride hell stand And a smirk in his eyes With conservative lies The young nation, the only nation of God Set her foot to reclaim a land on which she never stood Stranded by the rivers and the homesick seas No matter the reds die women and child are the enemies No matter the genocide no matter the pain To her its all no more than a history smudge or a little stain As the marathon winner Minotaur puts on a sad dance One that has not yet or never ended, for she wont stop for a glance With her secrets, conspiracies, coups, and lies All which I am damned for mentioning, but she denies How many boys have sold themselves in your Mercenary Street? How many have been swallowed and yet more under your feet? From the return journey and from the bums land Thats where I know for sure you stand What about the men you stole To protect their humble land is your role But the play is needless and the actors are fatigued They are to swallow their blood and dance with a sad intrigue The meditation of death and a swirl of the double sided arrow And the colonels slave boy is on death row tomorrow Under the river of mud, thats were his violin still sings the tune While his blood rests on a flow and glitters by the moon

our bodies
Fat is a loaded word, but one Ive come to embrace after reading a lot of fat-positive literature and thinking about the subject. Overweight, heavy, obese, etc., imply a negative judgment. Fat is, or should be, simply descriptive, since nobody really knows what another persons ideal weight, shape or size is. The Dorney Park experience was striking to me because 1) I live in New York, which is a center of fat-phobia in terms of how people show or dont show themselves in public, and 2) because Im rarely in any place with that big a crosssection of people in various states of undress! I couldnt imagine seeing this balance of people at, say, the beach at Coney Island, even though it is also a very working-class hangout. Not because there are necessarily fewer fat people in New York (maybe so, maybe not), but because they feel more repressed about displaying their bodies in public. Its widely acknowledged that people in the U.S. are on average substantially taller than their ancestors of 50, 100 or 200 years ago. I wont begin to speculate on the reasons, but is it really such a leap to think that peoples bodies change and adjust to different conditions over time? And that these changes can be healthy? Should we start encouraging people to lop their legs off at the knees? The poison of capitalist culture has successfully twisted the notions of fitness and appearance into a big nasty knot. Everyone wants to be fit, but when it comes right down to it, theyd rather be thin. The two things are not the same. Do most people, including fat people, need more exercise and healthier diets? Probably. Should they be starving themselves, taking drugs and cutting up their organs to fit an unrealistic and quite possibly unhealthy ideal? Mind you, I didnt take off my black t-shirt at Dorney Park. No way in hell. But Im honest enough to admit my hypocrisy. And Im starting to grapple with the issue after a lifetime of self-body-hatred and yo-yoing weight.

Also available at http://redguard.etsy.com Absent Cause #1 Mentally Ill TUMS: a smut zine
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On fat
By Mademoiselle Aly Basterr
I dont think about how
different I really am from most. Its something Ive grown to accept and its something Ive definitely embraced. I wouldnt go as far as saying that I TRY to be different, I think its just happened this way. Most assume that all fat people are lazy and just spend their days eating junk food. I am an example of that stereotype being completely untrue. When I discovered the fat acceptance movement, I was 13 years old, standing 55 and weighing about 220 pounds. That would be considered too fat for a grown woman in our society, but for a 13-year-old girl, its considered highly unacceptable and a major health risk. My health then, as it remains now, was perfect. At that time I was very active, playing volleyball, basketball, or running six days a week. In addition, I ate well. Salads, lean proteins, fruit, and tons of water. All of this, and I was still constantly gaining more and more weight. Doctors put me on low-calorie meal replacement protein shakes that are normally used for patients recovering from gastric bypass surgery. I stuck to that diet religiously, never cheated once. I lost two pounds here or there, but after awhile, I started to gain weight from it. I was consuming under 1,000 calories a day while playing basketball six days a week, and continuing to gain weight. My doctor started yelling at me about how I wasnt following the program and that I was sneaking food. This hurt because the thought of sneaking food hadnt even crossed my mind. That being said, after that incident, I was done with that diet. Around that same time, I was doing searches on the internet about obesity and weight gain, trying to find some sort of answer. What I found both shocked and fascinated me. There were photos of 400plus-pound women with huge smiles on their faces, wearing tight-fitting lingerie and holding onto their huge bellies. There were smaller, younger girls, too. There were 19-yearolds weighing 350 pounds, with hundreds of men telling them how they were becoming such gorgeous SSBBWs. I had no idea what an SSBBW was, but if one looked like that, and had so many fans, I wanted to be one too! This is when I first found

Sorry man I can't make it tonight, I cut my foot pretty bad. I'm gonna need stitches. Let's make it for next week, with this cut I won't be out for a while Paul hung up the phone and threw it on the bed. He fell back on the bed, stared up at the ceiling. The foul smell was back, stronger than ever. He turned to his right nothing, but the smell was stronger, very strong. He turned to his left, and there the foul-smelling monster stood, staring at him, with a little growl-laugh. Hee, hee, hee Before Paul could yell, the monster slit his throat. It pounced on Paul's chest and there it feasted. Scene Later, at the crime scene The inspector was saying, Montroth pardon Montroth the monster. More like a demon of fest. He and two others were cast out of Hell to roam on earth forever, thirsting for flesh. Montroth, Zor, Trelok. It is said that these three demons tried to double-cross the prince but failed. As they were cursed to be on earth, the only way they could survive was through eating the flesh of man. The prince made it so that they eat and eat, consumed by gluttony until They both looked down at the decaying body of Paul. And inside his rotting chest was the putrid corpse of Montroth. The demon had eaten itself to death Exit Vondora Jordan: I'm a music historyloving person. I play guitar and record my own music. Be patient and I'll get it straight and give you something different every time. Check out her songs at www.myspace.com/youngmommalimited or contact: vondora@gmail.com

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Its in the room

By Vondora Jordan
In a small flat in Sheffield. 12:21 a.m. Something's in here, inspector, look Inspector walks over Well, well, well Looking down What have we here? What happened here, inspector? Who is he? No, the question is, who was he? Scene Earlier that evening Paul was getting ready to go out. He headed for the bathroom. He noticed a foul odor, but ignored it. He stepped into the shower. From under the sink peeked a small, ghoulish head. Its eyes were big as bulbs. Standing at a slight slant, it was a hunched over little monster with claws for hands and webbed feet, tail wrapped around. It was watching Paul as he showered; Paul heard a noise as he turned off the water. Paul peeked out Hello, anybody there? Paul looked around. No one was there. He shrugged his shoulders and stepped out. As soon as his foot hit the floor, it was slashed. What the! Paul saw his blood. Shit! He skittered around for a towel to stop the bleeding, but the blood kept pouring out. The little monster was still hiding under the sink, sucking the blood off its clawed fingers and smiling wide, showing its sharp teeth. Paul nervously ran to his bedroom, still bleeding. He sat on his bed to wrap his foot better. He paused, thought he heard something. He ignored it and tended to his foot. He grabbed the phone and called his friends to let them know he couldnt make it after all.

out about big beautiful women (BBWs), super-size big beautiful women (SSBBWs), fat admirers (FAs), feederism, and the whole FA culture. I realized that subconsciously Id been attracted to fat my whole life. Memories came flooding back from when I was 3 or 4 years old, looking at my naked reflection in the mirror and jiggling my chubby thighs and belly. Society, and even more so my family, had embedded the idea that fat was bad into my head during those formative years. All Ive ever heard was negativity about my size from my mom. I cant remember a time within the last 10 years where shes said I was pretty and the teenage years are when you need to hear it the most. Whenever Id get dressed in the morning and come out of my room wearing a short-sleeved shirt or anything moderately form-fitting, my mom would make comments like, Your arms are too fat for you to wear anything but long sleeves, or, Go put a jacket on, your stomach is huge and you dont want people to see how big it really is. And I believed it, even after Id discovered that there were people attracted to fat women. I wore nothing but sweatshirts and long-sleeved hoodies that fell below my

stomach for over seven years. I still fall back into that pattern sometimes, but I dont limit myself anymore. Since finding out about fat admirers, Ive gained a different perception of things. It made me realize that I wouldnt have to lose weight in order to find love, contrary to what Id been told. That being said, I dont want a relationship solely based on my size. Ive still never been with a fat admirer and I yearn to have my belly played with and my rolls caressed. I look forward to not having to feel guilty being naked in front of him, not having to worry the entire time that my imperfections are turning him off. The chance to be myself thats what Im waiting for. Im happy to say that I havent been on a diet in two years. I dont exercise as much as I used to, but that isnt because Ive gotten too fat for it. I had two career-ending sports injuries that were totally unrelated to my weight. I still eat fairly healthy, but not as healthy as I used to. I dont hesitate to have something bad if Im craving it, but that doesnt mean I sit around eating tons of it. Im still not your average fat girl though; I completely adore every fold and stretch mark on my body.

Madamoiselle Aly Basterr lives in sunny SoCal but longs for overcast skies. Contact her at eccentricallymee@gmail.com

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Hell and damnation

OR: Trials and tribulations of the diseased

By Eman Rimawi
Should we be afraid of
some kind of eternal hell? Is it not a worse punishment to be left to suffer with your own fragile mortality? Especially if you are alone, if you are sick, if you are already being tormented, already in pain. Isn't that already a living hell? Daily pain. Daily torment. Daily solitude. Is that not hell? I sometimes feel as though I am trapped in the hell of my body. Trapped with a sickness that only tears me apart, brings me down further into the depths of darkness. Every time I feel I've brought myself back up, every time I feel as though I've overcome another hurtle, it grabs me by the ankles while I'm watching my back for other things hiding in the dark, and drags me kicking and screaming and biting and clawing. It drags me deeper and deeper into the dark abyss. Farther from the light, farther from those who are screaming out my name trying to save me, farther from the goodness and love and compassion and warmth that is in me. I struggle, fight against it, sometimes breaking loose. Until it grabs me again, digging into the meat of my skin as its grip gets stronger, tighter, squeezes harder. Do you know what it looks like? What it smells like? What it feels like? The claws are long and black, sharp and shiny like the corners of an obsidian blade. Beautiful and deadly. Ragged and smooth. Its claws are attached to long black fingers. Thin and arched for attack. Its skin shines off the distant light, smooth and hairless. A black so dark that hints of blue and purple shimmer as it moves to take me. Almost as if beauty lies within the dark shades of its skin. A dark that comforts me most days, a dark that gives me warmth, keeps me safe. And in the same breath, snatches the breath from my throat, choking the life from me, choking the life from my body. Bringing claw to flesh to darkness to swallow me whole, swallow me into the dank air. It pulls hard and fast, almost too quick for a reaction right away. And I. I am never quick enough to react. Who could be? The claws are long and sharp. A wrong twist or turn could split open a vein, cutting away more of my mor-

of the ring, stabbing each other with their dignified arrows. The birds connected and disconnected, their spurs repeatedly piercing each others bloody bodies. For about five minutes they battled in the air, and then one of the cocks landed on the floor head first, almost dead, spitting out blood; the scarlet red staining the yellow sawdust rug that decorated the inside of the ring. The other fighting cock the victorglided down to the floor with elegance and grace; gusts of wind created by the flapping of wings blew the sawdust all over the ring, making a cloud that blocked all

visibility like a bird in front of the sun. Everyone was still, quiet, not a single mutter was heard from the crowd. The fighting bird was now hiding his wings and began to sing his song of victory. The cocks that were caged also sang their annoying chaos. Everything was now back to normal. The wife of the humble man that offered to build the ring and host the event had just received another set of kegs. Everyone made a line in front of the wooden counter where the passive lady defended herself. I found a homemade stool and sat down; I figured it would be a while before the next match began.

Oscar Fuentes is an acting coach, playwright, director, set designer and independent filmmaker based in Miami. Contact him at: oscarfuentes75@gmail.com

Barely Touching, Not Touching at All

By Christine Stoddard
My fingers grazed his fingers but only at the very tips Nail on nail, no flesh on flesh My eyelashes flitter against the points of his Hair on hair but never flesh on flesh We stand so close that our breath touches, tangoing in and out The warm air between us makes love like our bodies never will Because our romance lives only in whispers Christine Stoddards Dream No. 9 is featured on page 46

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THE MOTHER FUCKER! FUCKING GUY OFFERS TO HOST THE EVENT, AND BUILDS A RING, GETS DRUNK WITH HIS COCK-FIGHTING FRIENDS, AND FORGETS ABOUT THE WHOLE THING. So she grabbed an empty bottle of beer and slammed it against the six-foot concrete wall that stood behind her. The bottle exploded. Everyone snapped out of their siesta, the way killer bees snap out of their daily work in the beehive when someone throws a rock at it. Immediately, her husband jumped inside the ring and made the announcement. BIENVENIDOS SEAN TODOS LOS GALLEROS QUE SE ENCUENTRAN AQUI PRESENTE. MUCHA SUERTE, Y QUE EMPIEZE LA PELEA DE GALLOS! HIJOS DE PUTA!

All the cock-fighters simultaneously screamed in cheer and two of them jumped inside the ring holding on to their birds. They both shook hands and made their cocks eyes connect. The birds got mad at each other; they were beautiful birds and a bit more elegant than the eagle itself. The guys inside the ring signaled each other and at the same time, they threw their birds in the air. The people that sat around the ring cheered louder. At the corner where the cages were kept, the cocks that were locked up meditated on the noise people made. All the birds were quiet. That corner of the patio was completely dead. For a moment everything froze. Everyone in the live spot stood still, motionless, with their mouths opened, staring at the birds that had been thrown in the air, and were still floating three, four feet above the center

tality. Its voice, though, is smooth. As smooth and beautiful as its blue blackness. Sweet and sickly like too much honey, it shivers the lining of my soul, warming my flesh into inflammation and pain. A slow throbbing ache brought on by the

causes and that life causes. That is what it wants to be let into. Into the depths of my soul to unleash me into and back to the earth and heavens from whence I came. That is its desire. After all, that is what the Lupus is. That is what it means. That is what it does. It attacks me. It

Burying Point, Salem, Mass. by redguard

melodic chanting of its Over the Pass by Eman Rimawi voice. A Rapture-like thrumming, like the chime of treats my body, my blood, my heart, me, as if I am the enemy. the end-time trumpets. It calls to me. As if I am a sickness. As if I am the disease that needs to be Eman, it whispers. A slow winding river of that fought. And it fights hard. Because what match am I against sickly sweet honey. Eman, let me in. claws and strength and darkness? Its everywhere, surSing-song in its approach, the sickness is tempting. Creeprounding and all knowing. And I am solitary and knowing only ing up slowly, clawing quietly as it makes its way towards me. what a human can know. Eman, let me in. Let me Its voice disguised as something good. As a means to an do what must be done. Sssssickly sweet is its voice. end. And that is what it means to do. End the suffering it You almost want to let it take

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you. Like the cool rush of pain and pleasure from a bite. Almost too much, almost not enough. Almost wanting the bite to be harder, to draw blood, to drain you of life. Almost. Almost. But never entirely. Never. Or maybe the temptation is too great. The voice too sweet to deny. The bite too drawing in its darkness to resist. There is one difference though. There is NEVER any pleasure in the pain I endure from the darkness that is my Lupus. Never anything tempting me to want to dive deeper into it. I'd rather it be the tempting fangs of an evil vampire ready to strike, to kill me, than this godforsaken disease which wishes to kill me off this planet. That is its desire. Because, after all, that is its nature. Who am I to deny nature? In usual circumstances I'd be fine with letting nature take its course, only this is my life. It beckons for me to do so, though. It whispers to me

through the dark, making death sound so sweet. Soothing and cooing me through dreams of coffins and eulogies. And if sweetness doesn't work on it, that is when I am snatched from my surroundings and pulled under by claws and darkness. That is when sharp nails grab into my flesh, bruising and bleeding me. Attacking heart and spleen and brain and joints and muscles and bones and sanity. Attacking all of me, leaving me weak and hopeless after the fight. It toys with me, making me think maybe I've won after getting away for a moment. But there is no winning. It is the master of the game. It is in charge. It made the game, knows every rule, every passage, every way to play. There is no winning for me. I'm not even sure what the game is in the first place, so how can I play? But the battle goes on. So it goes and goes and goes

The cock-fight
By Oscar Fuentes
I remember this one time I
attended a cock-fighting event in Honduras. There were these men that were waiting for the cockfighting circus to arrive, the eager ones who had given rigorous training to their best roosters all year long. People respected these guys, man. They were known for their primo fighting cocks. On the small seasoned patio where the event was being held, a destined corner awaited the arrival of the cocks cages. Inside those cages were these singing roosters that insulted one another. And while these fighting roosters screamed the big bad doodle song, people made their way onto the patio of the house of the humble man who offered to build the fightring and host the event. He had built the ring right in the center of his patio. Surrounding it were wooden stools and chairs he had built with ease. The ring consisted of long strips of plywood that went around the circular frame of the ring. Now, inside this small ring theatre, he covered the floor with the sawdust he had carefully collected from the woodwork, chips of cedar and a dusting of pine. Opposite the corner where the roosters were kept sat the wife of the humble man who was hosting the cock-fighting event. She was a passive lady, not unlike many of the other women who lived in the village. She stood there behind this wooden counter and sold oranges, other tropical fruits, and beer. The fanatic cockfighters were all drunks; they drank beer after beer after beer, and then more beer, so much so that the event would never get started because they were too busy drinking their fucking beer. When the beer was all gone and the cock-fighters were all juiced, they lay on the floor, plastered drunk. Even the cockfighting birds were asleep. For a second, I imagined all of them dead, because they were just laying there without saying a word, except me and the wife of the humble man that was hosting the event. She seemed to be mad at her husband because she kept on looking at him as if she was saying to herself:

Eman Rimawi is a Black, Native American and Palestinian Queer woman of color from NYC. She is a writer, performance artist, singer, teacher, student, community organizer and freethinker. Eman uses her writing, performing and photography to send a message of revolution, equality and freedom of expression. She is devoted to organizing and empowering young people in NYC to strive to be their best. After all, success is the best revenge. Check out more of her writing, photography and upcoming projects at www.emanrimawi.com.

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Changeling
By James Rush
So this is what it comes
down to? Glowering at the letter from Coach Stephens, my stepmother scanned the one paragraph assessment of my worth. Bottom-line: Your boy isnt going be a football star. Ever. Lighting up a cigarette, she sucked it in, red lips grasping the filter-end, lungs sucking it down, red-tipped fingers taking it away when the rush was evident. Blowing it out over the letter, she nodded silently. I tried really hard, my voice squeaked. The sound was dim, nervous, perhaps a bit underplayed. I hadnt predicted the brutality of her question. It was hard, edged with expectations, unflattering. Football had been my last chance, my last appeal to prove I owned a pair. Dad wanted it, but Barbara? Shed secretly betted against me. I could see it in her cloudy green irises. Well, she said, taking a longer drag from her cigarette, I suppose this aint news. She let that one hang out there for a moment, let it burn me with its insinuations, burn me with her knowledge of my shameful pleasures. I wanted to lay it on the line then and there, to say to her that football sucked. I wanted to write, to sing, to dream. But that would only increase her suspicions of me, suspicions of my true nature. The faucet in the kitchen kept time to a plip-plop beat, summoning the air conditioner and its rattling freight train of frosted delights. And inside the innards of that cantankerous beast, deep inside the building, far past the layers of sweaty cement and shifty alluvial plain that was the West Bank of New Orleans, dwelt the frozen realm of my fairy queen. Wafting a frigid blue kiss through the vents, she gave me strength, wished me forbearance to see me through my battle. Smiling, I felt the kiss tingle me to my toes. I was frosted with her blessings, frosted to my core. I had no fear of Barbara and her questions nowthose fucking questions. My goddess would protect me. I let Barbara stare at my rejection letter a bit longer, let her soak in the fact that I was a failure, or in her mind, a suspect fairy. Coach Stephens says I would be good in drama, I

Femme Fatale by Kelushka

Kelushka prefers to remain utterly mysterious.

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chimed in, nodding towards the scrawled paragraph the coach had written, or art club. Shriveling, I died. I think I knew, even then as a soft 13-year-old white boy, that those comments were the very ones Barbara feared to repeat to my father. Hed blame her first, that was the usual tactic. Youre sissifying that boy, buying him books and shit! Make him get out there and bust some heads! Hed call her bitch, floozy, whore. What he got for marrying something from a bar, hed rage on. Shed had her beatings, like my real mom, and I could see in those pale green eyes of hers that she wasnt going to take the rap this time. Not again. Mmm-hmmm, she said, eyes locking on me, driving her stake through my heart. She suspected my effeminate softness. I could just feel it. I could sign up tomorrow for art club, I said defensively. Tell you what, Barbara said, leaning back in her chair, shooting a meditative cone of nicotine-wind to the yellowed ceiling above, your dad is going to be really pissed over this. But you and I both know, you arent football. No, youre something else. Too pretty to be a boy, too ugly to be a girl, thats your little old problem. I nodded as if I agreed.

The blue goddess from the vents held my hand. Holding her cigarette between two fingers, patiently propped by her lips, Barbara put her left hand on my trembling knee. Lost in thought, she finally resolved to speak. I felt the gesture was dramatically overdone, something someone growing fast on 30 would do to look older, wiser. Old Kay, you know the Kay I work with? She says St. Joes is having a dance next Friday. Yeah, I say, fake interest stealing into my blood. I resented where this was going, but my ass was in a sling already. But maybe if I worked at it, Barbara would only see me as a goof, and not as someone who dresses in her cloths in the evenings when I was home alone. Kays daughter is cute as a button, Barbara says, lips pursing around the cigarette again, eyes cutting into me, probing me, testing me. You know April Hardwin, dont you? Long blonde hair? Pretty little cheerleader? I knew the routine, and I knew the answer I had to give to get off the list. I nodded, mocked sudden revelation, brought a smile to Barbaras hard eyes. Laughing with me, she heard my lies about my crush on April. I lied because I didnt want her to know my

Beware child, tis your soul they seek To be a companion on their endless road A witness to their sad affliction Theirs are hearts that cannot feel Yet never stop beating They will drink your life essence And claim it for their own Beware my child, lest you become one of them To dwell in historys darkest shadows Never resting nor appeasing your hunger Nor finding the peace that haunts your immortal soul Eternity shall be yours And you shall be her prisoner There is no beauty in the undead But that which belongs to others Now close your eyes and sleep Druscilla Morgan is a dark artist and writer from Australia. Spewed forth from the angry womb and weaned on bitter discontent, she emerged in vampyric form in Sydney during the post-punk era. Her art and writing reflects a myriad of experiences and ideas relating to the dark side of the psyche and life. Sometimes melancholy, sometimes angry, Druscilla's work excavates the inner recesses of the soul, drawing forth vulnerability and strength, love and hate, courage and fear. Her art has been exhibited in both the Riverina and Sydney and her poetry has been published in AGUA magazine. Druscilla is currently working on a new project, a series of short stories which will intertwine into a truly gothic vampire tale covering many generations. Her influences include Hunter S Thompson, Edgar Allan Poe, Bukowski, Anne Rice, Mary Shelley, Daphne du Maurier and Beryl Bainbridge. Her inspiration comes from the depths of the human soul and the wonderful myriad of characters who imprint themselves on her life. Druscilla can be contacted at druscilla62@hotmail.com

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is my calm, my belief in God and my pagan expression of it. She has been with me since I was 7, after my father died and I was looking for a reason. She became a student of world religion at age 8, and always has something soothing to say, a mantra for every occasion. She knows the Truth, that all paths lead to God. She is the voice of reason. Together, the three of them run my life. Sometimes

they argue amongst themselves, but it always works out in the end. I have never been diagnosed as mentally ill by a medical professional. I have learned to accept the Triad, as I call them, and have come to recognize them as my reasoning processes personified. I talk to them often, and as long as I answer in a different voice, everything is fine! :D

Contact Tonia Bellon at: mamamoonluvsu2@gmail.com

The warning
By Druscilla Morgan
Child, beware the twilight dwellers Those whose hearts rise with the moon Their smiling faces, teeth bared Unknowing of care Dried bones scarred by time Their darkened hearts ever seeking Ever feasting Beware my child They will beguile you with sweet words And carve their names into your heart Their eyes will draw you to your destiny And their touch shall etch into your skin Their lips shall taste sweet Yet be full of bitter poison

secret fantasies about Billy. How I wanted to seduce him while wearing one of her long, red nightgowns. How I wanted to hug his knees and run my glistening red fingernails over his jeans as he stood above me. But that was the work of damnation, and we were a Christian family, drunk on Fridays and late on Sundaysif ever. So why dont you ask her to the dance? Kay would love to see you two together. Besides, if you went out with April, your dad might forget about football. Believe me, in his mind, women come first. Winking a powder-blue eyelid at me, Barbara stubbed out her cigarette, stared at the television in the living room, and judged by the programming that it was high time she got ready for work. Ill try, I said, imagining just how I might get past the scads of football players that ran in her crowd. They all hated me. They all knew the monster that I was. Faggot, theyd whisper at me in the hallways, dont let me catch you after school. Theyd all heard how Id spent the night at Billys house, how hed tricked me into doing things he would only laugh about with his real friends the day after. Nope, youll do more then that, Barbara said as she stood, looking down on my jittering body. She sensed the fear in me. Sensed the pussi-

ness that crept in my blood. She wanted to slap my lying face from one end to another. You cant hide that kind of righteous indignation. Part-time Catholics are eaten up with it. Ill leave you a twenty, and youll take that twenty on down to Felixs Flowers after school tomorrow and pick up an order of roses. Ill tell Kay to tell April to expect you right

I nodded as if I agreed. The blue goddess from the vents held my hand.
around five. Thatll give you time to get home, wash those goddamned dishes you never wash, and hightail it over and ask April to the dance before someone else does. That clear? Yes, I said, nodding at the surface of the table. Her clarity had killed me. Her tone had made me feel like I was a dust bunny under a couch waiting for the fatal hum and suck of her vacuum cleaner. I was a worthless piece of shit. The guillotine slam of her bedroom door filled me with guilt. Doing the quick change from pissed off stepmother to
(Continued on page 85)

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The voices in my head

By Tonia Bellon
time, albeit subtly, so it doesn't My name is Tonia. I'm 35, come off like I'm hitting on and I live in a very small town them, thereby possibly bi, but in Texas. I am a mother, a in a way that leaves the ladies mate, and Pagan who happens feeling flattered and sexy. to believe in Jesus (totally different article all together). I have multiple personalities. That is to say, I have at least three different voices in my head, and occasionally they talk to each other. Even more occasionally, they influence my behavior. Take, for instance, Seraph. She has had many names and many incarnations, all of which had something to do with sex. Most recently, she was a BBW Adult Amateur Porn Star. She has her own web site, www.seraph. curvosity.com, and yahoo group, seraph_bbw_dreamz. She's currently facing model's block, and is looking for inspiration. Seraph? Minara? Tommy? She'd like to be a role model for BBWs everywhere. When And then there's my spirithe voices convene, she's most tual persona, who also has had likely to say, Who cares? Let's many names but is currently fuck. named Minara. The name came There's Tommy, a 16to me in a dream several years year-old boy who's angry and ago, and a couple of years past thinks about pussy A LOT. He's that, I learned that it meant defiant and determined to have lighthouse in Swahili. Minara his way. He hits on girls all the

The Twins by Brad Hemmelgarn Contact: jabberwocky@sbcglobal.net

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guns pointing in my face death threats joints laced lounging in the cop car klonopin percocet xanax muscle relaxers ritalin juice and gin 40 ozs newport boxes magic mushrooms watching you pop morphine in the living room hallucinating youre death blue but i popped them too stopped breathing thought i was ODing smoked too much pot, forgot the meaning shutting the bathroom door with a knife in my hand telling the cops its over and picking up the shovel this is me getting clean screaming cuz the knifes digging the bloods dripping and he wont let go and as soon as he slows down Im jumping out looking around but all i see is nothing climbing back in hoping hes too drunk to kill me instead he burns me chokes me stalks me (Im sober enough to learn) THIS IS ME GETTING CLEAN coughing blood kicking windows killing pain morphine methadone crack cocaine speed balling head hitting wall and passing in and out and every drug is making me sick and quickly learning the game is over unless i play the vein

A confederacy of amorphosity
By zeraph
Transsexuals and bisexuals are the inside outsiders of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) movement. Our place in the sphere of gayness is neither contested nor entirely accepted, and through that discomforting influence, we have changed the course that queerness will take as it winds through the landscape of the cultural mainstream. Just as we are not entirely comfortable within gayness, we are not entirely sexually separate from the greater population. We cannot claim exclusive membership in gayness, bisexuals for obvious reasons, transsexuals for complex ones. A lack of creativity has branded trans and bi/pansexual people as traitors, double agents and saboteurs. In fact, the anger that motivates these statements stem from our transcendence of allegiance. Transgender people are routinely accepted into LGBT organizations, yet rarely is this commitment manifested beyond the allowance of trans people to be in attendance. Typically, no one wants to be seen as exclusionist, yet fail to understand exclusion as not a moral issue (by which they do right by simply assuring themselves of their good intentions). Inclusion is an ongoing state of education, action, and realization. It should not be mistaken for a moral or political process; it is a transcendent one with unfathomable implications. Generally unsubstantiated lip service is also paid to bisexual inclusion. Though successful gay and lesbian battles often painlessly translate into benefits for bisexual people, what is actually spoken within LGBT activist settings, not to mention nearly every other mainstream setting, contributes to bisexual invisibility. Historically, bisexual women have fought to be included in lesbian and feminist organizations and groups; the reasons for their dis-inclusion has ranged from their divided allegiance between the sexes to representing a source of sexual insecurity and possible heartbreak for lesbianidentified women. Despite Kinsey's report that the majority of human beings are, in desire or in action, bisexual, a profound in-

Boo can be reached at pinksparklies@hotmail.com http://boo-pop.livejournal.com/

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visibility continues to this day, as gay, lesbian and trans visibility mounts. Bisexuality's presence on television, for example, is almost completely nil. Karen Walker of Will & Grace and Captain Jack Harkness of BBC sci-fi show Torchwood are the only mainstream bisexual television characters I am aware ofalthough I have to admit that I am not an avid TV watcher. An either-or mentality on sexual orientation persists throughout all popular media, the discourse of which cannot seem to even approach the possibility of a non-monosexual orientation; gay characters are stereotyped to the point where homosexuality in the public eye develops a highly unique flavor that is untranslatable into heterosexual characterization. All of these factors contribute to bisexual invisibility, and to the type of oppression understood to be the most basic: denial of existence. To deny the existence of a group of existents is to fill the space they ought to occupy with other monoliths, forcing them either out of mainstream society or into a silent submission. In its highest manifestation, denial of existence may generate in the denied one a type of transcendent consciousnesswhen looking outside for acknowledgment no longer works, we turn within, either in self-hatred or self-embrace.

Trans, bisexual, queer and intersex individuals have fought for a long time to be included in gay organizations, a fight which has finally yielded an abundant and politically-correct acronymizing of the queer movement. Even when inclusion is finally granted, it is usually on the fringes. When I, as a transgender person, attend a LGBT activist or social group, I consistently feel that my place is to be quiet. I know I am basically welcome, but I am not in the club. The forum is for discussion of gay and lesbian issues, for gay and lesbian voices to assert gay and lesbian realities. Bi, queer, trans, and intersex people have fought for inclusion in these gay-focused groups partially because we have badly needed the community. Fighting isolation figures prevalently into queer movements and people of smaller minority sexualities and genders are often even more isolated than lesbians and gays. Although we of the smaller sexual and gender minorities can construct alternate communities, there is an even bigger reason that we feel the need to be included in the gay and lesbian clubs. Their move toward political power has the potential to carry us forward in our movements. Genderidentity rights bills pass because they are tacked on to sexual-orientation rights bills. Strides for gay people often

Filth and wisdom

By Boo
meth bubbles floating down the hash pipes following flick your bick lighters in the dark saving 10 sacks inside my bra wiping mascara tears from her face with my hoodie sleeve and booze from my chin lip-locking my best friend's girlfriend in the bathroom 20 mg of adderol shooting straight into her vein monster making bruises across my face spitting in my hair slamming my head off the wall small cuts and blood drops and tiny hits of acid secret boxes with crack rocks mom with baby boyfriend fiending begging monster to never leave me hole forming in my nose broken bottles in my toes running as hard and fast as i can go coming back cuz hes my boyfriend taking the beating cuz i can (close my eyes) counting the bloody lines inhaling whatever i can find living out of my book bag standing on the street alone cuz this time it really hurt dragging my feet back to him growing thin screaming no but he hears yes dragging me out of bed by my arm and out the door telling everyone Im a whore locking me outside nude with nothing so paranoid i quit sleeping this is me getting clean

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packet of words that I can physically send in the mail or hand to someone. Also, I dont feel any sense of community as a blogger. With zine-making comes rich relationships. Some of my best friends are people Ill probably never meet in person, but were very present to one another. redguard: How do you experience the value of zines, blogs and letters to your own health, especially when you are feeling isolated or shut-in? LM: I need a lot of time alone, but I also need a lot of contact with people. Zines, blogs, and letters connect me to others in a way that I can manage because theyre so different from a phone call or visit in that I can do them at my own speed, tak-

ing as much time as I need in order to say things just the way I want to. I can reread letters and zines from friends as often as I want to. The written word is a comfort to me. I send and receive a great deal of mail, and its a lifeline. redguard: How can readers get copies of functionally ill? LM: I can be reached through the mail at Laura-Marie Taylor, 1728 Richmond St #9, Sacramento CA 95825. I can be reached through email at robotmad@gmail.com. You can find my main blog at dangerouscompassions. blogspot.com. The zines I make are free or trade, so I hope your readers wont hesitate to get in touchsend me a letter or email, and I will get something in the mail to you right away.

filter down to trans and queer people. However, just as often, they don't. My first experience going to a GLBT group was in central Maine, at the age of 16. There were about 20 gay and bisexual teenagers supervised by a couple of nice adults who were not gay. On the night I attended,

The boundarybreakers are queers who do not know what their sexuality is & are not concerned, who fuck who they please and do as they choose
the adults suggested we split up into two groupsboys and girlsto do an activity. I sat quietly with the girls and did not participate, because I did not want to publicly out myself to these adults and kids, who evidently had no consciousness of transgender issues, or perhaps even its existence. I did not want to quietly tell an adult that I didn't actually identify as either, whispering an embarrassing problem to a grown-up as if I had just wet my pants and needed to be let go and get changed.

www.myspace.com/powerpluck

A few years later, I joined a queer youth group three hours from my home that was radical, progressive, and primarily transgender and queer, and made round-trip drives to volunteer with them for three years until they closed their doors due to loss of private and federal funding. As I grow older, I find that I no longer attempt to seek out gay- and lesbiandominated spaces. I would rather seek out my trans and queer brother-sisters for company. I have found that there are similarities between bi, pan, and fluidly sexual people and transgender people that go beyond invisibility and disinclusion in both the mainstream and LGBT communities, and these things link us in ways that shed light on the purpose for that dis-inclusion. I'll say first that bisexual and trans people are, of course, not two distinct groups, but have deep, complex, and meaningful overlaps. The transgender character Hedwig of the rock musical Hedwig and the Angry Inch sang, There's not much of a difference/between a bridge and a wall/without me right in the middle/you wouldn't be nowhere at all. There is a phe-

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nomenon in human society of both needing and demonizing our bridges and walls. Leslie Feinberg, in zir book Transgender Warriors, states that it took a thousand years for the Catholic church to convince the peasantry that queer people were not holy. This holiness that has historically been conferred upon queer people world over is not a flattering statement on the individual queer person; it is an example of a society acting in its own best interest by establishing a special station for individuals who do not fit the common roles of the society. Free from interference from a colossal power structure, humans choose to create ritual ways of comprehending and assimilating all aspects of their world. A society with a heterosexual, binary gender system absolutely requires queerness, and that queerness can act as a bridge or a wall. Whether it manifests as either, it functions to preserve and harmonize the social order. In our society, gayness has become the third gender, the third wheel to heteronormativity. This is a first step. The next step is likely to be resisted and ignored to nearly the same extent as the first. It is the construction of secondary bridges and walls; a further breakdown of roles. If gayness perpetuates heteronormativity by its position as a maligned and fascinat-

ing third option, then bi/pan sexuality and transsexuality have come to further break down that balance. Bi/ pansexuality and transsexuality do not allow for the gay/straight dichotomy, the very dichotomy that upholds the man/woman dichotomy. In this way they are powerful cultural disturbances, for they interrupt the ability to form sexual and gender positionalities. Shifting from heteronormativity to a world that encompasses homosexuality is for many people a tremendous and treacherous paradigm shift. Once the first shift is completed, new, more liberal positionalities can be formed. Among these are the gay/ straight dichotomy, and the born that way/genetic origin argument. With deep respect for the courage that it has taken many people to make that first paradigm shift, we must not compromise or hesitate in implementing the next one, the one that is demanded by our very transgender or bisexual existence. A new wave of bisexuals, pansexuals, omni/multi/ metasexuals, queers, unapologetic transsexuals, genderqueers, etc., have come by the natural and gentle truth of their own beings to disrupt every remaining vestige of politically-correct pretension and bring humanity into a nowhere-land, a world in which

tinuously. Otherwise, my advice about this subject is that you only live once, so dont let opportunities for love slip away. redguard: When I first read functionally ill, I decided you would be Strunk & White's prize pupil. Your style is crisp, clean and deceptively simple without sacrificing detail. Tell me about your writing process. LM: Thanks for appreciating my writing. Most of what I know about style comes from my experience writing poetry. The type of poetry I like best is compact and says a lot in the least possible words, and the prose I like best is that way too. Lately Ive been thinking about the kind of writing I do in functionally illdetailed description of different situations, like my first visit to a county clinic, my intake appointment, my first appointment with a psychiatrist. In my other primary zine, Erik and LauraMarie Magazine, I do a lot of this tooI wrote a precise account of a trip to visit my cousin in prison, and Ive written about my religion and what it was like to visit a living saint. Why do I do this? I think we write what we would most like to read, and I love knowing the particularities of other peoples lives. So I write in such a way that other people can really learn what its like to be me.

redguard: When did you first get into making zines? How many have you produced? LM: Ive been making zines since 1990my first zine was called The Ugly Aardvark, and I produced it all four years of high school. During college I worked on literary journals and a newsletter for my school. Then in grad school I made a poetry zine called Pocket Trick featuring the poems of me and my MFA program friends. About six years ago I started making Erik and Laura-Marie Magazine, and the current issue, like I mention elsewhere in this interview, is #44. In Erik and Laura-Marie Magazine I publish my own poems as well as vignettes and mini-essays about topics I like to talk about. Its text heavy and made mostly for friends. redguard: You maintain a blog, but producing a paper zine is a very different experience. What is special for you about creating a paper zine that is public, like functionally ill, or like Erik and Laura-Marie Magazine, which may only be seen by friends? LM: The blog posts I make feel ephemeral. Zines are comparatively substantial and so much more real, to me. I love the feel of paper and thread in my hands. I love having a little

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port for people diagnosed as mentally ill from outside the parameters of the mental health industry? What kind of outside support do you draw upon? LM: A lot of the support I draw upon has come from friends who are mentally ill themselves and from the zine community. My husband Erik is comforting, giving, and kind. I have a therapist that I see through county mental health, and it helps to feel that shes watching over me, but most of my support is from friends and family. I love the Icarus Project. Sometimes Im active on their discussion boardsI have a post in the zines thread that has led to a handful of orders. Ive met one good friend there, and Ive felt understood by others too. redguard: I've found that the very deep empathy between people with mental illness or abuse survivors can blur the lines of friendship and sexual intimacy. Have you experienced anything similar? Any thoughts on navigating those difficult waters?

LM: Ive had intimate friendships for a long time, and theres always a risk of crossing a linewhere is that line, who

Laura-Marie Taylor decides where it is, and how do we thrive in the borderlands? These are questions I live every day. Thankfully, I have a husband who trusts me and is endlessly patient and secure in our relationship, so he doesnt often feel threatened by my relationships with other people. Were honest and communicate con-

staunch moral positions can no longer be claimed, because on your left and right are two queers who will refute them. These boundary-breakers are queers who do not necessarily believe that they were born gay, who do not know what their sexuality is and are not concerned, who fuck who they please and do as they choose. They are not even necessarily queer. They are trannies without sob stories and straight people without heteronormativity. I asked my friend, Thomas, who has a very queer sensibility, if his intensive questioning of his sexuality had led him to identify as straight. I ask myself every morning, he said. So far, the answer has always been yes. Tomorrow? None of us know who we'll be, or be with, on that mysterious day. I think that a mutuality between trans and bisexual people is more appropriate than a shared GBLT community at this point, yet no mutual exclusion is necessary, or of course, possible. I do not think we of fluid gender and sexuality should stop trying to enter those spaces, and do so freely and openly and with noise. I do think that bisexual and trans people are linked in from a spiritual standpoint, and this

makes us powerful spiritual allies and thus cultural agents. Interestingly, bi/trans/ queer-specific groups make sense in terms of socializing and dating. As a trans person, I have always felt distinctly uncomfortable in gay/lesbian dominated spaces, simply because I am around people who are actively creating a culture around their monosexual and often genitally-based sexualities. I am unlikely to come home from a LGBT group with a gay man's number; I am much more likely to be either read as a dyke or assigned to an acceptable but desexualized transperson category. They'll call me by the right pronouns (maybe), but no shift in understanding will occur. I feel much better in spaces that are, without even trying, very queer. These are groups of friends whose sexual preferences and genders span reaches that are known to be not always nameable and certainly not able to be pinned down. They are people more interested in each other as persons than in cultural connotations, words and concepts. They are spaces that are safe for people to be exactly as they are: amorphous, alive, changing.

zeraph is a transgender activist and writer. His writing is focused on bringing a radical queer analysis to existing movements and exploring the connections between politics and spirituality. Contact him at zeraph.moore@gmail.com.

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Laura-Marie Taylor:

A way to help the world understand bipolar

The first four issues of LauraMarie Taylors functionally ill zine document her diagnosis with bipolar disorder and subsequent struggle to receive treatment and support. Her unique voice meticulous, inquiring and thoughtful makes fi a must-read for anyone living with mental illness. redguard: Navigating bipolar disorder, depression, voices, the mental health systemit's a tall order. With all that resting on your shoulders, what made you decide to document your experience of seeking support and treatment? Laura-Marie: To help me answer this question, I looked at functionally ill #1. It includes a letter I sent to friends and selected family members about what was happening to meI came out as mentally ill. I wanted everyone to know the facts. functionally ill the zine arose out of this desire to help my loved ones understand. Eventually it also became a way for me to try to help the world understand. Another thing to know is that Ive been making zines for 18 yearsthrough 44 issues of Erik and Laura-Marie Magazine, Ive acquired the habit of writing about all of my important experiences in a personal way. My mental health experiences feel important. redguard: What kind of feelings did you experience when the first issue of functionally ill went out into the world? Was it hard to face the initial responses? LM: All the first copies of functionally ill went to friends. I did feel some concern about how vulnerable I was making myself, but I only sent it to people I feel safe with. The feedback I received was positive, and that made me brave about sending it out to people I wasnt as close to, and even to strangers. Lately I get orders from those whove heard of functionally ill through the Icarus Project, reviews, and word of mouth. redguard: What are your feelings about efforts like the Icarus Project to provide sup-

Stuck In A Cocoon by Jessica Amorelli Jessica Amorelli lives in Los Angeles and loves getting mail. Her new art zine, Cacophony, is available at revolutionoise.etsy.com. Contact her at revolutionoise@yahoo.com or send letters and stuff to 23529 Balmoral Lane, West Hills, CA 91307

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The Rose by Lailati Nar Lailati Nar is my artist name. It means my nights are fire in Arabic. I am a Palestinian painter living in Brooklyn, N.Y. I am compelled to paint to express the feelings, memories, and thoughts I have that I cannot express in words. In painting I rise above a reality where my own experience, identity and life is often challenged or denied. I am currently working on a website and an exhibition to launch it. LailatiNar@gmail.com Black Trash: cierneharaburdie.blogspot.com/ 2008/11/watercolors-by-lailati-nar.html CafePress: www.cafepress.com/LailatiNar

Tofus Kiss by Toni Lynn Crane Toni Lynn Crane is the super-hero of fat pinups. Theres something very sexy about the words pinup girl, and when you put JUICY in front well it amps the power of hot x 100! http://www.myspace.com/pinupgirlsxxl

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11 South by zowolf This drawing was created during my involuntary stay at a NYC psych ward. This was my first time putting pencil to paper and drawing anything. So its funny to me that now all I can do is doodle these long necked girls. Ive tried to figure out what it means, who they are, why their eyes are closed. Are they friends? Family? Just three long necked girls with full lips? You be the judge. Contact: zowolf@optonline.net

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Dream No. 9 by Christine Stoddard

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Christine Stoddard is a writer and interdisciplinary artist in Richmond, Va. She loves dragons, pasta, vintage dresses and traveling. Visit her on the Web at christinestoddard.com or email her at stoddard.christine@ gmail.com

Booga Booga by chasterwebb My art and stories are typically really dark, but I have an ongoing passion for life. I just express my deepest fears and devastating emotions with paint and pencil. chasterwebb. deviantart.com www.myspace.com/ chasterforbes

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Artist Beverleyann Wilson lives in Newcastle, UK. Contact her at bev0@hotmail.com Id Die Without You by Beverleyann Wilson

Deceiving Disturbance by gabiMONSTROSITY gabiMONSTROSITY has a new zine called Harmful If Swallowed. I occasionally bark at the moon. I get off to good gore and explosions. I love to get my hands dirty, its all about the blood and dirt, baby. Theres nothing sexier than the sound of a manual transmission. I live to shift. I have sensitive eyes, yet Im a compulsive sun-looker. http://gabimonstrosity.deviantart.com www.myspace.com/deadkidstastelikechicken

Its Whats Inside by Heidi bluegirl Calvert Model: Sash Suicide Contact Heidi c/o Infusion Gallery, 719 S. Spring St., Los Angeles, CA 90014 www.myspace.com/bluegirlproductions heidibluegirl@aol.com

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