#The Artscape Writes

[scarsandmoons]

The Supreme

The buttons on her dress are mine to play with, to manipulate as I see fit.

Her every movement, her every expression, is under my meticulous scrutiny.

Oh, how I relish the authority that my position affords me.  

The queen.

With her regal bearing and lofty status, is, in reality, at my mercy.

The rules of royalty, the protocols of the court—they are my arsenal, my weapons of choice in this battle for control. With every meticulously enforced regulation, every sternly delivered command, I tighten the invisible chains that bind her. 

She may wear the crown, but it is I who hold the keys to her cage.

To see her tremble at the mere suggestion of disobedience, to witness the fear that flickers behind her carefully composed facade—it sends a thrill coursing through my veins. She may command the kingdom, but I command her.

I.

A mere maid in the grand palace.

Not just any, the lowest of the lowest.

The one even maids command.

To do the dirtiest works of the queen, fit her dress, choose her jewellery, move all around the palace and get to the queen, the orders of the queen dowager.

I walk softly. 

Within the confines of my own mind, she is nothing more than my doll to manipulate, my puppet to pull the strings of. Her every movement, her every word, is carefully knitted by my hand. And while outwardly I remain the picture of obedience, inwardly I revel in the power I wield over her.

As I go about my daily tasks as a humble maid in the royal palace, I find perverse delight in the simple acts that afford me control over the queen's life. Every mundane chore, every seemingly innocuous action becomes a means of exerting my influence over her.

Preparing her bath, is not just a matter of fetching water and soap. It is an opportunity to dictate the temperature of the water, to determine how long she may linger in its comforting embrace, To restrict her comfortness but limiting her time, to test her patience by adding more perfume.

"Why so much?" she asks rudely. The arrogance of being the queen, spilling with each splash, as each droplet caresses her skin.

"B-But, m-my queen, t-the queen dowager ordered, f-for you to be a l-little more pretty than usual, a-as there will be s-some--", 

I stutter.

"Alright, do it, but don't over do it." she spats.

But I,  the most lowly maid in the whole of the royal palace, did not fail to notice the shiver that she tried to hold back, once she heard the orders of the queen dowager. Of course, living up to the expectations of in-laws is pressurable, but assume becoming the queen, after begging the queen dowager, to be allowed to marry the crown prince, extremely painful. That is, unless you live upto their expectations. 

And, yet again,

I am reminded of my power over her.

Dressing her is another task that I approach with meticulous attention to detail. The choice of attire, the arrangement of her jewels—these are not merely matters of aesthetics, but strategic moves in my game of manipulation. I select garments that accentuate her beauty while subtly reinforcing her status as my puppet.

And then there are the royal rules, the codes of conduct that govern her every move. I enforce them with an iron will, using them as a means of cagingher autonomy and reminding her of her subservience. The mere mention of the king's mother's name sends shivers down her spine—a proof of the control I wield over her psyche.

Choosing her venues and scheduling her activities are tasks that I approach with relish. I select events that will showcase her in the best light while subtly undermining her confidence. Each engagement becomes a carefully orchestrated performance, with me pulling the strings from behind the scenes.

But it is not just in these overt displays of power that I find satisfaction. It is in the subtle nuances of our interactions—the way her eyes widen in fear when I enter the room, possibly because she thought I brought some information from the king's mother, the way her voice trembles when she asks me what it is, always thinking she was good at acting as if she didn't feel her stomach churn. It is in these moments that I am reminded of my dominance over her.

And so, as I go about my duties as a maid in the royal palace, I do so with a sense of sadistic pleasure, knowing that with each soap I prepare, each garment I select, I am further solidifying my hold over her.

The Queen.

[blitzwhore]

For ship bingo: Stolas/ Better than Blitzo guy

-Artscapism

Thank you @artscapism!

They keep me up at night in the worst possible way 😭😂 this is entirely personal and not criticism of the show's writing or anything like that. I respect people's opinion that this needed to happen. This ship, and this trope in general, is just aggressively Not For Me

[anumberofhobbies]

In reality, the paint is the creation of Japanese artist Tetsuya Noguchi, whose specialty is to depict samurai in bizarre, often comic situations. He appears to have mastered traditional techniques to create highly-detailed replica armor that would not be out of place in a museum. Writing for web magazine artscape Japan, which covers Japan's art scene, Alan Gleason dubbed the style “samurai surrealism”. He explains: Every few years an artist gains cachet with pictures of hamburger-munching geishas and the like, painted in the fashion of ukiyoe or Nihonga. Though the gimmick is fun the first time, after a while it gets pretty predictable — good for a laugh or two, but hardly the trenchant commentary on “traditional vs. modern” that the artist usually proclaims it to be. The best practitioners of this genre (Masami Teraoka comes to mind) make it work not because of the obvious satire, but because of their mastery of the classical art form used to set up the spoof. And once in a while the artist's technique is so exquisite that it elevates the work entirely out of the realm of parody, however droll the subject matter. Tetsuya Noguchi's work is just such an example. Other works by the Tokyo-based artist include a lifelike sculpture of a samurai wearing ladybug-styled armor:

[readerviews]

MEET THE AUTHOR! A conversation with Michael Pronko – Author of “Shitamachi Scam,” part of the Detective Hiroshi Series

Today, Reader Views talks with Michael Pronko about his book, Shitamachi Scam #reading #meettheauthor #authorinterview #readerviews

Shitamachi Scam Michael PronkoRaked Gravel Press (2023)ISBN:  978-1942410317Reviewed by Tammy Ruggles for Reader Views (12/2023) Michael Pronko is a Tokyo-based author who writes in three genres—murder, memoir, and music. He has written about Japanese culture, art, jazz, society, architecture, and politics for Newsweek Japan, The Japan Times, Artscape Japan, as well as other publications. He…

[artscapegardens]

By embracing sustainable practices, artistic innovation, and the guidance of skilled professionals from Artscape Gardens, you can turn your front yard into an inviting sanctuary that thrives in late summer’s embrace.

[exittotheartscape]

Happy (Early) Halloween!

It’s wild that Halloween’s tomorrow, to be honest, but I managed to finish something in time to celebrate! A continuation of my story from last year’s Halloween!

Link to Part 1 (I put a little recap before this second part of the story though, in case you just want a quick refresher, but the link to the first part is here as well)

Recap time! :

Maxi and Marie have reached a town in the mountains. While Marie stays back at the inn, Maxi goes out to resupply their food. To his surprise, a festival is going on. Nice!

There are also mice soldiers at the festival. Not nice!

Hiding in a shop with a large collection of furniture and candles, Maxi accidentally knocks over a display and breaks it. Then he faints. Then he can...feel...stuff....again?

Correlation or causation? Who knows? Certainly not Maxi.

Now, let the story begin!

-----------

On the floor of a dark, candle-lit store, Maxi was failing to freak out in silence.

“What just...what the hell happened to me?” Maxi frantically turned his hands in front of his face, expecting them to turn back into wood at any moment. The candlelight illuminating the cloth of his gloves made it clear that this was not the case.

Sitting against a wall, back hunched and hands shaking, Maxi began to notice he was breathing heavily...that he was breathing at all. He looked to see the cloth of his jacket rise and fall, and beneath it, unseen but felt, a beating heart.

An ecstatic, disbelieving smile cracked across his face. Despite himself he began to laugh, the sound tumbling from his mouth and shaking his body. The feeling of a laugh was one he hadn’t known he’d missed.

He was a human again. 

Not a nutcracker, not a wooden body denied rest and warmth, not some cursed soldier. 

He was himself!

...

But...how?

As far as Maxi knew, the only way to lift such a spell was to go to the source, in this case being the magical powers held by the Mice Royal Family. Considering the town he now found himself in was a long ways off from the castle (and the obvious fact that the Mouse King wouldn’t want to lift his curse in the first place), how was this even possible?

A prickling sensation cut through Maxi’s hand, and he remembered the glass shards scattered across the floor. His eyes followed the trail to its origin, a round wooden frame. No... not a frame, a mirror, which now lay on its side in a pile of its own glass. The shards still clinging to the frame copied and split his face, the reflection scattered like an overturned puzzle.

Though he didn’t know how, Maxi had a suspicion the shattered mirror was what had fixed him. Gazing at it now he remembered, as he had fallen, the strange feeling of sleep that had overtaken him. It had felt oddly familiar. The wave of sleep that had washed over him was one he had felt before, nearly 20 years ago…

It was at this moment it occurred to Maxi that whoever owned this store might not be too pleased to find their belongings broken into pieces. And, from his experience, an angry magician was not someone he wanted to come up against.

So, too freaked out to consider looking into the source of his transformation, Maxi gathered his wits and slipped out of the darkened store.

----------

It was getting late, and Marie was getting hungry.

The young girl had spent the time since Maxi’s departure with her face planted into a pillow, too tired to move yet too stubborn to get under the covers. The inn was fairly quiet, with only the occasionally creaking of floorboards rising from neighboring rooms. A second sound could be faintly heard from outside the window, like the chattering of a crowd, though Marie wasn’t sure if her tired mind was just imagining it.

He’s been gone for a while, hasn’t he? How long does it take for someone to go grocery shopping, anyway?

Marie let out a heavy sigh through the pillow. He must have really wanted a break from her, hadn’t he? Not that she didn’t appreciate having time away from him as well, but…

Something had begun to nag at the back of Marie’s mind, similar to the feeling she got when trying to listen in on the adults�� conversations at her parent’s dinner parties: she had the irritating notion that she was misinterpreting the situation.

Maybe she had wanted a break from her traveling companion, but that wouldn’t have been enough to motivate Maxi to leave for so long a time. He was always looking over his shoulder, after all, despite Marie’s obviously claims that he should lighten up. If he hadn’t been able to find an open grocery at this hour, then he would have come back to the inn and tried again in the morning.

...Huh, that’s actually pretty smart. Good job, me.

Marie lifted herself into a sitting position, stretching her legs out as she reached for her slippers. If Maxi had gotten himself into some sort of mess, then it was her job to get him out of it. Maybe then he’d start seeing her as “sensible” or “competent” or any of those other words he’d said after that time she’d knocked his hat off with her slingshot.

At that thought, a smug grin set itself onto Marie’ face as she went to unlock the door.

----------

Maxi had managed to slip between some of the homes in the square, sheltering himself from the eyes of the mice soldiers. They seemed to have halted their patrol to continue enjoying the festivities, and he could spy them once again by the treat tables, laughing and tapping their feet to the music. With that, Maxi let out a soft sigh of relief.

He had calmed down significantly since leaving the shop, and was now trying to piece together a plan. How was he supposed to get back to the inn? He wasn’t a Nutcracker anymore, which made things significantly easier, but he was still from out of town. That could draw unwanted attention.

Guess my first step should be to look as normal as possible.

Maxi took off his jacket and flipped it inside-out, the vibrant red- and-gold of the outer fabric revealing a faded pink-and-yellow underside. He didn’t have a hat to worry about, thankfully (he supposed he had to be grateful to that idiotic thief Aurick for that). His gloves were easy enough to shove into his pockets, though he had to pick off a few clinging shards of glass from them. A simple change of appearance, yet one that helped hide the telltale design of his newly-restored uniform.

As for his sword…

Maxi paused as he held the sheathed weapon in his hands, the blade pulled out slightly as he contemplated his choices. He could take it with him, he supposed, he had brought it with him from the inn after all. But...for some reason, he felt the urge to leave it behind. He kept his eyes on the blade, watching it reflect the lantern light from the square.

It might be best to just leave it here. I doubt anyone will notice if I hide it behind some barrels, and I can just pick it up in the morning before we leave! I didn’t want the mice seeing me with a weapon, anyway.

Maxi let out a quiet laugh. Yeah, what was there to worry about? He had been through worse, he just had to trust his gut and he’d be fine.

Maxi set his sword down gently between a cluster of wooden casks, straightened his jacket, and walked towards the alley’s entrance. He allowed himself to grin again as he joined the throng of toys and humans alike.

It was nice to smile without the restrictions of a fixed jaw.

If Maxi hadn’t been so distracted by his own thoughts, however, he would have paid more attention to his sword. The way it had reflected his face as wooden, with rosy cheeks and painted eyes.

----------

Marie had been right, she had heard a crowd!

Marie had wandered through the streets, guided by the lanterns overhead as she made her way towards the laughter bubbling up from the town square. She had taken her time in doing so, and if you had gone up to ask her why she would have said it was because she was looking for Maxi, of course.

Really, though, she was simply taking in the sights.

Her hometown held a festival each winter, a market selling scarfs and treats and other gifts for Christmas. The atmosphere in this mountain-nestled village mirrored what she felt whenever the market came around, and it was easing her homesickness. It was comforting.

Yet, at the same time, it all felt so different. The music had a tinkling sound to it, as if the air were filled with hundreds of twirling chimes. The lanterns overhead had a different design than the ones back home, and Marie had kept her head craned upward for most of her walk as she stared, enthralled. Pieces of reflective glass bounced the candlelight all about the streets, and the glass itself was set in swirling patterns. 

When she finally reached the square, Marie had almost forgotten her original task. As she watched the swirling dancers with colored glass on their costumes, she was wearing a wide grin. She was glad she had left the inn, otherwise she would have missed out on the fun!

She wasn’t completely forgetful, however. Staring into the crowd of townsfolk, she remembered that she had to be on the lookout for one face in particular. She closed her eyes, took in a determined breath, and gave a little nod.

“Alright, Marie, ready to be responsible?”

With that, she joined the noise of the square.

[waterturnsback]

At the risk of being overly earnest...

All of this blog post will go after the jump because no one should read it, and I’ll probably delete it later.

Today is July 20, and without fail, it is the hottest day of the year. Dark Sky says it is 93 degrees but feels like 98 degrees. MyRadar says it is 92 degrees and feels like 96 degrees. The default iPhone weather app says it is 93 degrees and feels like 99 degrees. It is 7:25 p.m. It is awful.

Every summer, this stretch of days is the most oppressive of the year. The preheating of our sidewalks and streets is over, and it is time to bake. The humidity rolls in to make it a sauna. It is awful. It helps me remember everything.

There are too many events tied to this week. From July 17 through July 24, give or take a few days on either end, I can lay out formative events since 2008. Timehop and Facebook Memories have jarred my brain over the past few days and reminded me of what I miss, what I savor and what has shaped me to this point.

In 2008, Anna and I went to Whartscape in Baltimore on July 20. I took the above photo of Sam Herring of Future Islands there. I used to pinpoint this day as my shift into truly being “cool,” which is a concept that doesn’t quite age well. But we saw Future Islands, Dan Deacon, a Girl Talk side project, Adventure, Parts & Labor, Double Dagger, Ponytail and so many more. There were a bunch of weirdos in a parking lot in Baltimore. I was 16, and I hadn’t been around that before. It was something I wanted to be a part of in the future. It ruled. I am bummed I did not write about this day on the 10-year anniversary two years ago and that it came up quickly this year. Maybe for the 13th anniversary? It was a hot day. Black Dice’s set to close the night got canceled when a storm blew through, and Anna and I got lost in Baltimore in the storm.

Two days earlier, Anna and I went to Artscape to see The Oranges Band, one of the criminally underrated Baltimore bands of the 2000s. Anna was super into them in the early/mid-2000s, and I think they just weren’t weird enough to carve out the longevity and brain space of some of the Whartscape acts. It was fun. It was hot.

One day earlier, Scooter + Jinx played its last show (I don’t think we played again after that?) at the Shamrock Park bandshell. It was acoustic with me, Anna and Benn, and we covered Wilco (three times!), The White Stripes, Silversun Pickups, The Thermals, Cold War Kids, Pixies and I really can’t bear to watch any more of the videos to figure out what else we played. It was a lot. Earlier, I played guitar for Ashley, who sang, and we played some originals and covered Ted Leo. That was the night where Kate and I said we “liked” each other. It was a big deal at the time.

In 2009, there was another outdoor concert at the bandshell the same weekend. I performed alone as Wapinitia, and then Benn accompanied me on a drum for a “Death Valley ‘69″ cover and a Polar Bear Club cover. I played a ton of originals that I know longer remember how to play, though I find the set list for that night when I was cleaning out my room last week and packed it away in a box.

A couple people spent that summer trying to set me up with Elisabeth, and I had been listening to them, despite a couple disastrous encounters a month earlier. The Rita’s/Wendy’s setup will live in infamy. But I tried, and then I realized that I just didn’t care. So I hung out with Kyle and we talked to whole time. I was disillusioned that summer, but I was 17, so it makes sense.

In 2010, I do not really remember what I was doing. The IronBirds were on the road that weekend, so I was not working. I know I went back to Shamrock Park at night and just kind of walked around because I was sad and lonely (lol). My high school graduation party, which doubled as Anna’s college graduation party and my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary part, was in a couple days, so we were cleaning.

In 2011, I went to New York for the weekend. On July 22, Anna and I sat at the Williamsburg Waterfront and watched Death From Above 1979 perform from a distance. It was a hot night. The next day, Molly P. met up with us, and we went to the Prospect Park Zoo before seeing The Feelies, Real Estate and Times New Viking. We saw Real Estate in May and Anna was at the 285 Kent show in June where the band played its new album front to back, so we were seeing the evolution of the Days songs in the live environment. It was a great show, and I think I tried to drink some coconut water and immediately spit it out. Otherwise, Anna kept getting us wine.

From Prospect Park, we went to Shea Stadium and caught Andrew Cedermark’s set to close a bill that had also featured Dustin Wong. It was $7 per person to get in, or something like that, but Anna hustled Patrick Stickles at the door to let the three of us in for $7 because there was only one band left. We were drinking out on the Shea Stadium balcony, and Molly P. told me that she wished she hadn’t agreed to go see ODDSAC with me instead of going to senior prom the week before. I can’t argue with that. I texted Molly M. that I liked her.

Jeffery and Kia were at 285 Kent, so we went down to the water from Shea and wound up seeing Pictureplane at some insane hour of the night. It was so hot in 285. My phone said it was 88 degrees outside or something along those lines, and I got a chill when I walked out of 285. Someone was handing out watermelon, and it was hot. I don’t know how I survived that day. The mass shooting in Norway also happened that weekend.

The next day, Molly M. and I talked about the night before, and I said, “It’s real.” We wandered Williamsburg that day before going to Hoboken to see Real Estate and Dent May at Maxwell’s.

In 2012, Grandpa and Grandma died during the week, so I was a mess (though I did see Shut Up And Play The Hits in theaters, and it was good). I was going to New York anyway July 20, but I called out of my internship and got on an earlier bus. Anna picked me up from the MegaBus and we just kind of wandered Manhattan. The Aurora mass shooting happened the night before, too. I don’t remember where we got dinner, other than we got Mexican. We went out to Ridgewood Queens and then got ready. Molly M. was home in San Diego that weekend, so I didn’t have to walk on eggshells at Emily’s apartment on Havermeyer. Diana was in a fun mood, along with Becky, and Anastassia, Molly K. and Marc B. were also there (and more probably met up with us?). We pregamed pretty hard, and there are a bunch of hilarious photos that are now gone from Facebook because Becky deactivated last week. We went to the Woods and then some random house party in Williamsburg. There are a bunch of goofy pictures of me and Emily in the backyard, and Emily fell asleep on a bike(?).

The next day, Anna and I met up with Dent May at Grand Ferry Park and interviewed him for about 20 minutes. It was a perfect interview, and he tapped into a lot of what me and Anna were feeling psychically without knowing what we were going through. It was a beautiful night, and it was just really cool to talk to him. He was playing Glasslands, and since I was 20, I couldn’t go, so me and Anna met up with Anastassia and went to House of Vans to see Dum Dum Girls and Widowspeak. Anna and Anastassia stood inside the alcohol area, while I stood on the other side of the fence to talk to them. The sets were good, and then Anna and I went back to 285 to see Iceage. It was nuts. There were real punks there, and the indie kids weren’t ready for it.

On Sunday, July 22, Anna and I went down to DUMBO with Anastassia, and we walked the Brooklyn Bridge. It was cool. I still do not understand the logic of riding your bike across the bridge if you are a serious biker, but the views were great and it wasn’t too hot. We wandered Manhattan a little bit and then took the ferry back. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, and it was a satisfying end to the weekend during an awful time. Emily and Diana met up with us at American Apparel. Everyone agreed it was one of the most fun weekends of the summer, and it happened while Molly M. was away. Hm.

On Monday, we went to see Beach House in Central Park. Marc P. got the ticket that was supposed to be for Molly M. It rained. Lower Dens opened. It was beautiful. Anastassia watched from outside the fence, and we all went back to Brooklyn together. I was taking the bus home the next afternoon, so Anastassia and I met up in Williamsburg in the morning and went to Co-Op 87. I bought her a Widowspeak 7″, and we went over to Manhattan and I got pho for the first time in my life. It remains one of my favorite weekends under the worst circumstances.

In 2013, it was again one of the hottest days of the year. Me, Dan and Rob drove to Annapolis on July 19, and it was miserable. We tried to walk around. I did a phone interview with someone on the street. We got ice cream, and then we went back to College Park. On July 20, I went to Baltimore and met up with Seth and Ryan at an Irish bar on the Inner Harbor where we were going to meet Colleen for her birthday, but her flight got screwed up, so me, Seth and Ryan just watched the pirate boat in the harbor and the lightning.

In 2014, I was alone in California, so I drove out to Pomona to go to the Viva Pomona festival. I saw Thee Oh Sees, Fuzz and Terry Malts. I bought Worry by Big Troubles on vinyl from a record store out there. It was cool. I think that was the same weekend I watched an entire season of House of Cards, went to The Geffen Contemporary to see the Mike Kelley exhibit and then met up with Jack in Echo Park.

In 2015, I came home from covering a girls youth soccer tournament in Richmond and went to see No Age at the H&H Building on the hottest day of the year. They were good. No one was really there. A couple days later, I got my first real job at The Sun.

In 2016, I hadn’t taken my job at PennLive yet, but it was getting close. On July 23, we went to an Orioles game with a pretty deep crew, and it turned into a long day. It was so hot and so humid. It was raining, but there were no clouds over us. Jack said it was like the sky was crying.

In 2017, we spent a night in D.C. We were trying to use Brad & Mike’s pool because it was so hot, but then it thunderstormed.

In 2018, we were on our way to Western Maryland for a weekend at Deep Creek Lake. I got pulled over for speeding leaving Cumberland, but I got let off with a warning because I pulled over right when the guy waved me down. It was a good weekend. I think that was really the first time I started drinking a lot of White Claw. We got taquitos for the lake house, and it was the best food decision we made that weekend. Later, that weekend, I thought I lost my phone. I didn’t.

In 2019, we were in Denver. It was fine.

In 2020, I am sitting in my apartment waiting for a mattress to be delivered so I can throw out my old one and my futon frame in the trash tonight and then set up my room. I am so close to getting there.

[pbandjesse]

James is rubbing my shoulders while I'm writing this. I am extremely tired and hurty today. But it was such an excellent day I dont want to complain. Just going to be thankful I have tomorrow off.

I slept Okay last night. Thankfully my internal clock is excellent. Because I forgot to set an alarm and still woke up 2 minutes before I needed to be up. I got up and dressed, James helped me with the strings of my bathing suit. And I headed out.

I went to dunkin for a sandwich. And went yo thr bus. Which was very late but I still got to the school at 830. Excellent. The kids were getting in. We were having breakfast. And soon enough we were doing roll call and making sure everyone was there and accounted for. And then we were getting on the bus. Bre'asia was my bus buddy. And i had all of my class sit on the left hand side. So then the big kids could be on the right. I got pictures of all of them and we rolled out basically on time.

We had no traffic at all. So we hot to thr water park 40 minutrs early. And a half hour before the park opened. So we hung out in the grass. Put sunscreen on the kids. Which i had not. Considered. How white it would make all my little black children. It was hilarious. But they let me run it in all over their faces and ears. Gotta keep them safe!!!

Finally the other site got there and we were able to go in. And it was excellent!!!! We all sat together. And the water was warm. At some points later in the day it was to warm even! But it was a blast.

I swam. I helped the kids float. I pulled them around like a tug boat, like my dad when i was a kid. I went on the slides!! Even the scary ones! I had cheese fries for lunch. And a small sandwich.

It was such a nice day. I had fun at the little kids playground with my students. We went down the double slides while holding hands. I just had such a great time. I love our kids.

We had one scary moment where one of our less strong swimmers went on a slide and didn't realize you landed in the deeper part. And she had tobbe rescued and that was very scary. I had her come sit with me and she was okay. It was just frightening. But then we went on the other slide together and that was much nicer. Safer.

We had to leave like a half hour early. But that worked out really well. We all got cleaned up as best we could. Got dressed. Got water. And we're on the bus around 315.

We took the back roads. And so we passed a lot of cows and corn and horses. The kids were screaming, they were so excited. And were singing old town road at them. It was hilarious.

I listened to my podcast half heartedly. Bre'Asia fell asleep on me. So I rested my eyes too, but soon enough we were back at the school. An hour in a school bus is tough but it was good to be back. I had to carry a sleeping child. But i got lots of kid practice today and that was good.

We chilled in the cafeteria until everyone was picked up. And then Adina took me home.

I got my bike. And discovered i had cut the botton of both my big toes. Sucks, but I made it home with only minimal waddling.

I told James about my day. And got a shower. He helped me pick an outfit. And I tried to deal with my toe cuts, but the new skin liquid bandaid hurt so bad I was shivering. So regular bandaids it was and we left to go to art scape!!

I had fun looking around. Might go back and buy a couple things I really liked. Met some artists I knew of from the city and talked about some of my own work which made me so so jazzed to get back into making. I cant wait to have a studio again.

We also ran into a girl that James got hired at ships with!! So we got to tell stories and it was great. I really just had an excellent time.

I got a moss ball jar thing and a keychain of a lizard. Excellent purchases that I am very very excited about. And then we got some food.

We looked at some big installs. And James took pictures, and then we came home.

James helped me put some stuff away. Discovered sweetp had eaten the hotdog buns. And now we're watching videos and i am very excited to sleep. And have a day off tomorrow!!

My plan is to work on quilt. Then go clean at the old apartment for a while. Then maybe try to go get me and Jess's pottery? Because the train is messed up that makes it hard. But we'll see. Then May be artscape again. James gets done at 630 so i will probably take a nap in the middle and then go do art scape walking with him again? Just wanna spend time with him and buy art.

Time for sleep now. Take care of yourself!

[amykingpoet]

“There comes a point in everyone’s lives where we start to recognize that we are making choices, that we are determining who we are by the actions that we make,” poet, educator and activist Amy King stated in a 2015 speech at SUNY Nassau Community College, where she is a professor of English and creative writing. “What we do says a lot about who we are, not just what we say.”

As a young child growing up in the Bible Belt, King remembers going to the grocery store with her grandfather—her one source of stability, love and unconditional support at that time who, “everyday,” made comments that she was learning to understand were racist. She recalls watching her grandfather flirt with a Black woman who was checking out their groceries. “I was very young,” she told students about that day. “I didn’t even have the vocabulary at that point to recognize this feeling or to articulate what this feeling was, but it was the feeling that something hypocritical was going on.”

That was when King, who identifies as queer, began trying to figure out how to address those moments in her family. “A story begins when a protagonist recognizes a conflict and begins to address how to correct that conflict,” she shared, “and some of us choose not to address that conflict—and that is a story too.”

After growing up in Stone Mountain, Georgia, King lived with her father in Baltimore, Maryland. As a teenager, she worked for the National Security Agency after testing high for analytical skills, but says she felt “uncomfortable” there, even just at 17, and “didn’t like the way the institution was run.”

Two consistent themes throughout King’s life are “social justice and story.” Her latest book, The Missing Museum, is described as “a kind of directory of the world as it rushes into extinction, in order to preserve and transform it at once.” Publishing it won her the 2015 Tarpaulin Sky Book Prize and vaulted her to the ranks of legends like Ann Patchett, Eleanor Roosevelt, Rachel Carson and Pearl Buck when she received the 2015 Women’s National Book Association Award. (Named one of “40 Under 40: The Future of Feminism” awardees by the Feminist Press, King also received the 2012 SUNY Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Scholarship and Creative Activities.)

King is co-editor of the anthology Big Energy Poets: Ecopoetry Thinks Climate Change and the anthology series Bettering American Poetry; her other books include I Want to Make You Safe, one of Boston Globe’s Best Poetry Books of 2011. Much of her prose, activism and other projects focus on exploring and supporting the work of other women writers, especially writers of color. King is a founding member of VIDA: Women in Literary Arts and former Editor-in-Chief of VIDA Review.

During a 2014 interview King gave for Houston’s Public Poetry Reading Series, she spoke on the subject of trying to understand poetry by asking a pivotal question: “What is ‘understanding’ and what is an ‘experience’ with a piece of art?” She went on to say poetry should “jostle” us out of our regular ways of thinking—it should “undo” us in ways that are both good and uncomfortable.

For this installment of Ms. Muse, King opens up about learning to speak up and step up—and shares three new poems with Ms. readers. Here’s to hoping that they “undo” you.

THE POEMS

Selling Short

I cannot afford to live in the city I teach in, & the number of people sleeping in cars has grown, indivisibly. This is not a dream of guarantees but the pursuit of handwritten freedoms that night the sting away. Demons of clinics devise distribution mechanics based on who you were born to & who you might know. The 2 a.m. quiet promises no solace or silence when days are hobbled & taken. Soon, light will be privately owned.

I’m Building a Body to Burn My Effigy In

I will not mention stars Today. They have been used for purposes not their own. Listen to them. Give them space. Observe but leave them distant. If you think you know everything about them now, you have outgrown yourself. In the south we say bigger than your britches burns, but I do not wish to confuse. I want to learn.

Joy Even

The denim and calico patchwork of my childhood. Mothballs in a little black box, felt lining each crevice. Michael Jackson on a hobbled turntable someone left at the apartment complex curb. Costwald Village. Regal. British. Anything but.

The dislocation of Backwoods, Georgia. The first time a man touched me, his semen glistening my inner thighs.

“Thriller” and the plywood coffee table. The hoarder grocery bag maze and Childcraft Encyclopedias flayed across the shag. My 12-year-old amazement. My 12-year-old embryo. The fact of a body electric, searing for days. Turning that birthed another world with a song and dance.

So many ways to joy. Some to death. My anything. Me, anything. Joy even.

THE INTERVIEW

Can you tell me about your process of writing “I’m Building a Body to Burn My Effigy In,” “Joy Even” and “Selling Short”?

I don’t have one process. Sometimes compiled notes take shape. Or a poem just falls out of me as if, gored, the liver drops from my body. The heart seeping sounds more fitting, but a liver plop fits better.

“I’m Building a Body…” comes from an interest in physics and mortality.

“Joy Even” is part of the slow-burn of outlining a memoir.

“Selling Short” emerges as predictive dream, touching on issues that have recently led me to Rosi Braidotti’s “The Posthuman.”

What childhood experiences with language informed your relationship with poetry?

When I first moved to live with my father in Baltimore at 15, I spoke slowly and heard the same. I often said “What?” in a deep southern drawl, uncertain of my own ears, which was probably also testament to a deeper uncertainty too. My father was my only safety line in a house full of strangers and with a stepmother who, quite quickly, began to play her own uncertainties out on me.

One day, as usual, I asked “What?” and my dad, no longer riding the romance of his daughter’s betrayal of her mother to be with him, the winner, suddenly shouted at me, “DO YOU REALLY NOT KNOW WHAT WE’RE SAYING?” It shocked the shit out of me. I made adjustments over time to alter the way I spoke, how I heard, to absorb unknown word usages and infer what I could. And to recover from what that moment meant.

You might prefer the story of how I used to read Gertrude Stein to friends over the phone to annoy them until I realized I had tricked myself as I was enjoying sounding her poetry aloud. Or how I grew up reading Nancy Drew and science fiction late into the wee hours and then woke up and watched Saturday morning cartoons in black and white. But this moment with my father shattered something. Luckily, the cracks are often where we make things and the broken pieces what we make things with.

I’m stunned by that moment with your father and your struggle to understand what people around you were saying. I’m also struck by the notion of the poet as a young girl not trusting her own ears, as you say. How did you learn to make out the words all around you–and to trust yourself?  

I don’t think I ever have really. I just embrace the temporality of life a bit more than usual and go with what comes across. It’s why I am not embarrassed to ask someone to pass the “lotion” for the salad or to verb nouns for decades now. I think subconsciously I suppressed my accent as a response to my father, but that shock taught me that not only is my mother unreliable, but so is the alternative, my father. I had already been disabused of the notion of unconditional love; I was holding out hope in him for at least a lasting, warm embrace. I’ve grown since that bottoming out: DNA is not all, and one can find family—and become family—elsewhere.

This is all linked to the notion that people speak to signal group intimacy; language is shaped by mutual alliances and allegiances. When family rejects your language needs, believe the message it sends and seek anew.

Do you seek out poetry by women and non-binary writers? If so, since when and why? More specifically, how has the work of feminist poets mattered in your childhood and/or your life as an adult?

I won a city-wide fiction contest for Baltimore ArtScape during my senior year of high school. It was judged by Lucille Clifton, which made a lasting impression on me. I was not a writer, but my high school English teacher, Carolyn Benfer, encouraged me tremendously. I was attending a vocational school in the city and, up to that point, was destined to become a CPA.

From there, I attended the University of Maryland at Towson State and had the good fortune to enroll as a double major in English and Women’s Studies. The latter program is especially noteworthy as the program served as the model for many other Women’s Studies programs across the country, as envisioned and spearheaded by Elaine Hedges, who was also an active feminist, affiliated with the Feminist Press. This program led me to numerous marginalized writers back in the early nineties that I likely would not have encountered so early on independently or simply from core English classes.

I cannot speak highly enough about the work that Women’s Studies program did. The short answer is that the program taught me to seek work by marginalized writers as I would be missing out on so much otherwise. I do not seek literature simply to reflect my own experiences—I seek to learn beyond them.

What groundbreaking (or ancient) works, forms, ideas and issues in poetry today interest and concern you?

There is no one work, and as such, I continue to read widely. There are so many books I have not read yet, which is thrilling. Some of my touchstones range from Cesar Vallejo to Leonora Carrington to Audre Lorde to James Baldwin to Lucille Clifton to Gertrude Stein to John Ashbery. There are numerous younger poets I look to for energy, shifts in consciousness and awareness of current cultural concerns and who also signal structural and formal changes. A handful include Billy-Rae Belcourt, Chen Chen, Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, Vievee Francis, Airea D. Matthews, Raquel Salas Rivera, TC Tolbert, Ocean Vuong and Phillip B. Williams—but this by no means is an exhaustive list. Check out the poets anthologized in the Bettering American Poetry series I am lucky enough to be a part of.

As a woman, and as a woman who writes, what do you need to support your work? What opportunities, support, policies and actions can/could make a direct difference for you—and for other women writers you know?

Besides the room, money and time Virginia Woolf called for, I’m beginning to find that a support network is vital. I don’t think this needs to be formal or a writing collaboration. I simply mean that it is encouraging to have regular check-ins with a small group of writers, as few as two even, where you discuss what you’re each working on, maybe share a small piece/excerpt, get feedback and discuss ideas.

It is often the idea exchange, even with just a friend on the phone, that I find generative. I find myself articulating ideas and vision in a way that is as revealing to myself as to my friend. I leave those conversations with ideas of where to head next with a poem or on what to research to build foundational ideas for a concept.

What’s next? What upcoming plans and projects excite you?

I’m outlining a memoir—fingers crossed—and writing poems. I may birth an essay down the road, but that is gestating for now. And volunteering time and support to a program called La Maison Baldwin Manuscript Mentors, a nonprofit arts and culture association that remembers and celebrates James Baldwin in Saint-Paul de Vence, to save James Baldwin’s house and turn it into a vital residency in France.

How has the current political climate in the U.S. affected you as a woman writer?

I am not so much shocked as often startled. I think we all knew white supremacy, colonialism and toxic masculinity were at the helm, but the built-in invisibilities kept them shrouded in respectability politics and notions of civility, and of course, that begs the question: Whose civility? I also don’t think we are in some unique moment of history where shocking things have taken hold and the end is nigh, but that is how it feels at times. Power and paradigm shifts are often premised on tectonic shifts, and folks have to finally step up, choose sides.

That seems key at the moment: one can no longer pretend to be above the fray. And that may be most painful for those of us with privilege. No one is outside anything after all.

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[sensingbelonging]

First object: Performance desk.

Used from 2007-2008 in various site-responsive works entitled "A Professional Occupation" wherein I would sit in public writing in conversation with passers-by. The project began with a performance at 401 Richmond for Nuit Blanche, curator Alice Dixon and with trials at Artscape Gibraltar Point on Toronto Island.

THIS SITE WAS CREATED FROM A PROJECT THAT BEGAN ON OCTOBER 20, 2022. I decided to make a blog in order to follow the flow of various outputs and to see the relationship between the multi-modal parts of the research that involved choosing an object, reflecting on it, drawing it, movement in relation to it, the delays in taking the object outside and leaving it somewhere so that it became unretrievable except through the documentation and the sense memory.

[pennylawler]

The Willow Square Project

We were a good team, Penny, Jerry Englar and I, and we came together serendipitously at the right time to bring about the creation of Willow Square, in front of the Ward’s Island clubhouse. Penny had just organized wheelchair access to our community building, and now wanted to do something about the crumbling mess of concrete walkways in front of the WIA, Jerry wanted a welcoming landscape and gardens, and I wanted to create a community pebble mosaic.

We hadn’t worked together before, but for the next few years we closely developed the plans, engaged the community, raised the funds and made it happen. It was through these hundreds of hours of time spent planning, meeting, writing, organizing, building and installing that I came to know, respect, and love Penny. Our individual skills complemented and instructed each others’, and Willow Square is for us, and for the many Islanders and friends who made it happen, an excellent legacy.

Kathleen Doody

WIA clubhouse grounds before

Penny making her first pebble mosaic

Cleaning up after casting the mosaic

Building the willow mosaic at Artscape Gibraltar Point

Penny overseeing the installation of the 12”’ diameter mosaic

Laying out the lines for Phase 2, in situ

Penny and Peter with Jerry Englar, Kathleen Doody, and the two installation artists, raising a glass

[uwe-cpproject2021-mrr]

I'd like to highlight one artist from the Artspace article; Shirin Neshat. I think her work can help explain one of the greatest misunderstandings and is the prime example of my project. The West continually misjudges women's rights in the East, all symbolized by the headscarf, and I tried to dig into why this could be. As the Artspace article explains, women everywhere are fighting for control over their body and sexuality- but that looks different depending on where you are. In the West, there's the Slut Walk movement, empowering women with the right to reclaim the word Slut and dress in revealing clothing, and then in the East, Muslim women have been donning more clothes and headscarves as they feel empowered through "ritual modesty". In both fights, women are trying to remove themselves from being seen as a sexual objects, but are approaching it in two completely different ways.

This is where I think much of the misunderstanding and tension comes from. I think women from the West see movements such as the Slut Walk that are demanding their right to wear how little or how much they want without feeling sexualized. They see people fighting for dress code changes in school to allow young women to wear tank tops, shorts that fall above the knee, tight-fitting clothes, and holes in their jeans. They see authorities telling people to cover up all the time. Then they look at someone who's wearing a headscarf and assume someone forced them to do that, without looking at the context. They think that someone from the East has the same problems they do, and automatically think the headscarf is just as oppressive as being forced to wear tank tops with straps the width of 3 fingers to be in an educational building, when in reality it's not.

Shirin Neshat does a beautiful job of showing the intersectionality of the headscarf and Muslim women through her series of photographs entitled, Women of Allah. Artscape describes her work as photos that "juxtapose imagery of both strength and inferiority, subverting the stereotypical depiction of Muslim women".

Neshat was born in Iran and traveled to the United States in 1975 to study art in the midst of the Iranian Revolution. When she returned to Iran, it was a completely different country which inspired her to start her Woman of Allah project. Throughout her career, Neshat continually celebrates the women in Iran fighting for democracy and their rights, but also explores the idea of what it means to be a woman in "contemporary Islamic culture".

Neshat's work is important because it shows the intersectionality and duality of women in Iran that many people miss. The image above could be misinterpreted in the West as depicting a woman who's being oppressed in an unstable environment and forced to wear a headscarf. Instead, she shows a woman who's willingly and proudly veiled who is not an oppressed and inferior woman. She has a strong face and is holding a gun, not showing any weakness. The writing on her face is from a poem that describes the bravery and roles of some women in the Iranian Revolution. From a Western perspective, the formidability and the struggles of this woman would be missed. The Western perspective generalizes and takes power away from those in other parts of the world, but if we start to listen to their voices and pay attention to people like Shirin Neshat, we can become advocates and allies.

[desertislandcloud]

Emerging Canadian singer-songwriter Mighloe releases ‘Don’t Call Me’, the first single from her forthcoming EP, Desperate Times, produced by Dean Vision and LateNightDrive. On this record, Mighloe expresses the universal sentiment of reaching your breaking point that often leaves one jaded and wary of love.

“Writing ‘Don’t Call Me’ came from a place of being fed up. There are so many people that come in and out of our lives, and sometimes these people hinder our stability and sense of self. This song was my way of saying “enough!” I will no longer let these people take parts of myself. It’s me realizing that my energy is sacred and will not be disturbed. It’s the final “Fuck You” but say it politely. “Don’t Call Me.””

Mighloe makes a powerful statement about setting healthy boundaries, encouraging listeners to reclaim and stand in their power prioritizing the well being of our mental health. This is Mighloe’s first project with an independent label, Public Records Inc.

Mighloe is a Toronto based singer & songwriter. A graduate of The Remix Project, and SOCAN incubator, the burgeoning artist has been featured on multiple popular R&B platforms such as R&B Radar, and EscapeTracks. Despite the lockdown in 2020, Mighloe’s magnetic live show led her to be commissioned to perform online for Flare Magazine’s Lilith Flare concert series, as well as streamed shows for Greater Toronto Area arts platforms Artscape TO, The Remix Project and Brampton’s The Rose Theatre. A dreamy and soulful recording artist, Mighloe’s vocals have the ability to soothe or cut to the bone depending on what the song calls for. A polymath who is actively involved across various forms of creative expression, Mighloe is a special talent that is proving herself one to watch as she begins to emerge on the world stage. Her new project, entitled Desperate Times, will mark her 3rd independent EP release - the first that will be licensed and supported by Toronto based record label Public Records Inc. https://www.facebook.com/mighloemusic https://open.spotify.com/ https://www.instagram.com/mighloe

[exittotheartscape]

Happy Halloween!

This is probably a bit early, but here is something I wrote for Halloween! Not exactly related to the holiday, but I felt that writing a story with magic would be appropriate. (I did not proof-read this all the way though, so I might go back and correct it later.)

Enjoy!

As the sun set behind the neighboring mountains and their shadows stretched across the valley, the little town began lighting its lamps. From afar the lights seemed to flicker rapidly, wrestling with the wind in a merry display. The lights shone brightest within the town’s center, which could be seen even from the mountains. In fact, this is exactly what was seen by two very, very tired travelers.

Walking down the hilly mountain trail were a young girl, who was dragging her feet in exhaustion, and an equally weary toy soldier. The girl sighed dramatically and kicked a rock, which found its mark on her companion’s leg. The soldier turned his head, a miffed expression on his face.

“Really? Are you actually getting mad at me for taking this route?” He faced forward again, adjusting the satchel he was carrying while doing so. “You’re the one who wanted to follow the quickest road to town, remember? It’s not my fault it led us through a mountain.�� 

“You could have warned me it was gonna be this rugged. Some of us can actually get tired, you know.” The girl murmured under her breath, and gazed down at the town below. The lights were inviting, like the flames of candles that stood beside beds. Warm, comfy beds.

Beds that were a decent walk away.

“First thing we’re gonna do when we get there is find a decent inn. You’ve got that, Maxi?”

The soldier rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Marie, I’ve got it.”

---

It was dusk now, and the moon was climbing its way to the top of the sky. As Maxi laid emptied out gear from his satchel, Marie flopped onto their inn room’s bed, exhausted. He couldn’t help but feel relieved; he was starting to reach his limit from traveling with her all day.

He sorted through their supplies, noting that they were running low on food. He picked up their canteen and shook it, hearing the few drops left inside it rattle against its sides. He picked up their wallet as well, which emptily rattled as well. 

Well, maybe there were still some stores open.

“I’m heading out. You stay here and lock the door, got it?” Maxi reassembled their supplies and adjusted his sword, turning to Marie as he did so. She didn’t respond, her head smooshed into her pillow. “Hey, you’d better not lock me out when I get back, you hear me?”

A muffled reply came from the pillow. “Only if you get good food.”

Maxi shook his head, and shut the door just loudly enough to not be by accident.

---

It was interesting to be out by himself for once, after being stuck as a babysitter for the past few days. Maxi listened to his footsteps echo off the cobblestone street. He gazed up at the lanterns that hung between the shops lining the road, smiling slightly as they swung in the breeze. They gave the night a festive feeling.

As he walked, he began noticing more and more people walking through the streets, seeming to head for the town square. The lanterns came in bigger clusters, their light growing in strength.

The town did seem lively when we arrived, but what could possibly be happening at this time of night?

His question was soon answered. As he rounded a corner, he had to backpedal to avoid a couple racing past him. As he readjusted the satchel, he saw that they were actually dancing, swirling around with their hands intertwined. They weren’t alone, either; the entire town square was filled with laughter, music, and dancing.

Maxi stared for a minute, entranced by the sight before him. It was so joyful and bright, like the town was in its own little bubble, away from the chaos beyond the mountains-

No, wait, there were mice soldiers.

Maxi ducked behind a wall, eyeing the mice that were on the other side of the square. They seemed to be focused on festival, a few were even eating from a treat table set off to the side. Odds are, they wouldn’t even spot him among the crowd. But...it would be best to play it safe.

Maxi instinctively scanned the shops, searching for a place to hide. Among the blackened windows, a single flame could be seen flickering within a storefront. He quickly moved towards the shop’s door, swinging it open and ducking inside before he could be spotted.

Maxi closed his eyes and released a sigh of relief (or at least, an imitation of one). Really, shouldn’t I be used to this by now? They’ve been in every town we’ve visited on this journey. He glanced out of the window, seeing that the soldiers had torn their attention from the festival and were now patrolling the square. Aaaand I ran into this shop instead of heading back to the inn.

I really am an idiot, aren’t I.

At this point, Maxi began taking in his surroundings. The shop was dark, with a few lit candles scattered across the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the nutcracker took note of the items stacked around him. Polished vases, intricately carved furniture, and other such paraphernalia were clustered throughout the room. Its disorderly appearance reminded Maxi of his uncle’s old clock store.

Maxi tentatively weaved past the displays. The floorboards creaked as he walked between the shelves, sounding sharp in the silent shop. It struck him how strange it was that anyone would be working at this time of night, especially with the festival happening right outside the door. 

Now that I think about it, where’s the owner? Maxi looked at the store’s counter, finally noticing that there was no one behind it. ...Alrighty then, this is getting a bit weird.

Maxi’s head turned sharply as he heard rustling outside of the store. The patrolling mice soldiers had reached his side of the town square, and were standing by the window. He quickly moved further into the store, out of the window’s light. He was paying little attention to his surroundings, however, and his back bumped into something behind him.

“What the-!” Maxi tried to keep his voice low as he twisted around, hoping to grab whatever he had knocked over before it hit the ground. His fingertips brushed against the item right before it shattered, releasing a plume of dust into the air.

Maxi froze in place, hoping that the sound hadn’t been heard by the mice. Before he could cast a glance outside, however, the room around him began to blur, the candlelight flickering in his vision. 

“Wha-...what’s going on?” Maxi began to stand, but he was hit by a wave of dizziness and stumbled to the ground, his sword falling out of his hand. As the room’s darkness fell around him, he thought he saw more dust billowing from the broken display.

---

“Uh...geez, what the hell happened?” Maxi opened his eyes slowly, his head still feeling fuzzy. He clumsily lifted himself up and leaned against the wall, taking a moment to breath. His hand fell upon something sharp, stinging his hand. He drew it back in surprise.

“Augh, what was that-” Maxi stopped. His eyes weren’t on the shards covering the floor, but on his hand. A hand that had felt glass pricking it through a white glove. A hand that felt the chilly air of the room surrounding it.

A hand that could feel.

[nickflanagan]

I went to Toronto Island for awhile to write. It was a reset and gave me a workflow that I hope to bring home with me. I’m back and already feeling a bit overwhelmed and anxious but I’m also trying to hold on to the peace. How are you? (at Artscape Gibraltar Point) https://www.instagram.com/p/CDwi8gtgBFP/?igshid=4c93ichvtepz

[quiet-onset]

Y'all remember that festival that I wrote about in my Lin fic for the hamwriters write-a-thon? Artscape? Guess who has two thumbs, just came from there, and painted some "amazing" artwork. This girl!