I just knew that Somerville would be the kind of neighborhood to go all out at Christmas. I was right. Winter Hill in particular was an orgy of blinking lights and glowing plastic figures. Our block alone had four Rudolphs, two with real blinking noses. The house next to ours had papered their entire front door in shiny gift wrapping, complete with a gigantic bow. You could tell how white the neighborhood was by the number of Santas. In the black and Hispanic neighborhood that I rode the bus through to get to work, there was a baby Jesus for every Santa, a wise man for every Rudolph. I guess it said something about whose faith lay where.
“Let’s go on a walking tour of Somerville tonight!” I begged my roommates. This would be the first Christmas that I had ever spent away from my family, the first year my mom and I wouldn’t take our local Christmas light tour. Jen and Dara, both Tufts dropouts, would be going back to their respective hometowns in Connecticut and New Jersey. They stared at me, uncomprehending. “To look at the Christmas lights,” I added.
when it’s behind my knees
you’d have to fall to the
floor, lower your whole
body like horses in a field
to smell it. White Rose,
Bulgarian rose. I think of
sheets I’ve left my scent in
Timber was Jenny Wade (bass), Mark Howell (guitar) and Rick Brown (drums). Timber was the 2nd (or 3rd) band for all of them; Jenny was in Vodka and The Swans, Mark Howell played with Fred Frith, John Zorn and Elliot Sharp, and Rick's band Run On was about to sign with Matador. Captain Beefheart meets Gang of Four. One of our favorite NY bands of the '90's, enjoy Timber.
My face is cold. A salty breeze numbing my cheeks. I have the black book in my lap, and a pen in my hand. Sunlight casts through black water, a murky aquamarine spreading its roots towards the edge of my boat. I’m awake. Alone. Writing.
To my right across the dark ocean, another in a rowboat appears, some distance away. To my left another, closer. A head-wrapped figure. The current picks up and I feel the tug of the shore. Distant boats appear, city lights shine our paths in ripples. Six more boats. Piers line the city like gnarled teeth. My boat taking me to land. I turn words upside down in my head. A brown mist slithering across my vision.
she’s in her underwear
she’s fixing the curtain
she just took a shower
she’s vacuuming the house
she’s talking on the phone
finally that stool is occupied
she smokes with her left hand
while doing the dishes with her right
she has a tattoo above the left cheek of her arse
Carnaval was over. Weeks went by. The city of Rio de Janeiro was slowly going back to its normal pace. My life with Narcisa, however, was its own Dark Carnaval of progressive weirdness now. Suddenly, I realized since I’d picked her off the ho-stroll and fallen into Narcisa’s mad trajectory, three whole months had flown by in a surreal haze of passion and drama; a relentless flurry of endless days and nights of terror and danger and unrestrained passions and impending mental collapse.
Sometimes though, between Narcisa’s grueling soul-shattering week-long crack missions, I’d still try to take her out to a movie or for a walk on the beach at night; something safe and stable and normal like a simple quiet água de côco sitting under a palm tree by the gentle waves under vital summer moonlight.
Dan Becker confesses to an obsession with "process" in all its forms. Not just musical ones, but sociological, mathematical, and natural processes as well. He fancies he can almost "see" them unfolding and whirling around him; all whizzing by, colliding, merging, often intersecting. He finds great delight in this and believes that music is an excellent vehicle to give voice (and possible meaning) to this phenomena.
Rabbit and Crow watched as the sun came round over the field.
"Did you sleep well?" Rabbit asked Crow.
“I dreamed that I was running through the meadow,” said Crow.
“Ah,” said Rabbit.
Rabbit and Crow set a spell in silence.
“Raccoon had babies,” said Crow. “Yesterday, before the storm.”
“A real wet one,” said Rabbit.
“Lightning struck the locust tree,” said Crow.
“The young one?” asked Rabbit.
“No,” said Crow. “The old one.”
They looked at the wind bend the gold blossoming seedheads atop the field of tall fronds.
“Something moved,” said Rabbit.
“I’ll have a look,” said Crow. He felt the wind with his wingtips and bounced up from the ground, flapping close above the long grasses as he looked down.
someone said “everyone who has power is
or was it “everyone who has electricity is smiling
or “everyone smiling has electricity” definitely not “everyone smiling has powerful electricity”
Matt was a blind date, the only one I ever went on. He was an acquaintance of a girl who had the locker next to mine senior year. She thought I’d like him because he was an artist and was sort of in a band. He played bass. I did like him; he appealed to my latent desire for bad boys. He was thin and strong. He had curly hair, golden like his skin, and it flopped over his eyes. He had beautiful lips, red and full. I can’t remember his eyes.
I also can’t remember much of what we did together all that long summer after graduation. He took me around to the video store where he worked. I perched, bored, on a tattered vinyl ottoman mended with skateboard tape, in the tiny back room behind the counter while he and his buddy watched slasher movies, grunting little bursts of awed laughter at the sickest parts.
Jóhanna Ellen is a painter, illustrator, animator and video artist who lives in Iceland. "Eat Me" is the 3rd part of a four-part video installation.