#it was where I hosted my first parties and made my first zines

[thrill-kill-kult]

I’ve mostly been thinking about this in the context of an AU I created, but I’ve been thinking a lot about Toki’s transition out of his parents’ home and into the real world.

I imagine he left before he was 18 and had to support himself entirely from before that in order to get himself out. And like idk I’m just thinking about the moment when he finally moves out and he’s sitting on a bed that he bought that’s in a room he can call his own, and like he thinks he’s going to be instantly happy and that everything will be perfect, but then he has to reckon with the fact that it isn’t, and now he has to deal with grieving his old life and trying to fit in to a new life he doesn’t really understand and keep himself afloat.

[lnc2]

this time next year

Summary: Marinette is worried about the future. Adrien wants to know where he fits into it.

A/N: This piece was written for the @mlwriterzine and I’m so excited to finally share this with you!  I hope you enjoy it and also go check out the zine because there are so many amazing stories/art pieces collected there.

AO3

The party was well underway by the time Adrien knocked on Nino’s door. Alya was the one who answered, half of her face obscured by gold tin foil pinned to a green beret.

“Speak of the devil,” she grinned, leaning heavily on the door frame.

Adrien bussed her cheek and passed over the bottle of rosé he’d swiped from his father’s wine cellar. “Sorry, Alya. The show ran late. You know how those things go.”

She waved him in, whistling at the bottle in her hands, and shook her head. “Thankfully I don’t. Everyone’s in the living room.”

Adrien followed her into the kitchen instead, eyes straying over the tipsy, crowded apartment. Back against the wall, where Nino’s faded and cracked leather couch usually sat, was a long table covered in gold plastic sheeting. Green and gold hats of various styles were littered across, as well as glitter, rhinestones, netting, feathers, and any other number of crafting materials.

He smiled. “I see you’ve all started without me.”

“Naturally,” Alya said, putting his gift in the fridge to chill. “You’re several drinks behind us now, Agreste. Pick your poison.” She gestured to the half-empty bottles of liquor scattered across the bar.

“No tequila?”

She snorted. “You’ll have to track down Marinette for that one. She ran off with the bottle half an hour ago.”

Something warm filled his chest. “A cup of ice and a lime then.”

“Good luck with that,” Alya said, bumping his shoulder as she passed him the glass. Adrien laughed as he followed her into the living room, his smile widening as he spotted Kagami fussing with the green flowers on her gold newspaper hat.

“I’m not sure how I feel about this.”

Alya batted her hand away. “It’s tradition!”

She pressed her lips together. “It’s archaic.”

“Boo,” a familiar voice called from behind him. Adrien’s heart stuttered as a familiar pair of arms slipped around his waist. “It’s just for fun. No one takes it seriously.”

Adrien thought back to earlier in the evening and Gabriel’s annual Saint Catherine’s Day gala and couldn’t agree. There was a stark difference between the frivolousness and whimsy of Nino’s house party and the staid sobriety of his father’s fashion show.

As if reading his thoughts, Marinette’s eyes sparkled up at him beneath gold netting. “At least no one here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alya said. She adjusted her hat and threw an accusatory look towards Nino. “Tick tock, babe.”

“You won’t let me propose until you’re out of grad school,” he whined.

Adrien hid his grin as the familiar argument ensued. Instead, he tipped his cup of ice towards the half-empty bottle in Marinette’s hand.

“You’re one of the few people I’d share with,” she said, filling his glass. Adrien leaned down to whisper his gratitude only to be pushed from the other side, causing them to knock heads.

Marinette laughed waving off his apologies with a squeeze to his waist even as their assaulter continued to elbow into the group.

“I’m never getting married,” Alix announced from her position on the back of one of Alya’s coworkers. There was a crown on her head but no decorations. She gestured wildly with her free hand. “Just call me Queen Catherinette.”

“All hail,” Alya said, clinking her wine glass against a reluctant Kagami’s. Her glassy eyes strayed towards Marinette. “What about you, girl? It’s been a while since I’ve heard about Emma, Louis, and Hugo.”

Adrien tried not to sound too interested when he asked, “Who?”

Marinette laughed, her flushed cheeks flushing further. “I’m afraid that future is on hold, Al. I need to find a boyfriend first.”

She removed her arm from around his waist then and Adrien had to restrain himself from pulling her back to his side. Instead, he took a healthy swallow of tequila and let the conversation drift into less turbulent waters.

Now was hardly the time to volunteer his name to the top of her list. 

Adrien could think of two, maybe three very important conversations they needed to have before he could even approach that topic. The most pressing of which weighed heavy on his right hand and sparkled like precious gems on his lady’s ears.

He watched over the rim of his glass as Marinette giggled with the other women in their silly hats. One of them—Alix’s roommate, he thought—burst out with a jubilant, “For pity’s sake, give us a husband!” only for the others to raise their glasses with various tipsy rounds of, “Hear, hear!”

He smiled as Marinette wrestled Kagami’s fidgeting hands away from her hat. It had only been a few weeks since their reveal but Adrien was struggling to see how he could have missed the woman he’d loved for a decade in his dear and wonderful friend.

“Some party, huh?”

Adrien coughed as Nino slapped him on the back just as he was swallowing. Nino laughed at his accusing glare. 

“Sorry man,” he said, grinning. “I thought you heard me coming but I guess you were distracted.”

Adrien ignored the teasing lilt in his friend’s voice.“It’s a good crowd,” he said instead. “I’m sorry I was so late.”

“No worries. Although if everything goes well hopefully this will be the last Saint Catherine’s party we’ll be hosting.”

Adrien laughed. “You think you’ll have worn Alya down by then?”

Nino shrugged. “Fingers crossed. I’ve had this ring burning a hole in my pocket for two months now.”

“Maybe you should be the one wearing the hat.” He grinned, only to receive a rough shove to his shoulder.

“You’re one to talk.”

Adrien pretended not to understand.

“Seriously, dude?” Nino shook his head. “You’re not that slick. If you like her you should just ask her out. I know for a fact she used to have a thing for you.”

And even though Adrien already knew that, even though Marinette told him so several years earlier when her crush was a thing of the past as she’d laughingly put it, hearing his heart’s desire put into words so matter-of-factly did things to him.

Things like make him want to punch a hole in the nearest wall or tear out his hair in frustration.

Because really, how was it fair that the one woman he’d spent years chasing had actually spent several years of her own chasing him right back?

It wasn’t.

Not when Adrien still found himself in the chase and she had apparently just … stopped.

“That was a long time ago, Nino.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that.”

“... Why?” Adrien stared, stomach clenching. “Did she say something? Did Alya say something?” 

His heart raced like hummingbirds wings in his throat as he tried to catch his friend’s gaze. 

Adrien grabbed his shoulder and shook. “Nino.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny anything.” He laughed, before hiding his smile behind his glass as they caught Alya’s attention across the room. Adrien met her suspicious frown with a wave even as his other hand tightened on Nino’s shoulder. 

“But …?”

“But … I wouldn’t count myself out just yet.”

Adrien’s hand fell to his side as all of his breath rushed out of him. “Oh.”

“Although, that may change if you don’t do something about it. Sooner rather than later if Kim’s roommate is anything to go by.”

Nino nodded towards the corner of the room where Marinette was chatting with a tall brunette. He was leaning towards her, his fingers playing at the edge of the netting on her hat as he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Adrien was already halfway across the room when Nino shouted, “Good luck!”

He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do to break up their little tete-a-tete but he needn’t have worried. As soon as he was in her line of sight Marinette’s smile lit up like the Eiffel tower and there was little left for him to do other than introduce himself before the interloper tried his luck elsewhere.

“Come outside with me,” she said, tugging his arm. “I haven’t seen you all week.”

“Your fault,” Adrien said, happy to follow her anywhere. “You canceled patrol.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “You know I had to finish up those pieces for your father’s show.”

“At least you weren’t forced to go.”

She laughed and leaned back against the balcony railing. It was cooler than usual tonight as fall slowly gave way to winter and they had the little patio all to themselves. “Perks of being a lowly intern.”

“Please,” he said, bumping her shoulder. “You’ll be a junior designer by next year.”

She hummed, taking a swig of tequila from the bottle only to cough as it hit the back of her throat.

“You can mix that with something you know?”

His lady winced and took another sip, smaller this time. “Who has time for that?”

“You if you’d just slow down.”

It was only half a joke. Lately, even before their Big Reveal, Adrien noticed something changing in Marinette. She was a little less scattered, a little more single-minded. There was almost a frenzied focus about her, like some great fear was nipping at her heels, spurring her forward.

It wasn’t until her timer ran out during an akuma attack that he began to understand why.

“It was ten years this September,” she murmured, turning out to face the cobbled streets below.

Adrien hesitated before wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side.

“We’ll get him, bug. I promise.”

“But when, Chat?” She started to lean her head against his shoulder only for her hat to get in the way. Frustrated, she ripped the little masterpiece off her head and crushed it in her hands.

“Stupid holidays aside, I do want a life, Adrien.” She ripped lightly at the netting. “You said I’ll make junior designer by next year? I don’t see how that’s possible when I’m running out of work every other day because someone couldn’t control their emotions.”

Her voice caught on the last word and he was horrified to realize she was crying. “I want to run my own business someday. I want –– I want to fall in love and get married and have babies.” She looked up, teary gaze meeting his. “How can I do anything when I always have one foot out the window waiting for the next catastrophe? Who could put up with that?”

“You’re not someone a person has to put up with, my lady.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Right. Tell that to my exes.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, because really that’s all he could do.

“Don’t be.” She sniffed, giving him a sad, sad smile. “You can’t do anything about it any more than I can.”

That wasn’t entirely true though.

Adrien turned his attention towards the scrunched up hat in her hands. Marinette followed his gaze and gave a watery laugh.

“I want it all, Adrien,” she whispered.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Do you?” she asked, eyes wide and blue and wet and angry. “Do you really?”

Adrien pulled her to him then, giving her the hug her fears deserved. Marinette clutched at his back, her arms sliding beneath his coat to wrap around his waist, giving as good as she got.

“I don’t want to wait anymore.” 

Tears stung his eyes and words, the right words, stuck in the back of his throat as she gave voice to desires he’d never been brave enough to even dream. Not when Ladybug said no and not when Marinette said not anymore and not when they merged and became everything he’d ever wanted but feared he’d never have.

She wanted it all. 

Adrien closed his eyes and breathed in his lady’s perfume. Freesia and jasmine and something he’d never been able to name. Marinette’s arms loosened around his waist when it seemed like he would pull away, but Adrien only held her tighter.

“I––” He stopped. “You said you don’t want to slow down?”

Marinette nodded.

“Well … how—how would you feel about a chaser?”

She pulled away so she could see his face. “A chaser?” she repeated, frowning.

Adrien bit his lip, feeling heat rushing up his neck and ears. “Ah, yeah,” he said, doing his best to hold her gaze. “Like—like a partner. To your tequila, I mean.”

Adrien watched as confusion gave way to understanding in the form of a perfect little open-mouthed oh. His heart was pounding hard enough he was starting to suspect she could hear it when her eyes glistened up at him beneath the dim porch lights.

God help him but he couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t trust the gentleness in her gaze or the way her body went soft against his or the purse of her lips as she watched him with that pleased little half-smile as realization gave way to something and that something could only be called wonderful as she ducked her head beneath his chin, pressed her lips against the open collar skin of his neck and finally, finally whispered in that small, hopeful impatient way of hers,

“Are you volunteering?”

And even though he knew she knew and even though the question really didn’t require an answer, Adrien tightened his hold on her until they were swaying together chest to chest and repeated the only thing he’d ever wanted to give her.

Yes.

[tsaritsa]

THE KING AND QUEEN OF AMESTRIS – AN EXCLUSIVE LOOK INTO THE WEDDING OF THE YEAR

by Violet Whittaker and Laura Richter for PRIMA Magazine (photographs supplied by Wolffe Photography)

“We never thought this day would happen.” It’s the event Amestris has been waiting for with feverish anticipation – the wedding of Führer Roy Mustang to Lieutenant-Colonel Riza Hawkeye. Violet Whittaker and Laura Richter follow the pair on their wedding day and gain some insight into the private lives of the most talked-about people in the country. 

It is a new experience for the leader of the nation, after a frantic year of picking up the mantle left in his wake by a country transformed almost overnight into a democracy. Nobody could say that the transition, led by the former Führer President, George Grumman, was not without its issues. But even as then-General Roy Mustang was sworn in after a historical vote that saw the Amestrian public having a say in their future for the very first time, nobody could have expected this new presidency to usher in such a feeling of hope and anticipation for what lies ahead. Mustang’s views, well-articulated from his campaign and debates, resonated deeply with the country – resulting in a landslide victory that proved the man and his vision for the future were unparalleled.

But it seems he’s met his match in his bride, the woman who has been one step behind him for almost his entire career in the military and politics. Riza Hawkeye, is a force to be reckoned with in her own right, with a much-decorated military career spanning back to her tender years as a teenager. An ever-present shadow in the background of many a press photo, Lieutenant-Colonel Hawkeye oversees her fiancé’s security detail – a job, she admits, that never seems to stop even when she’s off the clock.

On a quiet Thursday morning, the craggy, snow-dusted tops of the Cremil Ranges provide an unforgettable backdrop to today’s event. The blushing bride and groom are radiant since tying the knot in a gorgeous, relaxed and deeply personal ceremony overlooking Lake Mély, the place where they became engaged just over a year ago. It’s a sentimental moment to reflect on their romantic – and emotional – exchange of vows.

“When I saw her for the first time I choked up a bit,” the Führer confesses to PRIMA, never taking eyes off the now First Lady. “I was blown away. I knew I would be, but more so than I thought. She was beautiful.”

There is no pomp, no circumstance and none of the stiff formalities one might expect with such a high-profile wedding. Instead, it is a ceremony filled with laughter and joy, influenced by the couple’s own down-to-earth, understated and old-fashioned romance.

Flanked by his groomsmen, a beaming Roy is positioned under an arch that was created especially for this event. The groom waits patiently as the guests take their seats. But nerves that never made themselves known on the political ground seem to take over Roy, looking exceptionally clean-cut in his Mikhail Abel suit, keeps sneaking glances at the point where Riza will emerge.

The groom has spent the morning with his old military buddies at a friend’s house in the idyllic town of Lyford, East Province, while Riza, 32, gets ready with her small contingency of bridesmaids at the nearby Watkin Lodge, where the reception will be held afterwards. In high spirits, she manages to laugh about the less-than-favourable weather forecast as the radio plays in the background. Between each song, you can hear the messages of congratulations from the public being passed along by the radio hosts.

“We’re unbelievably humbled by all the support,” she says, fiddling with her earrings – which are, in a nod to tradition, her ‘something old’. Her veil has been borrowed from her maid of honour, a modest piece with delicate lacing detailing the edges. Her new wedding dress follows in a similar fashion – a simplistic A-line design that allows the bride’s beauty to shine through. The high neck and long sleeves are a choice that will undoubtedly be imitated by other brides, despite her protests that she is nothing of a ‘fashion icon’. Her simple, uncluttered approach has quickly made an impression with the public, with garments being sold out within days after she’s pictured wearing them.

However, Riza admits that she found herself a little stumped by the ‘something blue’.

“Honestly, I should’ve just worn the dress uniform – that would’ve covered it nicely.” The pragmatism is a refreshing change that reflects not only on Riza’s character, but the overall direction in which the Mustang’s wish to guide the country towards. In the end, her bouquet has been threaded with forget-me-nots, with bright yellow splashes of coronella and pink peonies.

Before long, cars are arriving, and last-minute adjustments are being made before the bridal party sets off for Lake Mély. The freshly-woven crown of clover is the last accessory to be added, pinned into her hair with care.

As he sees his bride finally appear, Roy’s eyes light up and that familiar, dazzling grin plays across his face – though this time it is a lot softer and meant for only his bride. Guests beam, and in some cases, shed tears as Riza walks past. But the real waterworks come out when their vows are spoken, small speeches that can only scrape the surface of a relationship that has gone back decades. There is large whooping from the guests when Roy calls Riza ‘his queen’, and similar cheering when Riza takes a moment to compose herself mid-speech, blinking furiously and promising in no uncertain terms that she will follow him anywhere.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt butterflies in my stomach,” Riza tells after the ceremony, smoothing down the silk of her dress. “But it wasn’t nervousness. Why would it be?” Here, she shoots a rare smile to her new husband. “It’s like you’ve been imagining this insurmountable obstacle and then you actually see it and realise it’s not as bad as you thought. I remember seeing you standing there and all I could think was – ‘oh, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you’.”

Both openly admit that marriage was never on the cards for them originally – with their positions as superior and subordinate for so long during their careers in the military, working together meant that any feelings the couple had for one another had to be buried deep, and never explored. “To say that there was a day when I didn’t love Riza Hawkeye, and then a day where I did is completely wrong,” Roy says. “Ever since I met her, I knew she would be a person who would have a monumental impact on my life. But we both knew that there were more important things to do than complain about where our choices left us.”

The two of them share a long and complicated history, most notably marred by the Ishvallan Civil War. Both served during the conflict, and the pair have always remained tight-lipped about their experiences there. But the choice to share their wedding with the public was not an easy one to make.

“We appreciated that there was a lot of interest,” Roy says diplomatically. “And we wanted to acknowledge the widespread support we’ve received following the announcement of our engagement.”

The following reception is rumoured to be legendary, but strictly a private affair. For the guests invited, it is sure to be a party filled with plenty of laughs and stories (both inspiring and embarrassing) about the couple. For the rest of us? Perhaps a reminder that love can be found and expressed in unassuming ways, and that you don’t need big flashy displays to reflect the years of quiet devotion that all of us can only dream of one day having.

The entire team at PRIMA Magazine wishes the newlyweds all the best in their new marriage.

(this piece was originally written for @royaizine​ and i finally remembered to upload it here! this is in the same fashion as my ‘hawk’s eye: definitive interview’ piece. please go and check out what everyone else did in the zine! there’s some truly spectacular writing and art created bc of it <3)

[marycecilyy]

Here's my piece for the My Candy Love Zine!!!

Rating: G

CandyXNathaniel

Words: 5000 (total)

Theme: The Little Mermaid AU

Also, the ending for the zine was drew by the wonderful @ghoulyunicorn!! Go check her beautiful art

PART 1

“I want to be part of your world.”

Nathaniel wasn’t a very social guy. His life consisted in studying with his particular teacher and doing the chores. He had no contact with other teens apart from Armin, who also stayed the whole day at home (but differently from him, he spent his afternoons playing video games instead of reading didactic books).

His dream was meeting other young people like him. Going to parties, enjoying life. But his father, afraid from what liberty might cause him, kept him locked inside of home. His mother? Absent. His sister? The demon itself. His social life? Non existent. Life sucked for poor Nathaniel. 

But he had hope that one day he would go to this world so appealing to him. He would enjoy life. Spend the whole day partying and even, maybe, find his significant other. And that dream was closer than he expected.

“Pssssh. Nath. Over here!”

    Nathaniel raised his head from his books and looked around, searching where did the voice come from. After a few moments, he saw a figure waving through the window. It was Armin. How the heck did he get up there? His room was on the second floor!

“Come on, open the window!”

Hurrying up, Nathaniel let his friend come in. He entered the room in a heartbeat, excited for what he had to say. 

“Why are you so jumpy, Armin? What happened?”

“Well, I have big news for you! Alexy’s best friend is throwing a party at her place tonight! You have to go there!”

Nath almost fell from his chair. A party? That night? We wasn’t emotionally prepared for that at all. And that was what he told Armin, who just shrugged off his worries. It looked like he wouldn’t give up, would he?

“Well, okay, let me just get ready.”

Armin agreed, and the golden haired boy went to take a quick shower, thoughts about this party spiraling through his head. That world that he oh so wanted to be part of maybe was closer to him than he thought.

After he was all set and ready, Nathaniel put some pillows under the blanket and turned of the lights, hoping it would fool his dad. It always did. Actually, he wasn’t new to going out without his parents permission. He normally would just go with Armin to his place and play videogames, but nothing this important. He never went to an actual party, with real people.

    The house was a bit far from his, so they had no choice but to go by foot. In the meantime, Armin was telling him how to behave, since he wouldn’t stay with him (as if Armin would ever go to a party by his own choice). He talked about the host, a girl named Candy. Apparently her parents were never home because they travelled a lot, and she stayed alone most of the days. That night was not the first time that she threw a party in their absence, but the other times the only ones invited were people that she knew directly.

    “And here we are!” Armin said, ringing the doorbell of the enormous house in front of them.

    “Wow.” Nath whispered, enchanted with the place. Nath’s parents had a significant amount of money, but it was nowhere near the richness of that house’s owners. There was a beautiful garden and a big pool which was glowing from the colorful party lights. The house itself had two floors, both with so many windows that it was possible to see everything happening inside of the building. And it was crowded. So crowded.

    Nathaniel started to feel sweaty from the anxiousness and considered going back to his place and forget all of this crap. Why the heck was he doing this anyway? 

    “Armin, you’re here!” A girl emerged through the other side of the gate, opening it and hugging her friend.

    “Yes, but I won’t stay for long, just came here to drop my friend. Candy, this is Nathaniel.”

    He straightened his column, feeling his heart pump faster at the sight of that girl. She had sparkling green eyes, silky brown hair, red lips… She was beautiful.

    “Nice to meet you, Nathaniel!” The girl offered her hand for him to shake and that was what he did, so enchanted by her words that he couldn’t barely form proper words.

    “Cat got your tongue, sweetie?” Candy said, laughing at his red face. He was cute, she thought.

“Yeah, sweetie, cat got your tongue?” Armin repeated, obviously mocking his friend, though the girl didn’t notice the tone.

“Anyway, come in, you two! I’ll show Nath the house.” 

Armin tried to protest, saying he already told her that he wouldn’t stay in the party, but Candy wasn’t having it. Without saying anything, she dragged them both into the house.

It was way louder on the inside. On every corner of the room, there was a couple making out and drukens shouting excitedly the lyrics of the music. Armin made a disgusted face, but Nath didn’t. He felt a chill through his spine at the rhythmic beat from the boom boxes. It was everything he ever dreamed of.

The host went to talk to the other guests and left the two of them alone in the crowd. A few minutes later, Armin recognised Alexy and Rosa’s faces and went talk to them. After introducing Nathaniel, they all found a place to sit and talk. 

The group stayed there talking for hours and Nath felt for the first time like he finally made friends apart from the geek (who, by the way, left as soon as he had the chance to). Alexy was cheerful, Rosa was funny, Iris, kind and Priya, the only responsible of the group.

The party was almost ending and Nath felt the need to go to the bathroom, leaving the group for a few. After he did what he had to do, the boy finally saw Candy again. She was next to the pool, talking to the phone with someone. Cautiously, he started to walk in her direction, waiting for her to finish the call. He didn’t like invading her privacy, but the boy felt attracted to this woman. Her presence pushed him to her without him even noticing. 

The conversation didn’t seem to be very friendly. Apparently, it was her mother who was on the phone saying that she would be away for a few more days, and Candy didn’t like that at all. Nath frowned, feeling bad for her. It seemed like she, too, had problems with her family.

Candy threw her phone on the ground, yelling bad words at it. Nath felt weird witnessing the private scene and turned around to leave, but stopped when he heard a surprised scream and the noise of a body falling on water. 

Shocked, Nath ran to the edge of the pool, gasping on the sight of Candy drowning. The scare of tripping made her inhale water and she moved her arms frantically as she tried to get the liquid out of her lungs. Nathaniel, desperate, jumped into the pool, taking the girl into his arms, whose movements were already slowing down.

When he rested her body against the dry ground, she wasn’t moving anymore. Remembering what he had learned on his classes, he put his hands flat against her chest and started to pump it. After a few seconds, she started to cough violently. That took a weight out of Nathaniel’s shoulders. She was well.

A few people started to notice what was happening and soon Candy was surrounded by worried guests, all talking at the same time. The girl was still a little dazed, and the moment Alexy appeared in the middle of the crowd, he left her with him. He didn’t want to attract so much attention and trusted on his best friend’s brother.

He took a glance at Candy, who seemed to be finer. Then, he turned around and left, without letting the lady know the identity of the man who helped her out.

[yousayparty]

The right place, the right time, and the right amount of exclamation marks

The history of Vancouver via Abbotsford British Columbia’s You Say Party is a storied one. Imagine this: trapped in a never ending nightmare of suburban dystopian hell, you form a band. With the simple adjective of having fun, spreading a message, making people dance - you leave the confines of a religiously stifling community. Within a few years you’re playing the world’s top festivals, winning awards, and wooing critics.

But now I find myself piecing foggy bits of memory fragments together with duct tape and hairspray. Like stickers on a dive bar bathroom stall, I know I was there. But why and for how long? I feel like I’m sifting through a shoebox of handbills and press clippings like some True Crime podcaster placing myself at the scene.

I’m not sure where I first heard the name You Say Party! We Say Die! but it caught my eye. It was an era of exuberant band names. !!!, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Shout Out Out Out Out, Hot Hot Heat, Fake Shark- Real Zombie! And my own band GoGoStop! It was also a time when bands out Vancouver’s sleepy conservative suburbs were starting to break out: Witness Protection Program, The Hand, Fun100.

It was exciting. There was a sense of community. Of people just wanting to have fun. Perhaps we were shaking off the anxieties of a post 9/11 world, or shrugging off the self seriousness that was emo and hardcore. We still made mix tapes and zines- scoured Terminal City and The Straight for new bands. There was this new social networking craze called MySpace that had yet to be a ubiquitous omnipresent corporate behemoth that dominated every corner of our lives. We were called Scenesters not Hipsters. Everyone was in an art collective.

Adorned with white belts and one-inch pins; asymmetrical hair cuts and red velvet blazers we set out to prove Vancouver wasn’t No Fun City at now long shuttered venues like the Marine Club, the Pic Pub, and Mesa Luna. I didn’t drink at the time so dancing, and by extension dance punk, had become my saviour- bands like The Rapture, Les Say Fav, Pretty Girls Make Graves to name a few. When Mp3 blogs became a thing, I immediately downloaded The Gap from their 2005 debut Hit The Floor! and loaded it on my 100 song iPod shuffle. I like so many others, became an instant fan.

I moved into what could only be described as a punk rock compound- 3 houses that were owned by a former Christian sect that we dubbed Triple Threat. Members of Bend Sinister, No Dice, Witness Protection Program, and Devon Clifford from You Say Party and Cadeaux (and Whiteloaf) all lived there. He drove an orange 1981 Camaro Berlinetta to match his bright red hair and big personality. We would walk to the greasy spoon Bon’s Off Broadway to get terrible but cheap breakfast and to watch The coffee Sheriff pour undrinkable refills of sludge. It was like living in the movie Withnail and I, but funner. We all wore pins that said Do You Party? on them.

It felt like Vancouver was blowing up and You Say Party was the hand-clapping drum majorette leading the pack. Ladyhawk, Black Mountain, Radio Berlin, New Pornographers, Destroyer, S.T.R.E.E.T.S., The Doers, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? And The Organ highlighted just how tight-knit and diverse our scene was. Relentless touring and glowing reviews for You Say Party’s sophomore Lose All Time ensured they were head of the class, despite being unable to tour the US due to a previous border snafu.

Lose All Time sat on top of the Earshot charts for what seemed like forever. Famous for their frenetic live shows, and aided by stunning videos, their sophomore effort was a clear progression from Hit The Floor! It still harnessed the visceral rawness of their origins, but hinted at a confidence and maturity that was to come. The title of Lose All Time was a reference to the discombobulation of constant touring and it too was a hint of what was to come.

The touring would take its toll. Fuelled by Chinese Red Bull; a well document public dustup between band members at a bar in Germany would throw everything into uncertainty. But it was that turbulence that would set the stage for XXXX and after a restorative tour to China, the stage was set for the penultimate You Say Party record. 

Flash forward to 2009 and the city was on edge. Everything was about to change. Vancouver was preparing to host the world amidst the unfolding Great Recession. Anti-Olympic protests ramped up. A gang war raged in the streets and made international headlines, tucked behind Swine Flu hysteria and the ongoing imperialist war on Iraq.

It seemed like all the venues started closing and all our friends were moving to Berlin or Montreal. We starting looking in. Is this the city we want? Was it just growing pains? This kind of introspection is clearly reflected in XXXX. If Lose All Time was a record the band wanted to make, XXXX was a record for the people; a record for the city of Vancouver; a record for 2009.

"I finally feel like a singer, rather than a dancer who loves being in a band" said Becky Ninkovic at the time. It’s a perfect quote. One that succinctly captures the maturity and focus of the record. After a breakdown for Ninkovic, a year of rest and vocal lessons, Exclaim! announced XXXX to be a career resuscitation.

And it was. Going back now and rediscovering the record is such a magical thing. Opening for You Say Party with my band Taxes in 2008, I was impressed with the new material even if was a little jaded (I mean I was almost 30). But now with time and space I can see the songs they were working on were truly timeless. Laura Palmer’s Prom could so easily slot in with the latest 80s synthwave revival along alongside bands like Lust for Youth, Lower Dens, and Chromatics.

Overall, XXXX sounds like an exhale. A moment of stillness when you know you’ve made something extraordinary. When you know all those moments combined; moments of sheer terror, adrenalin, elation, boredom, and longing- culminate in a piece of art that once you let go of it- you just know in your gut that it’s right. It draws you in, wrestles with a brooding tension, then sends you into a churning whirlwind of tight drums and buzzing synths. It’s a remarkable achievement.

There’s plenty of vintage YSP sass throughout. “She’s Spoken For”, “Make XXXX”, and “Cosmic Wanship Avengers” are all classic synth punk gems, but the it’s in the subdued that the album really grips. “Dark Days”, “There is XXXX (Within My Heart)” and the sprawling Kate Bush like ballad “Heart of Gold” are the hallmark of a band that is comfortable exploring the limits of their genre. While lyrically quite positive, the melodies are daunting. Indeed, as Pitchfork put it, “the slower pace and more sentimental outlook of XXXX gives listeners the necessary space and encouragement to surrender to the band's emotional message”.

And it was a message they would finally return to the US with in 2009. The band was poised for mainstream breakout success. They were long listed for the Polaris and they won a Western Canadian Music Award for Best Rock Album of the year. Much has been written about what would happen next. I don’t want this article to be about the tragic onstage death of drummer and friend Devon Clifford, but it’s inexorably linked to the band’s story.

And I can only really tell it from my point of view. I wasn’t sure I would go to the funeral but a mutual friend told me that Devon would want me to go. Portland Hotel Society, a local housing provider which Devon had thrown the weight of his passion behind, rented a bus to drive out to Abbotsford. I held up pretty well until my friend Al Boyle got up to play. Then some yelled “Spagett”. Then Krista and Becky sang “Cloudbusting” and I lost it.

The band would try to carry on. Krista would leave the band and Bobby Siadat and Robert Andow of the band Gang Violence would fill in for touring.  When that didn’t go as planned Al Boyle who had been in the punk band Hard Feelings with Devon would replace Bobby. They officially went on hiatus in 2011 only to reunite a year later with Krista back on keys and a drum machine in place of Devon.

And while the band’s self titled 2016 release would be their moment of closure, the reissue of XXXX is one of celebration. Celebration of what they made with Devon. Celebration of a near perfect moment in time. A capsule of a entire city at it’s peak. The band has changed. The scene has changed. And I’ve changed. But there will always be XXXX within in our hearts.

'Cause every time it rains

You're here in my head

Like the sun coming out

Ooh, I just know that something good is going to happen

And I don't know when

But just saying it could even make it happen

Sean Orr Vancouver, BC January 2020

--------------------

We are so excited to reissue a limited run of XXXX on clear vinyl through Paper Bag Records Vintage for Record Store Day on August 29th! Support your local stores & grab this album on vinyl for the first time in 10 years! https://recordstoredaycanada.ca  #yousayparty #YSPWSD

--------------------

About Sean Orr Sean Orr is a writer, musician, artist, activist, and dishwasher living and working in the unceded Coast Salish territories of Vancouver, B.C. Besides his twice weekly news column in Scout Magazine he writes for Beatroute and has written for Vice Magazine and Montecristo among others in the past. He’s the frontman in the punk band Needs and also has a pickle company called Brine Adams. Twitter | NEEDS | Tea & Two Slices | Flickr

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

4th Anniversary Stuff

I had quite the long day yesterday and now I am a day late^^’

But, well, anyway... Watchdog of the Queen turned four yesterday! Yey!

I have been terrible again with updates in the last few months, so if you’re still here and waiting - thank you! Life and university kept me busy and exhausted lately (and I was, to my surprise, picked for a zine!), but I’m still working on the next chapter and have no intention of dropping this story anytime soon! Not when it is still keeping my brain busy.

I think I’m always getting so melodramatic and repetitive in these posts^^’ Sorry...

Well, last year, I put together some trivia and notes and I thought I would do the same this year! But that’s not everything...

When I started writing this fic, I created a file to collect little bits and pieces as I thought of them. So far, I have 258 snippets in that file^^’ Some are just a sentence long, others some pages. And I thought that, if someone’s interested, you can send me a number between 11 and 258 and I’ll post either the entire thing or part of it. However, if it’s just a sentence or a joke I have saved for later, I will reserve not to post it. (And it’s from 11 to 258 and from 1 to 258 because the first ten are just too old and irrelevant.)

Thank you so much for sticking with me for four years now! And let’s hope for many more^^

Story

The little “add-on” about Oscar and Cloudia on the intermission chapter was actually supposed to be much longer. It would have not just been about Cloudia returning to the townhouse and talking to Oscar there after she met Cedric for the first time, but it would have been an extended version of the entire first three chapters. It was supposed to start with the morning before Cloudia went to that party and end with her conversation with Oscar. It even had a proper name: “The Countess, Once Again.” But I thought it would be too long and too boring, so I just kept the last part of it. I did like the beginning part when Cloudia woke up; I was quite sad to cut it. (I wrote it in late 2017/early 2018… while it was snowing! *sigh*)

While finishing the general outline and concept of Arc 4, I thought about roughly basing it on a fairy-tale, and because it’s set in France, I thought about picking a French fairy-tale. (Also the term “fairy-tale” was actually introduced by Madame d’Aulnoy, a Frenchwoman, so it would have been perfect!) Unfortunately, it did not work out because the arc became too stuffed with other things.

Originally, they were supposed to go to Réchicourt-le-Château, not Nanteuil-la-Forêt, but I changed it to cut their travelling time shorter. They were also supposed to stay at the proper Château Dupont, rather than at an acquaintance’s place. I changed it because I thought it would be too silly to say that, of all places, Nicodemus Townsend was spotted/the Clockmaker is living so close to where Cloudia’s relatives live. I just couldn’t do that – not after reading Villette…

Very early on, Townsend was to appear from the start of Arc 4. He was still the one who stole Queen Victoria’s super-secret box, but it would not have been so blatant. Instead, Townsend would aide Cloudia and Cedric and try to divert the investigation from himself. Cloudia was actually supposed to start liking Townsend (for some reasons), much to Cedric’s chagrin, but this particular aspect was so silly, I scrapped it all and rearranged it.

Originally, the last chapter (Mystery), the next chapter (Malady), and the one coming after it were one chapter. Please remind me to provide a word count for them when I have finished all three. What was I thinking…

Cloudia was lamenting about having apparently lost her family ring in the intermission chapter… Actually, I planned for Cedric to give her the ring in Faint and Low, wrote it into my outline, but I somehow forgot including it. Thankfully, I did not forget to make him return it to her in the intermission.

While working on the intermission, I thought about writing that Cedric and Milton met every now and then in the past year and became more acquainted with each other. Like, Cedric would come to Cloudia when she was extra busy, she would send him to town with Thomas, and they would run into Milton and Wentworth. But then, I finalised Milton’s story and decided that it would be better to say that he did not set foot into England since his villa was destroyed.

Milton and Cloudia met at a reception in 1846 because, years ago in English class, my teacher talked about how “receptions are little parties,” I jotted it down and thought “that might be a good place for their first meeting!” But, according to Wikipedia, “Formal receptions are parties that are designed to receive a large number of guests, often at prestigious venues [..]. The hosts and any guests of honor form a receiving line in order of precedence near the entrance. Each guest is announced to the host who greets each one in turn as he or she arrives. Each guest properly speaks little more than his name (if necessary) and a conventional greeting or congratulation to each person in the receiving line. In this way, the line of guests progresses steadily without unnecessary delay. After formally receiving each guest in this fashion, the hosts may mingle with the guests.” – which is not really what I had in mind back then. But I had already said that they met at a reception, so there was no going back.

 There will be a total of three side stories for this arc. The Poker Game was the first. The second will come sometime in the middle after certain pieces of information were revealed. The last will come right after the arc wrapped up.

“The Earl, Reckless” and “The Siblings, Partners” are actually the first two pieces in a little series of five stories about Vincent and Francis. I hope to get out the third next year!

There will be a few more stories about them, but they won’t belong to that collection because they won’t be very readable as “standalone” fics. One of them is the pirate story which was mentioned in the second zucchini bonus chapter.

 Names

Anaïs was always supposed to be a girl, but her name used to be Amable because it means “lovable” and I thought it’s such a cute name! Turned out it’s a boy’s name, so I changed it last-minute to Anaïs after the character from The Amazing World of Gumball.

Her aunt Sylviane was originally named Renée. I changed it because I remembered that “Renée” is the name of one of the musketeers in Barbie and The Three Musketeers, and I really dislike that movie.

Aurèle used to be named Gervais. But then, I named another character Gervais and forgot that I already had a character with the same name. Because I had worked more with the second Gervais in my head, I decided to rename the first one to Aurèle. At some point, I cut out the “final” Gervais (who was the original Clockmaker) though and replaced him with the current Clockmaker. So, there’s currently nobody with the name “Gervais” in the story…

I am actually quite lazy when it comes to picking names for any secondary characters. The names of the Dupont servants and most names of the inhabitants of Nanteuil-la-Forêt were generated with a random French name generator.

As I already said, I like naming characters after other fictional characters. I often base their personalities and stories on them as well. When I read a book or comic, or watched a movie or show which I did not like, I name and base characters who get killed, villain characters, annoying characters etc. after the characters from that book/comic/movie/show I did not like. For example, Maven, Manon, Axel, and Brenton were named and based on characters from Red Queen. Maven is, obviously, Maven. Manon is Mare, but her name is from Miraculous Ladybug because she was supposed to be the “puppeteer.” Axel Shade is named after Shade. (But his middle names are from The Infernal Devices which I do like.) Brenton is based on Cal. I chose the name “Von Brandt” because “Brand” means fire or blaze and Maven has fire powers in Red Queen. (-1/10 would not recommend that book.)

Nicer characters are, in turn, named after characters from media I liked. For example, Dahlia, Duke, Cas, the man Cas talked to in Duke’s tavern, and Lucas Renn are named/based after/on characters from A Darker Shade of Magic. Dahlia is Lila. Duke is Barron. Cas is Kell. The man he talked to is Ned. Lucas Renn is Alucard Emery (whose nickname is “Luc”).

 Characters

Milton is my least favourite character to write because he has no humorous bone in his body. (Almost) everyone else is joking around, but I simply cannot picture him doing the same. At least, he can talk in waterfalls like most others – even if it’s in a different way. (This does not mean that I dislike Milton as a character! It just makes his dialogue a bit more challenging because he’s always very kind and never sarcastic. He’s the kind of person who, if you were to stab them, would calmly and softly tell you that it’s fine and that they have no ill-feelings for you even though they are literally dying and you are just a random thug.)

His rain-induced-heartache-memory-return is based on a similar thing a friend of my father’s has. When I was little – like six or seven – he and his family were visiting us. It was raining, and he explained that he had a heart operation many years ago on a rainy day and now, every time it rains, his heart phantom-pains. For some reason, it stuck with me, and I eventually decided to give Milton the same condition.

Townsend was a Frenchman (“Nicodème Etienne Bellamy”) for a very short time period because I thought “The arc is set in France, shouldn’t it have a French villain?” But then, I realised that it made no sense why a Frenchman should steal the Queen’s super-secret box and changed it back.

I wrote two stories for a Kuro Advent Calendar in 2017: Waiting and Warming. They were only replacement ideas though: Waiting was the replacement for a little game I wanted to put together but did not have the time for in the end. Warming was the replacement for a clockwork/clockmaker/machinery fic which I could not make work at that time. The Clockmaker Cloudia is searching for is something of a “remnant” from that fic idea.

Actually, Kamden was supposed to be the fidgety one before I gave that trait to Milton.

Misc.

While Milton is someone who does not really hate anything or anyone, I think he would very much dislike the song “Love is an Open Door” if the fic was set in modern times.

Because my sister once asked why “I draw Cloudia with short hair when she has long hair”: I do not draw her with short hair. I draw her with barley curls and a chignon, but the chignon is never visible.

  Outtake – beginning of “The Countess, Once Again.”

The day Cloudia Phantomhive was to kill Ronan Parrish, she was tired – tired, bored, and wishing to be somewhere else.

She hadn’t slept well – she never slept well here – and her body both carved and dreaded more hours of sleep and rest. Cloudia had woken up far too early this morning and the dispute in her head had made her decide to stay awake and wait for the sun to rise – and in January, the sun was just as sleepy as she, but unlike her, it took its time to wake.

Not knowing what to do, Cloudia had taken the book she was reading from her bedside cabinet – The Chimes by Charles Dickens – but even though it was written by her favourite author, even though it was “just” a novella, she hadn’t been able to read more than a few pages. And so, until the sun rose and Lisa came, Cloudia spent her time staring into the darkness, the novella still in her hand. And when the sun had finally risen and Lisa had arrived, Cloudia nearly did not notice it; and when she was washing up and getting dressed, her head was still heavy and her body numb and she did not say a single word. Lisa did seem concerned, but Cloudia was thankful that she didn’t address it, that her concern was only shown in her gaze which Cloudia avoided.

Afterwards, Cloudia walked down the stairs to breakfast, the sun shining dimly through the ice-touched windows, and when she entered the parlour, Lisa in her wake and Newman opening the door for her, Oscar was already there.

Almost thirteen years ago, Cloudia’s father had died at the Phantomhive townhouse, and Cloudia herself had lost her memories. Since that day, Cloudia had never felt comfortable or safe or free inside the townhouse again – considering that she had ever felt like that here –, and because she was always sent back to that day whenever something triggered her – and this was even more likely at the townhouse – Eleanor and Barrington had decided that, even if she had Newman and Lisa with her, Cloudia was not to stay at the townhouse without another person. As both Barrington and Cecelia were busy and Oscar had helped her finding out about Parrish, although this “case” had been fairly clear from the very beginning, Oscar was staying with her.

“Good morning, Oscar,” Cloudia greeted him while sitting down, her own voice sounding odd to her.

“Good morning, Mylady,” he said, waiting for her to break her scone in half before he sunk his fork into his cake.

“Cake for breakfast again?” Cloudia remarked, but, instead of directly responding to her words, all Oscar said was, “Mylady, you should make sure to sleep more. Or, at all. It is not good for your health if you keep refraining from sleeping, even if it is the townhouse.”

Cloudia nodded absentmindedly and put cream on her scone. “I will when Parrish is dead and I can return to the manor,” she said, but Oscar did not reply and only ate in silence.

[om-nom-berries]

How to Make a Fan Comic

The ask I received from @griffindorfightingheart earlier (which I answered here) got me thinking about fan comics and how much is generally understood both about this scene and even how one might go about making a fan comic. I thought I’d talk a little more about it because I want encourage more people to get into making fan comics. So come on over and let me tell you a story...

First, I’ll tell you about how I got into making fan comics, which was my discovery of doujinshi...

Doujinshi (or Dōjinshi, which Wikipedia tells me is the proper English term but I’ve been using the first term since before there was a wikipedia article for it so lol). Zelda doujin via History of Hyrule was my gateway drug. I discovered the site many, many years ago and was impressed to see that fans in Japan were just making their own comics. GOOD comics, too! I started collecting them via eBay, talking with fellow fans who also collected them, etc. It was so impressive to me and I decided I wanted to make comics too.

But I couldn’t afford to get them printed.

I also didn’t know how.

Starting Off Small

But I could figure out how to make a webcomic! Sort of...

I got some help and I was able to start a Zelda webcomic in 2003, which may as well be fucking ancient times at this point. It’s not pretty to look at (I gave the comics from that site to History of Hyrule so you can always check them out), but they gave me a start. I worked on that site for a few years, got busy with school and life (my mom got cancer in 2005 so that was a big distraction) and then started to do some original comics.

Get an Artist Alley Table

In 2007, I finally decided to try to go to my first anime convention as an artist, and tried for a table at Anime North. I was successful (there used to be less demand and therefore easier to get a table back then), and finally had the impetus to make a printed fan comic. I actually made two that year: one based on Ocarina of Time, and one based on Twilight Princess. My friend @renlikesstuff helped me get them printed (dude do you remember that lol?) and I was able to debut them there. Sure, I printed way too many copies, but it was a great learning experience (yes, I did eventually sell out of those copies, but I did print way too many).

Friends R Good

I just want to point out that having friends in fandom, especially friends that enjoy the fandom in similar ways (ie: write fan fiction, make fan art, etc) are invaluable. You can support one another but also are there to help you with your ideas (what is a realistic goal, for example).

Legal Stuff

Are fan comics illegal? In most jurisdictions, if you don’t have the permission of the copyright holder OR it’s a parody (legal protected in many countries but not all countries), then yes, it’s illegal. But generally the enforcement of copyrights is left to the copyright holder. To be realistic, the only dangerous bootleg stuff out there are, for example, plane parts (yes, this is a thing and really fucking scary), or medical equipment (that could harm or kill someone). A fan comic, unless you’re selling thousands of copies, isn’t really hurting the copyright holder (if said copyright holder is a large, multinational corporation). Even still, some large companies have been known to crack down on fan works (usually as a result of rampant bootlegging. See: Disney).

If you’re in a fandom, the discussion of fan art, bootlegs, etc may or may not be A Thing, depending on how the copyright holder deals with fan creations. Some copyright holders may be independent, and some may be large corporations. You must be mindful of the laws where you live and sell your works, and of how the copyright holder feels (or doesn’t feel) about any kind of fan works.

You must also keep in mind that a copyright holder can choose to enforce their copyright at any time. Generally, if they feel you’ve overstepped a boundary, they’ll let you know by sending a simple Cease & Desist notification (usually by email) or just have your web host take down you creation without warning (if said host has a way of reporting it). No one’s going to come to your house or school or work or blow down your fucking door over this shit (I mean, if you live in a democracy, because some people do live in countries where freedoms are more restricted and sometimes this shit does happen over what others might consider very basic actions).

Actually Fucking Drawing Something

I could write a metric assload of stuff about making a comic. But I won’t, because people have already written a lot about it. Instead, here’s some links to get you started:

notes from a 2011 presentation that Love Love Hill did at Anime North about making comics/doujinshi

comic process and tutorial notes from Love Love Hill (listen to them for they are wise)

resources for printing, payment services, etc from AAtoast

creating a comic - basic process

About printing:

Printing is expensive!

At least, nice printing is. If you don’t have a lot of money, you can do zine-style stuff, where you’re using a basic photocopier and a long arm stapler (to do what’s called a “saddle stitch” binding). If you have a little bit of money you can hire a printing company to print the comics for you. I’ve done both, and here’s the pros and cons:

Printing and Stapling Yourself

Pros:

Cheap af

No surprises re: quality control

Cons:

More work

You may need a long arm stapler (but some people do super short comics that are foldable which is cute too)

Has to be shorter (bc long arm staplers will only staple through so many pages before you need to get a stronger industrial one)

Printing with a Professional Printer

Pros:

Quality result

Access to perfect binding (when you have it bound by glue)

Cons:

Expensive

Not all printers can do book binding or have experience with comics

You often need to pay extra to get the comic pages set up for printing if you don’t know how to use something like InDesign

Actually Fucking Sell Something

When you finally have a print comic, you can sell it! Knowing WHERE to sell it is just as important as actually selling it. You want to make sure you’re presenting to the right audience.

I’ve done direct sales, mostly, either in person or online using Paypal as the payment handling.

When you’re selling online, keep in mind the cost to mail the comics (postage, packaging). Packaging is important because you want the comic to arrive in pristine condition. I usually get plastic bubble mailers and then put the comic in another plastic baggie so that there’s no chance of moisture getting in there. Also, I put in a nice little thank you card signed to the person who bought the comic. Handwritten notes are always a kind and appreciated gesture that people will remember.

Where to sell? If you have enough followers on Tumblr, you can do ok, especially if you’re already known in the fandom. If not, some larger fandoms run comic anthologies (either print or digital). I’ve seen people also sell on Etsy and Gumroad. I’ve used Gumroad but not Etsy. Keep in mind that using 3rd party sellers like Etsy and Gumroad and Ebay make it much easier for copyright holders to take notice of you, and they might assume you’re just a bootlegger making a ton of money off this.

Which brings me to my final point:

Don’t Expect to Get Rich Making Fan Comics

You’re not going to make much money selling fan stuff. That’s just the reality. If you’re really REALLY good and persistent then yes, maybe you can do the convention circuit or get a popular Patreon or something. Some have. But it’s rare, and those artists that made it work did put a ton of effort into finding something that worked for them and also mix in original art and extras.

If you’re getting into making fan comics, make sure it’s because, first and foremost, it’s something that brings you joy in creating. It doesn’t have to be an expensive hobby, but it should bring you some measure of joy. I’d say that’s the most important thing.

[because-its-important]

2017: a year of courage 🦄

If 2016 was a year of opening doors, 2017 was a year of walking through them. This year demanded a lot of courage.

First, the fun things!

Programming.

I’ve been talking about this quite a bit already, so I don’t want to linger too much. This was my first year working as a programmer (heyo) and I learned a whole lot very, very quickly. Building a data-heavy webapp for bar associations and their member lawyers from scratch is no joke! I’m also real proud to be capping the year off in the midst of a batch at Recurse Center. About a year ago I kept thinking about how good it would feel to be “ready” for something like RC, and it does, it feels good.

“what are u doing rn?” selfie circa mid May.

Zines and indie book sellers.

I encountered a lot of zines this year, exponentially more than all the years of my life prior. I went to a zine reading, multiple zine fairs (including one I volunteered at), I assembled a zine at the Bushwick Print Lab, I brought friends to Quimby’s. And, ofc, I bought a bunch too.

I purchased all the zines above at Pete’s Mini Zine Fest.  From top left to bottom right, they include: a parody science zine about “fracking”; a zine about a woman’s experiences riding the subway when she was pregnant; a zine about the history of animals that have been sent to space; a holographic bookmark that isn’t a zine but reminded me of a femme version of the robot in FLCL; a zine someone made about remembering her recently deceased father and how they’d go mushroom hunting; an art zine full of sketches of demons. I also asked every artist to sign the copy I bought, because I am a huge dork. 🤓

A beautiful zine I found in the library at the Recurse Center. Zines are everywhere! Keep an eye out. 👀

I also spent a lot of time browsing and buying books (often used, sometimes not) from independent bookstores and sellers. I picked up books from BookPeople in Austin, from the Oakland Book Festival, from a library sale in Syracuse, from Unnameable Books in Prospect Heights 1, from Autumn Leaves in Ithaca, from the Verso loft in DUMBO, from Borderlands in the Mission, from Powell’s in Portland. I even scored Invisible Cities and Frankenstein from a stack left outside my neighborhood coffee shop.

These were all purchased for like $3 from a library sale held in the garage of a old fire station in Syracuse, NY. Includes: a book about stream of consciousness novels; a book about how to make poisons written by this dude; a book of poetry about the devil. Must’ve been a real moody day.

Interference Archive and Church Night.

I visited a lot of new places in 2017, so I wanna talk about two places that I found myself coming back to again and again.

I first visited Interference Archive or went to events where they tabled roughly a dozen or so times this year. I remember spending snowy days in winter doing a bit of cataloging for a big archive they’d received of counter culture newspapers from the 70s. I participated in two reading groups hosted by IA, one on different social movements from the 60s to today and another on race and mass incarceration following The New Jim Crow2. Interference Archives annual block party was also killer, with free screen printing, radical button-making, a used book sale 😏, free tamales served out of a trash bag (they were so good!!), and a live Yiddish queer punk band.

I blew up and tied these balloons for IA’s block party all by myself! Very important work! 

One of the issues of The Berkeley Barb that I cataloged. I also cataloged about half of The Black Panther newspapers in their collection. You can check out Interference Archive’s catalog here.

I also went to church service four times! 😋 Church Night is a comedy show that features three standup sets, a burlesque show, and a 90s rock sing-a-long, all rolled up into a evangelical sketch. Each service is also topped off by a real-ass sermon, with positive messages that have made me cry multiple times. It is a really perverse good time and the folks who run it are extremely friendly and hardworking. They travel to Brooklyn every couple months or so and are based in Washington DC, so if you near live in either of those areas, I fucken implore you to check them out.

Another great service at Church Night!

Puppet shows and films.

I attended two puppet shows this year, which is two more than any year in adult memory and certainly two more than I could have expected! The first puppet show played after a few live bands on a rooftop in Bushwick on a hot summer night - I drank cold canned beer and graciously accepted when some generous stranger passed around a bowl.

The second puppet show was a performance at a banging housewarming party in a living room in Bed Stuy, and a friend was one of the central performers. At one point during the show an iMac in the living room fell four feet to the hardwood floor below and the audience - a room full of friends and friendly faces - gasped. THE SPECTRE OF FAILURE!3 I thought very loudly in my head while my face contorted into rapt, waiting concern. Of course the show Went On, the moment of danger transformed, transcended. Holy shit! This is real! This is real life! I thought over a swelling-swooning heart, and it set the tone for the best night of my year.

I managed to catch a bunch of rad shorts including the IFC’s showing of Academy Award-nominated animated shorts, Rooftop Films’ non-animated “uncanny” shorts as well as their animation block party, and a round of alternative horror shorts presented by the Bushwick Film Festival. Respectively, my favorite shorts from each of these collections were: Blind Vaysha, about a girl with an eye that sees the past and an eye that sees the future4, See A Dog, Hear A Dog which explores how we train non-humans (particularly 🐶 and 🤖) to respond to us as if they understand us, My Man (octopus) about the stickiness of a toxic relationship (or, from the same night, Pittari, about a v cute demon), and GREAT CHOICE, which is a hilarious horror short about being stuck in an infinitely looping Olive Garden commercial from the 90s.

If you enjoy films and live experiences generally, I can’t recommend Rooftop Films enough. They’re a long-running NYC nonprofit that supports diverse, independent filmmaking and their summer series is truly unique and wonderful; each screening is hosted in a dope outdoor location in NYC and is preceded by a musical act fit to the theme of the film. I saw films on the roof of the Old American Can Factory and backlit by the eponymous sunset of Sunset Park. The ticket-price also includes an open bar after each screening, and you can chat with the folks who worked on the films. These are the kind of events that make living in a city so special, so take a friend, take two, and go!

It was a chilly the night at the Old American Can Factory where we saw Rat Film, a documentary about Baltimore told through the measures taken to control the rat population. Eugene (left) is wearing a towel I bought in LA. Bailey (right) is wearing a NASA sweatshirt.

Big music, living room music, radio music, discos Good and Bad.

Unlike last year, I didn’t go to any music festivals, but I did hit up a couple biggish shows. I saw Chastity Belt at Williamsburg Hall of Music (what a great venue 💚) and Yaeji at Elsewhere.

In a surprise display of social aptitude and luck, I managed to pull together folks from no less than four disparate friend groups to go see Chastity Belt with me in June.

I’ve been getting good at identifying proper communal experiences and boy, AcouticQ really hits the nail on the head. It’s such a friendly, intimate setting that you can’t help but wonder, is this not the perfect what to share tunes about heartache and triumph? If that compelling to you and you’re a good person who enjoys folky music and supporting queer artists, starting following AcoustiQ and hit up one of their events! Bring snacks, bring booze, bring a cash donation. 💵

I saw Julia Weldon first at AcoustiQ in September…

…and then again in November at PIANOS. 😊🎸

I started listened to radio programs - I think perhaps when looking for tunes for my daily bike commute? Anyway, I found myself tuning in pretty regularly to Radio Free Brooklyn. Bushwick Garage is probably my most listened to station, and I haven’t really tried any of the more talk show stuff. I suspect there’s something for everyone, especially if you live in NYC. You can check out their schedule here, though I’ve been relying on their Mixcloud channel for the most part.

Continued to do a fair bit of dancing in 2017 and saw a few new-to-me venues. I’ve decided that I really hate most any dance club on a Friday or Saturday past midnight; the situation nearly always devolves into Basic Dance Beat while straights get sloppy all over the place. There is nothing more distracting and vibe-killing than pretending not to notice some baseball cap bro who keeps desperately dancing at you in a crowded space, especially when you know he’s “working up the courage” to say something that will inevitably be heinously stupid. Like, I did not come here to build empathy for mediocre dudes hoping to ~get lucky~ at the club, I came here to dance myself clean!!! 😤

So when I tell you that I’ve had nothing but positive, glowing experiences the last two times I’ve been to weekend events at Magick City, let me tell you, this is high praise! What a great DIY music venue. The first event I went to there was a record listening party, where a roomful of people laid on blanket on the floor and quietly listened to an album - had a break to talk about it, pee, get another beer - and then listened to another. The second event was a set by these folks in a thick fog with a great light show and yet room to dance and breathe! The drinks were cheap and there was a whole table of delicious free snacks that had been prepared onsite.

Look at this rad setup by Drippy Eye Projections!

A communal fifth of whiskey left in the bathroom at Magick City. Just in case you needed a lil, y’know? What a phenomenal discotheque!🕺✨

Biking.

Through 2017, biking has been my main form of commuting. I spent winter and spring using Citibike5 until finally buying my own in early June. Deciding to own a bike for the first time in the city, let alone picking what to buy, was a pretty challenging experience. I went with a lightweight matte-black hybrid with an internal hub for its 3 gears. 

My bb is decked out with cleated neon-chartreuse pedals, green and yellow spoke beads (not pictured), and a purple-teal bluetooth speaker. 💜💚

And a word, if we might, about my speaker: this speaker is tough as shit! I’ve dropped it off my bike multiple times, and once I looked back only to watch it get run over by a car, twice. It’s also survived rain, sailing, and being dumped roughly into airport bins.6

I have plenty more to say about biking, but to cut to the chase: biking is clearly a superior mode of urban transit if you are able-bodied, have the nerves to deal with cars, and don’t mind arriving at your destination kinda gross. In the last 18 months or so I’ve gone from someone who Never Goes Out to someone who Goes Out More Than Your Average Bear and I’m prepared to credit biking as a major enabler. If you want to learn more about your city, see your friends more often, and make new ones - start biking!

This is a video I shot while riding my bike home from a 4th of July party. I nearly got nailed with a Roman Candle, lol.

Traveling.

I also did a greater-than-expected bit of traveling again this year, again all within the United States. I went to Austin in April, visited Oakland and Berkeley for the first time in May, visited both Ithaca and Vermont for the first times in July, drove to Kentucky to see the TOTAL SOLAR ECLIPSE with my cousin in August, drove from San Francisco to Los Angeles for Indiecade in October, and capped off with a half-work half-play visit to Portland, OR in November. I suspect this isn’t a sustainable amount of traveling, but it’s incredibly hard to regret - especially when it allows you to see friends who live far away or experience unique bonding moments with friends who live nearby - so who knows what next year will look like.

One of the most special places I’ve been this year was Lothlorien, a student coop at Berkeley where a friend lived in undergrad. It was an inspiring intentional community - so much art on the walls, a tree house with a perfect view of the sunset, a dream library. So magical! 💖

The cabin trip in Vermont was also really special. We did so many appropriate summer camp activities, like sailing, tubing, visiting cows, taking walks under a sky full of stars, building a blanket fort, putting together puzzles, and playing with fire.

We made this at the beginning of the day and boy oh boy did it come in handy for organizing ourselves! And gee, look at how well hydrated we were. 💦🌈💦

Now, the less easy stuff.

Sex.

One of my goals this year was to “learn more about sex.”

me: when you said we were going to be learning about sex, i didn’t realize there’d be so much reading involved, i thought it might be less of a mental and more of a physical edu- also me: lol don’t front

When I first cracked open Bataille’s Erotism: Death and Sensuality, I remember being absolutely floored by how much it was not whatever I had expected it to be - and that that was a helpful starting place. Erotism is an examination of the function of taboos and their sites of transgression, how the act of transgressing is subject to its own social rules and tends to be ritualized7, and how as conscious mortal beings we’re compelled towards moments of transgression because they seem to imitate what we imagine the great continuity of death feels like without having to, y’know, die. I liked his analysis of de Sade’s writing and the irony of sadism - that the promise of transgression is greater self-awareness, but the violence it requires necessarily also erodes that same awareness. I both appreciate and am wary of how aggressively Bataille dislocates sex from a bodily endeavor to a psychological compulsion. He had also some real undercooked shit say about women and was clearly terrified of sex, so I’m kinda disinclined to treat his opinions as functionally valuable to lived experience.

The Persistent Desire, on the other hand, was easily the most personally important book I read this year. It’s an anthology of generations of lesbian femme-butch relationships, told through stories from women’s lives, interviews with queer scholars, and some extremely hot sex poems. My primary inner-dialogue with gender has been “ugh” and “this shit again” and “if I pitch my voice and play Nice Girl this unbearable interaction will be over faster.” I had never spent so much concentrated time thinking about the performance of gendered sexuality in queer relationships, and wow, I have been missing out on some much better thoughts!

Like, Q: Does gender performance ever feel sexy to me, not just hostile? Under what circumstances? A: Yes, but generally only so long as a) the performance is fluid, eg. you’re the boy, I’m the girl, now you’re the girl, now we’re both boys, and b) power, however gendered, doesn’t rest in one place for too long. Gender is fun to play with as long as it feels like playing, where the heteronormative script is really only referenced insofar as it’s being subverted, shredded up by contact with a reality that unequivocally de-legitimizes it.

Like, Q: how much better would my life be if I approached sexual relationships from a place of radical honesty and expected the same from my partners? A: PROBABLY A LOT.

Like, Q: how do I make space in my life to form romantic-sexual relationships with people who aren’t cishet dudes? A: idk bitch, but you’re apparently a pro at lifestyle changes! Keep going to queer events, keep reading, keep processing. I believe in you.

This is a cute fire safety map at the Lesbian Herstory Archives, which I visited for the first time on a very wet snowy day in November. The archives had been mentioned frequently in The Persistent Desire and I was so excited to find that they were still around (44 years!), located in Brooklyn, and having an annual book sale.

Depression, denial, and death.

At one point this year I remember having an entirely normal hang out with my sister and partner in our Bed-Stuy apartment. I turned to the both of them and said, “You know, I think I might be real sad. I think I might depressed.” I wasn’t worried when I said it, though I do remember the words feeling strange. My sister and my partner of 7 years looked at each other, something like ‘Uh, do you want to take this one?’ or ‘Does she really not know?’ and eventually someone said, “Yeah, Nicole, that sounds right.”

If you had told me last year that I’d be spending so much time with Freud and Camus I would have rolled my eyes very, very exaggeratedly.

The most frightening thing about mental unwellness, imo, is that a good personal quality which is otherwise healthy and worth cherishing can become catastrophically distorted. So, say, an extremely deep capacity for enduring pain and discomfort, especially in service of others, becomes proving your worth by how much you’re willing to suffer, how much energy you’re willing to give away without expecting reciprocation. Worse still, let’s say, is being trapped in a cycle of denial about your own nature.

Denial takes lazy, irrational, harmful patterns of thought and elevates them to Gospel. You can’t be a generous and giving person because you can so clearly recall all the moments when you could have given more. You can’t be getting taken advantage of because you obviously would not abide exploitation in your presence. A friend wouldn’t repeatedly use you, to your loss and their gain, so that’s impossible by definition. If what you’re doing was really that painful and exhausting, you would have stopped already. _If you were depressed, you’d know it._8

I took this photo in Austin on a night when I was feeling decidedly not good at all. In fact, I was feeling so not good and so ashamed of not feeling good that I went out and bought The Myth of Sisyphus.

Last month the opiate epidemic rose up and swallowed my estranged uncle. Though we weren’t personally close, I’d spent my childhood within a ten minute walk from his house and had lots of memories of him. Death leaves a vacuum, always. It’s also an effective invitation to re-examine your life and the people in it. My uncle was provided with endless love and support from his family - and yet. Self-delusion sure is captivating.9

This was a year where I decided that I valued truth over self-delusion, and more importantly, a year where I affirmed that decision with concerted effort. It is extraordinarily challenging to reckon with the blind-spots in your perception of reality, especially whenever those blind-spots were constructed By You to cope with past pain and avoid it again in the future. Maybe everyone doesn’t need to do this? Maybe most people live comfortably with the given state of their ego? But internal delusions are a barrier to conscious clarity, and to the extent that living consciously feels the most like Actually Living and not Waiting To Die, I am determined to clean that shit up.

Lessons, imperatives!

So it’s late afternoon on Dec 31st and if this is going to be a 2017 recap, I’m really coming down to the wire. Here are the most important lessons I learned this year.

I luv this demon, because they sure got the right idea. ❤️🖤 

AESTHETICS MATTER.

I’ve often caught myself feeling bad for identifying with a community or culture that I didn’t feel like I’d “earned” my place at yet. This happened with biking, it happened with programming, it happened in queer spaces. imo, the best way to handle impostor syndrome is to kill it where it sleeps. I sure am! I am a devious impostor! Let’s see how far I can get before someone reveals me, exiles me! Turns out you can get all the way to Being The Thing, especially if your intentions are true. Your attraction to the thing is the first signal of your belonging, so get busy belonging!

LOVE THYSELF, AND GET GOOD AT IT.

Most of the psychological friction I’ve come up against in my search for The Truth Please has been caused by a very stubborn refusal to see and accurately assess my own self-worth. Very classic, very boring. I have only just begun to internalize what it might mean to love myself, to care for myself with even a little of the generosity and kindness and specificity that I happily devote to other people. The psychic backbending I’ve had to do to accomplish this goes something like, what if we loved ourselves the way we wished someone else would, like, idk, as a joke or something? Wouldn’t that be funny, at least? 🙃

That worked pretty well, but when it didn’t, I used brute willpower: hating yourself is a coward’s game, and whatever I may be able to lie to myself about, I will not pretend that I’m a coward.

Ultimately, though, the best way to learn how to love yourself is to watch how your friends do it and to actively resist the urge to interrupt them.

SPEAK, BITCH 🗯

Earlier this year I was walking with a friend, and I was very ashamed of myself when I told her I was thinking about writing something. I immediately walked it back, waffled, recoiled from myself. She was bewildered. “You should! I feel like you have things to say!” My reaction to this was sharp, panicked fear.

Because she was right. Because self-articulation and knowledge-sharing are fundamental human endeavors and if I think I’m somehow exempt from that, that I somehow uniquely Haven’t Got Anything Worth Saying, then that is delusion. Because if the real thing holding me back is a fear that my skill won’t measure up to the things I want to express, then the brave and honest thing to do is to try anyway.

So when I went to Recurse Center, I started this blog. I named it Because Its Important just so that every time I started doubting myself and asking “Why oh why am I doing this?” I would have the answer right there. 🐙

👋 Thank you for reading! Here is a silly-glasses bathroom selfie.

I read Donna Haraway’s CYBORG MANIFESTO for an outdoor discussion group at Unnameable books this summer. It is so amazing. I could only barely keep pace with it and I can’t wait to read it again after some time. ↩︎

I consistently arrived late, but bearing coffee by way of apology. ☕️🙏 ↩︎

I read Theatre of the Unimpressed, a book recommended to me by a friend after we saw an indie play earlier this year. The book talks a lot about what makes theater captivating, about the necessity of the possibility of failure, about the tendency for people to see see one boring-ass play and decide that they Just Aren’t Into Theater. The play we saw together wasn’t memorable, save for the fact that it was performed in a loft that hosts semi-regular makeout parties, which I’ve attended on half a dozen occasions. They are largely terrible. ↩︎

In one of the scenes Vaysha is courted by suitors, but they appear as child in one eye and an old man in the other. Fucking chilling. ↩︎

I remember a conversation earlier this year where a guy said that he “couldn’t imagine what it takes” to ride a heavy Citibike over a bridge in NYC. “Willpower, mostly” I replied. He ignored me, repeated himself: “Gee, but I just don’t get it!” If someone doesn’t want to understand, they don’t want to understand. ↩︎

You can buy one here. ↩︎

In fact, a taboo ain’t even a taboo if it can’t be transgressed! ↩︎

A possibly less upsetting example of a denial! In September I was walking to brunch with my sister and her boyfriend the morning after a party at my bff's apartment. "Nicole, you really brought the party!" He said to me. My immediate emotional response was anger at how 100% wrong he was. The night before I had brought glowsticks, mini shark toys, and a Gingerhead House kit to the party. I was going to a party that night for which I'd purchased a tank of helium and large tropical balloons. But my desire to argue, my certainty that He Had Erred was complete. I've very rarely experienced moments where my subjective experience is so strongly misaligned with objective reality, but now that I'm in the business of noticing this crap, it happens pretty regularly whenever anyone says anything nice about me, to me. ↩︎

Drugs, too. ↩︎

[skepticaloccultist]

The Bookshop as a Meeting Place

Treadwell's Books has been a part of London occult life for more than a decade. A center for London's disparate and motley occultists, witches, and magicians of every ilk and path to celebrate and meet.

Between weekly events, book launches and tarot readings Treadwell's is a home away from home for occultists the world over. From regular lectures and presentations by Phil Hine, Michael Staley, Hannah Sanders, Chris Josiffe, Robert Wallis, Owen Davies and dozens more to walking tours of the British Museum and Bloomsbury's occult history it's a place to linger, searching for that rare bit of booklore, meeting others on their own path. Some incredible people have found their way through Treadwell's door, a couple of friend's even found each other and eventually married because of Treadwell's. Its a magical place in many ways.

Having moved seven years ago from its first location in Covent Garden it is now tucked away down Store Street in Bloomsbury. A bigger space upstairs and downstairs lends itself to more events, with a comfortable downstairs that is even available for lettings for various group functions, public and private.

Behind Treadwell's is proprietor and "presiding spirit" Christina Oakley Harrington. In between her sold out Magical Bloomsbury Walking Tour and otherwise busy schedule I managed to chat with her about London occulture, her passion for books and running a bookshop in 21st century London.

  +++

Christina Oakley Harrington of Treadwell's

While Treadwell's has only been in London since 2003 it seems to be a fixture that is much more firmly rooted in the occulture of London than its teenaged years belie. How have you come to be so central to the occult community of London?

Gosh, are we really? I have to give the credit to the wonderful people who've come through the doors of Treadwells for that. I've been hugely inspired by London's history of occult communities and in particular, the exciting occult renaissance of the 1880s and 1890s, when the Order of the Golden Dawn and the Theosophical Society had hundreds of members and there were gatherings, rituals and conversations happening every night of the week. I saw that such a renaissance might be possible in our own day if there was a bookshop which was actually a meeting place -- and I saw from history that such a place needed to offer a combination of hospitality, friendship-building and events space.

We hosted our first event within a few months of opening our doors. Since then, it's never been fewer than three nights a week that we're here. That's why we can't open any earlier than 11 am during the week and at weekends we certainly couldn't start any earlier than noon. All our late nights here!

What misbegotten adventure led you to opening an occult bookshop?

I got involved in paganism and the esoteric community in 1987 in the US, where I lived for eleven years. In 1989 I moved to London. It was the Atlantis Bookshop under the ownership of Caroline Wise which was the hub of activity and occult community creativity -- she was a force of nature, hosting conferences, promoting groups, advertising pub moots, and generally making me (and other young people) welcome and feel so inspired. Through her we got to meet magical orders, attend rituals, learn about magic from practitioners. She kept the channels flowing. If you went into her shop, she'd bombard you with recommendations, hand-made fliers, posters and postcards. So I opened Treadwells just as she was retiring from owning Atlantis, and felt that in that regard, she passed on the baton to us. Caroline's been a huge supporter of Treadwells and she's my personal inspiration of what an occult bookshop owner should be.

Do you collect books yourself?

I do! My collection is pretty eclectic. I don't have the completist gene, so I don't need to own full sets of things, mercifully. Then I get bored. I collected all of Dion Fortune's first editions, then once I had the full set, I didn't care anymore, so I sold them. I now have her work in paperback, which I've marked up with my marginal notes and personal opinions in the front and rear covers. So I work most of my books pretty hard. It's from my days as an historian, that I have opinions on what I'm reading and want to debate with the authors, or agree with them. So the margins of my books show that.

In the corner of my study is a shelf of books mentioning Treadwells, signed by their authors. Authors sometimes mention the shop in their novels, or in their guidebooks. Occasionally students and scholars mention Treadwells in the acknowledgments if we've helped them with their research - and that's so lovely. We have a commitment to assisting scholarly research where we can.

My collection is a working library of books containing ideas I love, historical research that inspires me, and lots of poetry -- which I use in contemplative reading and adopt into rituals I write. Big subjects I read are witchcraft, sapphic writers from Sappho through the 1920s, Renaissance planetary magic, and biographies of magicians of previous centuries. I've got an entire room for my books at home, and most often there are lots of them piled up on the desk with bookmarks stuck in, and intermingled are my various notebooks with quotes scrawled from the books I'm reading.

You mentioned a background as a historian, were you an academic before becoming a bookseller?

I was! I was a medieval historian. I taught for eleven years at a college of the University of Surrey. My PhD was at University College London with supplementary study at Jesus College, Oxford. The links between the world of scholarship and magical practice have grown wonderfully over the past fifteen years, so I relish reading the recent academic articles and studies of medieval magical texts and practice.

Do you recall the first book of, or on, magic you remember owning? Not a library book, but something that was your own?

I am sure I had children's books with witches as a very young child, as I was crazy about witches, and always wanted to try to do spells, and I even pretended to be able to fly (I had a children's storybook called No Flying in the House). However, I was very taken with a book whose name I can't recall, which I took from my parents' bookshelves, on superstitions and charms. I would copy the best charms -- in my opinion -- into a notebook, which I called my spellbook. I must have been about six, seven years old....

What rare items have come through Treadwells shelves over the years?

I'm so fortunate to see treasures coming through here. We have had a good smattering of Aleister Crowley first editions, Gerald Gardner first editions and books signed by Kenneth Grant. These are the staples of occult rare bookselling. But I love the offbeat stuff - we've got awesome zines. Zines are overlooked but are truly collectible as they're snapshots of the occult community at a particular moment, at the working coal-face, as it were. A faintingly exciting moment was when we got a very early Rider-Waite tarot deck, from a lady who had it in her attic, and had inherited it from her grandmother. We had people coming in just to look at it before we sold it to its current owner - during those two weeks we were honoured to be able to let tarot-lovers view it and appreciate it.

Some rare items are new - we've launched very limited edition items here -- nocturnal parties for books which are individually consecrated and inscribed and of which only one or two hundred copies are made. Those events are very magical, as it's just a small group of guests, lots of incense billowing, and good red wine flowing.

How has occult bookselling and publishing changed from your perspective over the last 14 years?

Bookselling now is a harder living than even twenty years ago, with London rents being high and with people having the option of purchasing on Amazon. But it's still vibrant, and getting even moreso. Reading occult literature inspires people to want to practice and meet others -- that's where the bookshop is crucial, and always will be. A bookseller is a curator, an advisor, and a bit of a therapist even, at times. I love that it's a continuity, a continuity of over 200 years.

Has the environment changed since the store moved to its current location several years back? Do you feel the community has grown?

We've been here at Store Street for seven years, having moved here after seven years in Covent Garden. I find it hard to believe we've been in Store Street just as long as we were in the old address. So uncanny! The community is different here than there -- and well, times change. In 2003 there was a tight connected community of people, and newcomers entered that network of people, socially. Now, it's much more open, less a community than a wider base of many many individuals who have overlapping interests. They will meet likeminded people at more niche events. I think it's because the era of subcultures is largely over, or so it seems to me. But Treadwells itself is a kind of community of regulars -- we get to know people whose vibe is in tune with ours and they keep coming back so next thing you know, we know all their kids' names and are invited to their art openings. But we are keen not to behave like a clique. So many occult-oriented people were outsiders at school that honestly, we don't need to replicate that in adulthood. A friendly gesture and a welcoming hello for our customers and new acquaintances: that's essential.

So many occultists I know scattered around the world have stories to tell about Treadwell's, visits on trips, meeting future spouses there, finding some bit of rarity they had long sought. Any insights into the future of occult bookselling in London and in general? Where does the plot take us from here?

I'm very excited about a new bookshop/occult event space in Seattle, Mortlake & Co, run by a wonderful chap named William Kiesel (of Ouroboros Press fame). It's got not only a range of rare books, but it also hosts intimate, intellectually-engaged soirees. I think occult bookselling is at its most exciting when it overlaps, not with the New Age, but with history and anthropology. By which I mean to say, when we widen our interest from the practice itself to include the people and the cultures that produced it. As an example, if you you love Enochian magic, check out Elizabethan court life. If you are drawn to hoodoo, learn about how African Americans lived in the era of slavery. If you practice traditional witchcraft, read a book on old cunningmen.

Any upcoming events or releases you would like to mention?

I'm particularly proud of our commitment to traditional, classic tarot reading. The art of reading the cards takes over a decade to master, but one can learn enough to have a meaningful experience in a single day. We offer one-day workshops, eight-week courses and even intermediate brush-up days. Tarot cards came out of the Italian Renaissance, so the symbolism is rich and deep, and it's the same symbol code you find embedded in Renaissance art. If you study the tarot cards, your trips to art museums suddenly become much more exciting.

+++

Discover Treadwell's Bookshop for yourself:

Treadwell's Books 33 Store Street, Bloomsbury, London www.treadwells-london.com/

[pocketminstrel]

In celebration of my dad’s birthday, I am sitting down to contemplate and manifest my life.

After nearly rotting my brain this entire week as the flu had me absolutely knocked the fuck out (influenza: 1; Tiffany: 0) and sitting on a bit of unease for quite some time now re. my five year plan (I blame my manager Ari for planting this crucial yet horrendously overdue seed in my brain), I have sat down in bed alas, tissues in easy grasp, candles lit and essential oils dropped, to contemplate my daunting and ever so nebulous future.

But before I begin, I want to note that a recent learning of mine, which I think about often, is the critical importance of setting goals. Ironic, right - I literally just said I haven’t set any kind of five year plan - but I mean goals in the smallest sense, in any tangible capacity. I’ve come to realize that setting goals and intentions helps me bring leaps and bounds more meaning into my life. Before my bullet journal, I’d trust in serendipity to push and pull me in the right directions, but living with this mindset had led me to bum around aimlessly in life - literally - as I found myself sitting at a cafe (I can’t believe this had been an Event for me for some time) or walking around lower east side killing time because I had absolutely nothing to do. 

I’m realizing for the first time of my life, I have complete the means and independence to define what a “successful” or meaningful life looks like to me, and I’m so fearful of the possibility that my potential will wither away or that my health will rapidly deteriorate that I need to seize life by the horns and refuse to waste another day. 

I’m gonna begin by doing a kind of mind/values mapping. Folks that stand out to me as figures that I admire are:

Mindy Seu (design academia), Jenny Odell (ecology and self preservation in the age of computation), Jane Wong (for her design accomplishments, casual dj-ing, Jourdan Weitzman (conversational eloquence, being a photographer himself yet not as accomplished as his subjects)

I’ve been blessed to bear witness to a blend of critical theory, psychology, sociology, art, design, social justice and the internet. I recently signed up for an Arena so we’ll see where my thoughts go from here. I guess we live in a chaotic time where disciplines are everything but rigid and nothing exists, at least critically, on its own. I believe this is the direction I want to head moving forward. Melding disciplines, melding my experiences.

I want to lean into critical theory and social justice, especially as it pertains to prison abolition and environmental justice, and create work that begins there.

_______________________________________________________________________

In five years, I will be 30. I will be living in NYC (Clinton Hill or Cobble Hill), along with a base in Los Angeles (Silver Lake, probably), in a 1BR where I have dedicated space for my crafts and design practice. My space is full of creations which I or my friends have made for me (weavings, knit, ceramics, photographs, paintings, etc.) my clothing is used, DIYed, or hold sentimental value. I eat a mostly vegetarian diet and host regular dinner parties sporting my culinary expertise. I will bring like minded community together through a series of nurturing events I organize with others. Single use plastics are eliminated in my life. I will have adopted a kind of bartering lifestyle, exchanging knowledge or artwork with my kin. I will have cultivated a community and support network founded on mutual care, vulnerability, shameless manifestations, self-growth, and exchange of ideas.

I will have created a series of zines with close collaborators, melding design, photography, and radical thought. I will have co-founded or founded a design studio, with product design, art direction, and graphic design offerings. I will have cultivated a close-knit group of talented art directors and graphic designer to represent new age design. I will have discovered my ceramics style - and built a steady brand melding colorful art direction (fisk projects) and clay, and have my work displayed in a show of sorts (hui/shirley). I will have taught design seminars or guest lectured at design institutions. And for fun, I will have djed several events, tattooed multiple people, sold several ceramic pieces.

[encephalonfatigue]

radical eschatology and 1Q84

i wrote this as a goodreads review, but i couldn’t fit the whole text there so this is the review in its entirety.

“‘lunatic’ means to have your sanity temporarily seized by the luna, which is ‘moon’ in Latin. In nineteenth-century England, if you were a certified lunatic and you committed a crime, the severity of the crime would be reduced a notch. The idea was that the crime was not so much the responsibility of the person himself as that he was led astray by the moonlight. Believe it or not, laws like that actually existed… I learned it in an English literature course at Japan Women’s University, in a lecture on Dickens. We had an odd professor. He’d never talk about the story itself but go off on all sorts of tangents.”

I think a lot of my writing on this site consists of meandering tangents, only obliquely related to the book at hand — though less useful and interesting than this literature professor’s in 1Q84. Either way I will stick to what I’m comfortable with here. I will start with why I read this obscenely large book. My high school friend who was recently married, hosted a birthday party at a new place he moved into in Etobicoke. I arrived half-an-hour late from the time it was supposed to start (according to Facebook), and was the first one there — which is some indication of the sort of company I keep. As I awkwardly sat around after a brief house tour, he poured me a drink, and we chatted about life and my terrible job. He suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s something I want to lend to you.” He skips up the stairs and comes back down with a large phone book. On its front cover: a face hiding behind the characters “1Q84” — maybe embarrassed by its bloated constitution. This will help you on your daily commutes from hell, he encouraged me.

I’ve heard that your first Murakami book has a good chance of becoming your favourite Murakami book. That was probably the case for me with “Kafka on the Shore”. I think that book put me onto Kafka, before I would later encounter him in the work of Walter Benjamin, Judith Butler, and his late communist ‘wife’, Dora Diamant. But subsequent Murakami books were not as satisfying for me. After reading Norwegian Wood, I decided to try and take a break from Murakami. I had grown a little weary of the Oedipal themes, and Murakami’s recurring Manic Pixie Dream Girl tropes. Around this time, my fourth-year college roommate discovered Murakami for himself, and his first encounter was through 1Q84. He loved it, but what a book to start with, I had thought at the time. I was impressed that he ploughed right through such an enormous millstone of a novel. (I was very intimidated by its size when my friend handed it to me, but got through it in surprising time. Having now read 1Q84, I realize it was actually a very fun book to read, and often quite difficult to put down, so it now makes sense.) Anyways, I was discussing these things with my roommate and another law student who was camping with us at Sandbanks Provincial Park — she also shared similar thoughts as mine on Murakami. Conversation wandered on to Junot Diaz, who she was much more approving of — this of course was before the #MeToo revelations about Diaz. How quickly tides can turn. (Especially when there are two moons in the sky.)

So something about the structure of 1Q84. I am told the first two books are structured after the two books of Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” — each chapter alternating between Aomame (major keys) and Tengo (minor keys). In each book of Clavier, Bach cycles through all twelve tones, a prelude and fugue for each tone’s major and minor keys. So each of Murakami’s chapters in Book 1 and 2 corresponds to a Prelude and Fugue in Bach’s collection of pieces — 48 chapters in all.

I admittedly have a thing for Bach. I have a copy of Gould’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” on compact disc at home. It came in a package of random shit the novelist Tao Lin gathered together from his bedroom and sold online for like $30 on eBay. That is the sort of stupid stuff I wasted my money on as an undergraduate student. Among the zines, postcard sized art prints, manuscript pages from his edits of Taipei, and a copy of “Shoplifting from American Apparel” was a disc of Gould’s “Well-Tempered Clavier”. In one of the preludes and fugues, the disc is scratched, and makes these heavenly wobbling sounds as it skips, and I have grown quite fond of these parts. I also particularly love hearing the infrequent muffled hums of Gould behind his gas mask.

Book 3 of 1Q84 is structured after Bach’s Goldberg Variations. In the past couple years, I’ve listened to this composition likely more than any other, simply because it’s one of the few albums I happened to have downloaded on my phone. It’s Igor Levit’s studio recording of the Goldberg Variations along with his recording of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations and Rzewski’s “The People United Will Never Be Defeated”. I thought it was a clever trio to package in an album. I also recommend Lisa Moore’s performance of other Rzewski compositions put out by Cantaloupe.

I am particularly fond of Rzewski’s “People United” because it recalls for me my first May Day march, where I chanted the Chilean song (from which Rzewski’s title is derived and his piece alludes to) with other people on the street marching on the way to Queen’s Park, while students shouted ‘ftp’ at officers lined on the sidewalk. I was supposed to march with a small contingent from Student Christian Movement, but couldn’t find them at Allan Gardens, so I marched near some York OPIRG students, and in front of a communist who was debating random people the entire march, haha. I had never seen so many anarchists and communists in one place at a time. They sure do like their black and red flags, haha.

This brings me to the next comment I wanted to make. I was curious about Murakami’s politics and I had a difficult time finding a decent write-up that focuses on this, because Murakami can come across as fairly apolitical, which I think is what his ‘bourgeois individualism’ (I use that term in jest) requires of him. Anyways, I stumbled across a series of blog posts made by a Trotskyist grad student that discuss how Japanese student movement comes up in almost every single novel by Murakami, and he discusses how the student movement was a significant segment of the political left in Japan during that time.

“Some brief highlights of the student movement’s history in Japan will suffice. After the end of the war, university students oriented to the Japanese Communist Party (JCP) took advantage of the new liberal atmosphere to rally for university autonomy, for the appointment of progressive faculty and administrators, and for a student voice in administration… In 1948, students from all over Japan inaugurated the All-Japan Federation of Student Self-Government Organizations (known by its acronym, Zengakuren) with a leadership largely from the Japanese Young Communist League… However the honeymoon between the students and the JCP was short-lived… The JCP had seen the American occupation as an opportunity to complete the bourgeois-democratic revolution in Japan, which had been the Moscow-ordained task of Communist Parties the world over during the Popular Front (1936-39) and then again after the German invasion of the Soviet Union, when Communists were allied with all “liberal,” “democratic,” and “peace-loving” forces, meaning those of the ruling class.

…Student radicalism reached even greater heights as the movement entered the 1960s… In militant actions organized by Zengakuren, thousands of students broke into the Diet building twice in 1960, forcing the cancellation of a state visit by US President Eisenhower and the resignation of Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi with his cabinet. During this period Zengakuren’s leadership was largely drawn from the “Mainstream Faction,” which had originated the federation’s opposition to the JCP, however during the late 50s the leadership was briefly taken over by students from the Revolutionary Communist League (RCL), a group formed from JCP exiles after the 1956 Soviet invasion of Hungary, which was influenced by Trotsky’s writings and would affiliate to the Fourth International. By 1964, there were three different organizations taking the name Zengakuren: the JCP supporters, the Revolutionary Marxists (a Tokyo-based split from the RCL) and a unity faction.”

There’s a lot more the Trotskyist grad student blogger (the official title I have designated to this person) goes into, but he essentially concludes that:

“I believe at this point that I have made a solid case for why Murakami, whose early books on the surface are completely apolitical, take their starting point as the destruction of the Japanese student movement, though at no point is the movement itself exactly foregrounded.”

An an earlier conclusion in his first post:

“Based on conjecture from his novels, we can assume he was around the anti-Stalinist left concentrated in the Zenkyoto groups, though he has insisted that he was never a member of any particular faction. “I enjoyed the campus riots as an individual,” he writes. “I’d throw rocks and fight with the cops, but I thought there was something ‘impure’ about erecting barricades and other organized activity, so I didn’t participate… The very thought of holding hands in a demonstration gave me the creeps.”

…Since this is all I have till I learn Japanese, I will have to take his word that he always had a rather superior, hipster attitude toward politics, which is believable enough considering his status as a graduate of one of Japan’s most elite private institutions. And yet, there is something I see in his early novels that undeniably regrets the collapse of the student movement, no matter how much he resented the factions for “impure” organizational work.”

I think Murakami’s disdain for this sort of leftist hypocrisy comes through in a particularly memorable dialogue in Norwegian Wood (which the Trotskyist grad student blogger never mentioned for some reason):

"Have you ever read Das Kapital?"

"Yeah. Not the whole thing, of course, but parts, like most people."

"You know, when I went to university I joined a folk-music club. I just wanted to sing songs. But the members were a load of frauds. I get goose-bumps just thinking about them. The first thing they tell you when you enter the club is you have to read Marx. "Read page so-and-so to such-and-such for next time.' Somebody gave a lecture on how folk songs have to be deeply involved with society and the radical movement. So, what the hell, I went home and tried as hard as I could to read it, but I didn't understand a thing. It was worse than the subjunctive. I gave up after three pages. So I went to the next week's meeting like a good little scout and said I had read it, but I couldn't understand it. From that point on they treated me like an idiot. I had no critical awareness of the class struggle, they said, I was a social cripple. I mean, this was serious. And all because I said I couldn't understand a piece of writing..."

“...And their so-called discussions were terrible, too. Everybody would use big words and pretend they knew what was going on. But I would ask questions whenever I didn't understand something. "What is this imperialist exploitation stuff you're talking about? Is it connected somehow to the East India Company?' "Does smashing the educational-industrial complex mean we're not supposed to work for a company after we graduate?' And stuff like that. But nobody was willing to explain anything to me. Far from it - they got really angry. Can you believe it?"

“...OK, so I'm not so smart. I'm working class. But it's the working class that keeps the world running, and it's the working classes that get exploited. What kind of revolution is it that just throws out big words that working-class people can't understand? What kind of crap social revolution is that? I mean, I'd like to make the world a better place, too. If somebody's really being exploited, we've got to put a stop to it. That's what I believe, and that's why I ask questions.”

"So that's when it hit me. These guys are fakes. All they've got on their minds is impressing the new girls with the big words they're so proud of, while sticking their hands up their skirts. And when they graduate, they cut their hair short and march off to work for Mitsubishi or IBM or Fuji Bank. They marry pretty wives who've never read Marx and have kids they give fancy new names to that are enough to make you puke. Smash what educational-industrial complex? Don't make me laugh!”

This passage actually reminds me of a Japanese exchange student I met as an undergraduate who was really into Murakami and used to perform folk music in her spare time. Even though she was an atheist or agnostic of some sort and really into gender studies, she used to attend an international students bible study that I used to go to at a friends’ house. She’s now doing a PhD at MIT in neuroscience, but that passage in Norwegian Wood always reminds me of her. Anyways, you can see how Murakami’s purity politics requires of him a rejection of fully embracing any comprehensive political or religious system. The individual is always of most importance to him, and I think that comes through in 1Q84 too.

Part of what gets to Murakami I suppose is the pretence involve with a lot of armchair leftists. It recalls for me a passage I read in a book about country music of all things called “The Nashville Sound” by Joli Jensen:

“Students rarely ventured into the Rose Bowl. When they did it was usually to be rowdy and to make fun of the rednecks. One night, as I was waiting tables, four fellow graduate students came in. They did not see me, and I watched in rising fury as they sneered and whispered and laughed among themselves at the people around them. These were my peers, who defined themselves as Marxists and had disdained me as a politically unsophisticated liberal humanist. They patronized me in class and were now in "my" world making fun of "my" friends. Shaking with rage, I went over to the table to take their drink order. Of course, they were stunned to find me working there, complete with sequined Rose Bowl vest, and they left immediately. I had caught them at an unseemly game. But I have come to wonder about the basis for my rage and about what it tells me about how we understand ourselves in relation to our perceptions of others.

At the time I felt superior to them, friends of the working class, indeed! and virtuous in my admiration of, and affection for, Rose Bowl patrons. Later, I began to wonder, was I really any better, turning the Rose Bowl into a mythical venue of "salt of the earth" authenticity? Is it really better to idealize and sentimentalize difference than to ridicule and disdain it? This is a poignant dilemma for the country music scholar and is becoming a topic of discussion among sociologists, anthropologists, museum curators, and social critics.”

Anyways, to move past this thoughtful navel-gazing, I want to get into a dimension of 1Q84 that I found extremely interesting. Probably my favourite part is Chapter 10 of Book 1 (A Real Revolution with Real Bloodshed), where Tengo talks to Fuka-Eri’s current guardian, a former anthropology professor and friend of Fuka-Eri’s father. Fuka-Eri’s father (Tamotsu Fukada) was an academic and Maoist revolutionary, enthusiastic about the Cultural Revolution, who gathered a number of students to start a commune in the mountains of Takao. There is a fascinating section on the splintering of the commune into a moderate faction and a more radical one:

“Under Fukada’s leadership, the operation of Sakigake farm remained on track, but eventually the commune split into two distinct factions. Such a split was inevitable as long as they kept Fukada’s flexible unit system. On one side was a militant faction, a revolutionary group based on the Red Guard unit that Fukada had originally organized. For them, the farming commune was strictly preparatory for the revolution. Farming was just a cover for them until the time came for them to take up arms. That was their unshakable stance.”

This paragraph reminds me of the case of the Tarnac Nine. It is within the realm of possibility Murakami had heard about this case, because their arrest was in 2008, shortly before 1Q84’s first books were published. There’s a commune in Tarnac that was involved in the operation of a nearby general store (Magasin General, Tarnac). Giorgio Agamben wrote a brief post on this affair describing it this way:

“On the morning of November 11, 150 police officers, most of which belonged to the anti-terrorist brigades, surrounded a village of 350 inhabitants on the Millevaches plateau, before raiding a farm in order to arrest nine young people (who ran the local grocery store and tried to revive the cultural life of the village). Four days later, these nine people were sent before an anti-terrorist judge and “accused of criminal association with terrorist intentions.””

The social theorist Alberto Toscano described the event in similar terms:

“On 11 November 2008, twenty French youths are arrested simultaneously in Paris, Rouen, and in the small village of Tarnac (located in the district of Corrèze, in France’s relatively impoverished Massif Central region). The Tarnac operation involves helicopters, one hundred and fifty balaclava-clad anti-terrorist policemen and studiously prearranged media coverage. The youths are accused of having participated in a number of sabotage attacks against the high-speed TGV train routes, involving the obstruction of the train’s power cables with horseshoe-shaped iron bars, causing material damage and a series of delays affecting some 160 trains. Eleven of the suspects are promptly freed. Those who remain in custody are soon termed the ‘Tarnac Nine’, after the village where a number of them had purchased a small farmhouse, reorganised the local grocery store as a cooperative, and taken up a number of civic activities from the running of a film club to the delivery of food to the elderly. In their parents’ words, ‘they planted carrots without bosses or leaders. They think that life, intelligence and decisions are more joyous when they are collective’.”

The Professor’s farming of Akebono (the radical offshoot of Sakigake) are framed in similar terms to the way anti-terrorist police in France portrayed the activities of the Tarnac co-op farm, as a front for revolutionary activity. Of course, if you read the Invisible Committee’s “Coming Insurrection”, allusions to such notions are elaborated on:

“Every commune seeks to be its own base. It seeks to dissolve the question of needs. It seeks to break all economic dependency and all political subjugation; it degenerates into a milieu the moment it loses contact with the truths on which it is founded. There are all kinds of communes that wait neither for the numbers nor the means to get organized, and even less for the “right moment” — which never arrives.”

But this excerpt follows a notion of the commune that is not so easily type-casted into the rural commune of Tarnac:

“Communes come into being when people find each other, get on with each other, and decide on a common path. The commune is perhaps what gets decided at the very moment when we would normally part ways. It’s the joy of an encounter that survives its expected end. It’s what makes us say “we,” and makes that an event. What’s strange isn’t that people who are attuned to each other form communes, but that they remain separated. Why shouldn’t communes proliferate everywhere? In every factory, every street, every village, every school. At long last, the reign of the base committees! Communes that accept being what they are, where they are. And if possible, a multiplicity of communes that will displace the institutions of society: family, school, union, sports club, etc. Communes that aren’t afraid, beyond their specifically political activities, to organize themselves for the material and moral survival of each of their members and of all those around them who remain adrift. Communes that would not define themselves — as collectives tend to do — by what’s inside and what’s outside them, but by the density of the ties at their core. Not by their membership, but by the spirit that animates them.”

There is a strong eschatological element in the writings of the Invisible Committee, that some radical political theologians have picked up on (e.g. see Ward Blanton’s lecture on the Invisible Committee ). Because of Julien Coupat’s arrest as one of the Tarnac Nine, the Invisible Committee has become associated with the journal Tiqqun. In “Theory of Bloom” Tiqqun is defined:

“The French rendering of the Hebrew word Tikkun, meaning to “perfect”, “repair”, “heal”, or “transform”. In rabbanical school, students study mystical texts that view tikkun as the process of restoring a complex divine unity. A tikkun kor’im (readers’ tikkun) is a study guide used when preparing to chant the Torah, or to read from the Torah in a Jewish synagogue. People who chant from the Torah must differs from that written (the Kethib) in the scroll.”

The Wikipedia article for Tiqqun says the word is derived from the “Hebrew term Tikkun olam, a concept issuing from Judaism, often used in the kabbalistic and messianic traditions.”

Murakami certainly alludes to this intersection of eschatology, theology, and politics, firstly in his narrative mechanism which has this Maoist commune turn into a secretive religious cult. He ties the religious and political in this way, but in a manner that I myself find unconvincing. Many of these co-operative farms are anti-hierarchical and I find it difficult to see, even for a commune of the authoritarian left to turn into something resembling Sakigake in the novel. Regardless, I think the intersection of radical religion and politics in 1Q84 to be a fascinating subject to explore, even if I found Murakami’s particular approach unsatisfying. There is of course an eschatological dimension that Murakami gestures towards in various chapters, often in amusing an humorous ways. One of my favourites is in the following chapter (Chapter 11):

As a woman, Aomame had no concrete idea how much it hurt to suffer a hard kick in the balls… “It hurts so much you think the end of the world is coming right now. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s different from ordinary pain,” said a man, after careful consideration, when Aomame asked him to explain it to her.

Aomame gave some thought to his analogy. The end of the world?

“Conversely, then,” she said, “would you say that when the end of the world is coming right now, it feels like a hard kick in the balls?”

Aomame was called in and instructed to rein in the ball-kicking practice. “Realistically speaking, though,” she protested, “it’s impossible for women to protect themselves against men without resorting to a kick in the testicles. Most men are bigger and stronger than women. A swift testicle attack is a woman’s only chance. Mao Zedong said it best. You find your opponent’s weak point and make the first move with a concentrated attack. It’s the only chance a guerrilla force has of defeating a regular army.”

The manager did not take well to her passionate defense. “…I don’t care what Mao Zedong said—or Genghis Khan, for that matter: a spectacle like that is going to make most men feel anxious and annoyed and upset.”

If there’s any guy crazy enough to attack me, I’m going to show him the end of the world—close up. I’m going to let him see the kingdom come with his own eyes.”

The Witnesses’ rendition of the Lord’s prayer is recurring theme that surfaces throughout the novel, and even if it is presented in a cynical manner by Murakami, I think it still evokes a particular mode of contemplation that I found interesting. The Jehovah’s Witnesses are the obvious allusion Murakami is making and their pacifism is even explicitly mentioned by Ushikawa: “They are well known to be pacifists, following the principle of nonresistance.”

Pacifism, of course, more associated with the radical Christians of the anabaptist tradition, although I have yet to encounter the connection between Jehovah’s Witnesses and Anabaptism, other than certain millenarian impulses they might share. Anyways, I think this an interesting node that Murakami marks, posing the question of violence and justice: revolutionary violence (of Akebono), assassination (Aomame’s side gig), and sexual violence (experienced by the women that the dowager tries to protect). What causes aversion to political and religious radicals, fundamentalists, etc?

Murakami’s answer is coercion and the denigration of the individual. This is epitomized in a dialogue Aomame has with the dowager, where the dowager asks:

“Are you a feminist, or a lesbian?” Aomame blushed slightly and shook her head. “I don’t think so. My thoughts on such matters are strictly my own. I’m not a doctrinaire feminist, and I’m not a lesbian.”

“That’s good,” the dowager said. As if relieved, she elegantly lifted a forkful of broccoli to her mouth, elegantly chewed it, and took one small sip of wine.

This is very similar to the sort of ideology that Jordan Petersen subscribes to. It is a ‘higher than thou’ purity politics that looks down on any sort of collective organization that betrays any sort of hypocrisy. Yet most religious traditions recognize that any sort of collective organizing is bound to live in contradiction with its ideals. Within the Christian tradition, thoughtful adherents recognize the Church as a ‘fallen’ institution composed of ‘sinners’. I think it is important to recognize and confess the short fallings of previous attempts to realize ideals while not abandoning the ideals because people that came before us have severely fucked it up. Another world is possible, and I think if we fall back into our silos of individualism we will not realize this other world. Murakami provides an almost Kierkegaardian framing of what is essentially ritual rape in the novel — and I found that disturbing, though in the realm of magical realism, I’m not qualified to make any meaningful commentary. What I will confess is that my own life betrays a certain sort of ‘bourgeois individualism’ but I have not yet reached a form of cynicism that celebrates it, and I hope I won’t anytime soon.

Anyhow, beyond these critiques, I enjoyed this novel a lot, and I think it brought up interesting questions to contemplate. I found the Proust jokes hilarious, some of the funniest moments in the book. Curiously, I have never finished reading Orwell’s 1984. I was supposed to have finished reading it for a Grade 12 literature class, but I recall that period of the semester as a tremendously busy one for me. I do intend to finish it one day soon, and Orwell’s democratic socialism is a fascinating lens through which to also examine many of the themes that Murakami explores, including those of agency and freedom. There are these strange lines in the book that I don’t quite know what to make of: 

“He leaned against the wall, in the shadows of the telephone pole and a sign advertising the Japanese Communist Party, and kept a sharp watch over the front door of Mugiatama.“

There are funnier allusions to this like:

“Have you heard about the final tests given to candidates to become interrogators for Stalin’s secret police?” “No, I haven’t.”

“A candidate would be put in a square room. The only thing in the room is an ordinary small wooden chair. And the interrogator’s boss gives him an order. He says, ‘Get this chair to confess and write up a report on it. Until you do this, you can’t leave this room.’ ”

“Sounds pretty surreal.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s not surreal at all. It’s a real story. Stalin actually did create that kind of paranoia, and some ten million people died on his watch—most of them his fellow countrymen. And we actually live in that kind of world. Don’t ever forget that.”

...“So what kind of confession did the interrogator candidates extract from the chairs?”

“That is a question definitely worth considering,” Tamaru said. “Sort of like a Zen koan.”

“Stalinist Zen,” Aomame said.

I have my own views on Murakami’s crypto-Calvinist sections, which is not unrelated to Murakami’s interwoven narrative technique, and in excerpts such as the one I opened with about the etymology of ‘lunatic’. Also, I actually quite enjoyed the way Murakami alluded to Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor passage from the Brothers Karamazov — where Satan frames miracles as a sort of spectacle when trying to tempt Christ in the wilderness. I’ve always thought that there’s certainly some Debordian comment that can be made with respect to that. In fact, the notion of spectacle, and this process of reducing agency such that we become mere spectators, is itself thematic in Murakami’s fiction, especially here. Again, it is this crypto-Calvinist notion of fate, that one’s future is already predetermined and no matter what one might try, it is inevitable. (This must be related to Murakami’s quoting of Carl Jung: “Called or not called, God is there”.) And so one becomes almost a spectator to one’s own life unfolding under the predetermined path of capital. Yet curiously, Tengo and Aomame do escape from Leader’s prophetic claim that was to befall Aomame, out from 1Q84, back up the stairwell back to the path of 1984. If only escaping from “late declining capitalism” (Murakami’s term) was that simple.

Though I had many reservations, 1Q84 was breezy read and I think that’s a testament to how fun Murakami’s writing can be, and this was one of those books where this was very much the case.

[flourish]

My life with comics

My best friend as a child has issues of Witchblade. Her parents bought it for her? Maybe. She has video games too, other things that I am allowed to engage with at other people’s houses but that I am not encouraged to bring home.

I love the sexy, powerful women in it. I don’t know that I want to be them, but I want to look at them forever. I don’t know how to get more issues. I know my mother wouldn’t approve.

I’m in high school. My best online friend is involved in scans_daily, and I’ve seen how much she loves superhero comics. I want to get into comics so I can talk with her about them.

There’s a comic shop about a quarter-mile from my house and I walk there in the Central Valley heat, ignoring the catcalls from the road. I’m used to it: in my suburb girls with long blonde hair don’t walk anywhere, and when they do they are fair game for any and all harassment. I’m still in the closet about being bi, still always femme, still painting my mouth with bright red lipstick. I don’t know any other way to be yet.

I get to the shop. It’s in a strip center that’s seen better days, and if you didn’t know it was still in business already, you might assume it was abandoned. I’ve been places like this to buy Magic cards before, got in and got out quickly, keeping my head down. I knew what happened when I played Magic with strange boys: they laughed at me, beat me hollow. After a few experiences like that I kept the cards not to play but just to look at the illustrations and imagine the worlds beyond them. I wanted to play, but I didn’t want to be humiliated.

No one speaks to me when I enter. I thumb through longboxes, feeling the eyes of the men behind the counter on me. I can feel the sweat drying on my back. I don’t want to ask questions. “Shopping for your boyfriend?” one of them finally ventures.

In retrospect, it was probably meant as a kindness.

At the time, I fled.

A few months later I’ve met a guy online. He’s into comics, so I gather up the courage to try again. This time when I go in to the same shop I can say “yes” when they ask whether I’m shopping for my boyfriend, but it’s not true. I have heard about Neil Gaiman’s 1602 and I want to get it weekly.

I go back over the course of months to pick up my one, singular comic. Once or twice someone tries to pick me up. Once the sales guy quizzes me on my knowledge, holding the issue hostage behind the counter as I struggle to explain that I don’t have a history with comics, that I just picked this one up because I like Neil Gaiman. He finally, grudgingly, gives it to me. “You should read—” he says, but then he catches himself: “it’s not out in trades and I don’t think we have all the issues.”

It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t afford to buy a long run of single issues anyway. My parents could, but I don’t have pocket money, and I’m supposed to be focusing on school, not getting a job. Or reading comics.

I like 1602, but I don’t get it. It’s so referential to characters I don’t know, storylines I can’t track. Every time I go into the shop, I feel more like an outsider. I’ve crossed the Rubicon. I am a regular, or anyway, a person who regularly comes in, even if I still don’t know anyone’s name. So why do I feel more left out than ever?

I end up at the same college as the guy I met online. He runs the comics library. Even after we break up, I’m welcome there. I finally feel like I can come in and flop down, pick up any comic I want, read it. I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to, and if I do talk to people, they are people I already know. I will not be quizzed.

The comics are in hardback books comprised of many single issues. I know they’re sent to a monastery to be bound together. (This is, though it seems fantastic, true.) I suppose that the monks are puzzled by the contents. My imagination doesn’t yet stretch to consider that some of the monks probably loved comics as boys, that they probably enjoy illicitly reading the issues as they bind them.

I can go back as far in comics history as I want to, here. There are first issues of all sorts of things. But I don’t. Every time I pick up something from the 80s or before, it’s too old, I don’t get it. When I try to pick things up in the middle, even the spots where people say “here’s where to start,” I feel that shivery misery of out-of-placeness. Maybe I’m not made for these. Maybe these are not made for me.

I read the full run of Ultimate Spider-Man, because I don’t have to know anything about what came before. I read V for Vendetta. I read Bone. I read Blankets. I read zines published by local artists. I don’t read any more superhero comics, after awhile. It’s not any individual person’s fault. It’s my fault, for not being more persistent. I shouldn’t have been put off by those actually-nice-guys who were just trying to be welcoming in an awkward way. After all, no one ever did anything really offensive. I should have listened more to my kind feminist boyfriend, to the scans_daily friend, even to my childhood best friend who somehow managed to get her hands on all sorts of pop culture that I wasn’t privy to. I shouldn’t have been daunted by canons that stretch back years before my birth. It’s me. I’m the one who’s at fault.

I watch people love superheroes from, it feels like, a long way away.

What if I loved superheroes?

I wax poetic about the new Spider-Man movie, about how much I hated the Tobey Maguire films because they weren’t really about a high school student. I scream with delight when the trailer comes on at SDCC, when I’m in Hall H and suddenly Peter Parker is in a high school comedy and Zendaya is flirting with him and it’s so great. Elizabeth is startled to find out that I care at all.

What if I was a fan of Spider-Man?

It’s not possible that I am a fan of Spider-Man. I know nothing about him. After all, I’ve only read Ultimate.

I feel confident at Comic-Con, going to the CBLDF party, walking around the floor. I know a lot about this stuff compared to most of the people here. I am a True Nerd.

I’m not a True Nerd. I only know a lot about comics compared to the Muggles.

The fact that I call them “Muggles” and not something else, something comics-specific, only illustrates that fact.

I read indie comics. My husband likes them more than me. I can’t compete with his expertise. I can’t compete with anyone’s expertise. So I begin to say, “I don’t read comics.” This is a lie.

I personally buy many of our comics, but they still feel like they belong to him.

I don’t look femme anymore, at least not high femme. I see myself in zines I buy at Printed Matter or at St. Mark’s Bookshop or online: people with long eyelashes and men’s haircuts. I don’t, somehow, connect these people with Witchblade, or with 1602. Their work is sold in bookstores. Their work is sold in Artists’ Alleys. They aren’t comics. Or they are, but they’re not that kind of comics.

They’re the kind of comics that I can read, not the kind of comics I can’t read.

I lift weights a lot. My favorite shirt reads THE SAVAGE SHE-HULK. I have never read a comic about She-Hulk.

I begin to think I might be non-binary, but I don’t care enough to insist on pronouns.

Maybe I do care enough. But I am set in my ways. People assume I’m straight, people assume I’m absolutely female. When I send up a test balloon about it, the reaction is stark: what the fuck. I don’t want to get into the argument.

I also don’t want to get into the argument about comics. I would rather not read superhero comics than have to defend my enjoyment of them, or have to fight my own instincts in order to enjoy them. So I don’t. I’ll study them and know all about them, intellectually, and I’ll watch the movie when it comes out but I won’t give my heart away.

This makes me a coward. I have recently come to recognize that I belong in Slytherin. I guess it comes with the territory.

I study fandoms for work. My closest colleague loves to read single issues, loves Marvel and DC. She follows a million superheroes, she writes criticism for fun in her off hours, she brings great insights. We do projects to look at superhero fandoms together and I know I’m resting in the fact that I can focus on just the parts I feel comfortable with and leave the rest to her. If I squint it’s almost like I’m just engaged in the fandom spaces I always have loved, the spaces that are familiar to me. The internet spaces where people write fanfic and make fanart. The spaces that are mostly female and enby.

On the internet nobody knows you’re a dog.

So why is it that I know so many women, so many women who are much more femme than me, so many women who are much more women than me, who embrace superhero comics?

Who identify as comics people, even if not superhero comics people?

Why can’t I seem to do it too, no matter how much I read?

I don’t normally self-disclose this way, for a lot of reasons. My work involves actively trying to ignore personal feelings about fandoms, checking and double checking against data to make sure that they’re being represented accurately and truthfully and honestly and fairly, and I think I do it pretty well. More to the point, I do it with a team, and we check each other.

Fansplaining involves criticism of fandom as well as celebration of it. A lot of times our experiences as hosts are beside the point. When Elizabeth said she thought we needed to do a big quadruple episode and address racism in Star Wars fandom, my stomach sank. Star Wars was my jam. I wept at the new movies. I owned a whole bookshelf of extended universe novels at one point. I didn’t want to look at how the fandom was flailing (and failing). But she was right. And my feelings were beside the point.

Still, it’s impossible to set aside everything you feel.

Are we really negative about comics on Fansplaining? I can’t tell. Or, I can: I combed through every time we’ve discussed them, and was satisfied that we weren’t. But then I got to the end and had another email from another listener saying that we were. I know from experience that perceptions are untrustworthy. My perceptions are untrustworthy. Relying on your gut means you get things wrong.

I resent that I feel obligated to write this post. I don’t want to talk about how easily intimidated I am. I don’t want to talk about my life as a teenager, when everything to do with gender felt momentous. And I don’t want to have my voice, as an upper middle class white person who isn’t usually visibly non-binary, be the voice that’s heard on this subject, when our interviewees on Fansplaining have surely been speaking from experiences of racism as well. But I guess I’m writing it anyway.

I don’t know how to unpick this knot. I don’t want to be unfair, but I don’t know how to be “neutral,” not in the podcast that Elizabeth and I manage to produce by the skin of our teeth around everything else in our lives. If it were my job I could do it. But I already have a job, and I do have to be neutral there, and I can’t do it any more than I already do.

There’s no answers here, but maybe there’s something useful.

[daggerzine]

Teen Movie Hell author, Mike “McBeardo’ McPadden speaks!

Ok, so the second I saw the title I was hooked. I mean, come on, Teen Movie Hell: A Crucible of Coming-Of-Age Comedies From Animal House to Zapped. Having been born in the mid-60’s I came of age right when many of these movies were being released and of course I had to see every single one.

But, I didn’t see every one, not even close. I thought that because I watched Class and Zapped a few decades ago that it made me some kind of expert? Well, I was dead wrong.

Mike “McBeardo” McPadden is the real deal. In this 350 plus page tome McPadden reviews hundreds of movies, many ones I had never heard of. He digs deep. He really gets to the meat of it all. 

I was so curious about the origins of the book and his fascination with this genre of movies that I had to toss some questions his way and being the true gentleman that he is was more than happy to answer them.  Read below and in the meantime pick up two copies of this book (because you’ll wear out the first copy).

 Thank you again to Mike McPadden!

 Do you remember where you were and when it was that you decided you wanted to write this book?

It was in 1994. I was at the Tail o’ the Pup hot dog stand with my great friend Aaron Lee. We were on a lunch break from our editorial jobs at Hustler magazine.

 One of the most profound bonding elements in my early friendship with Aaron was our devotion to the movie review compendiums that so impacted and shaped who we were—particularly the annual Leonard Maltin guides, the Medved Brothers’ Golden Turkey Awards books, Michael Weldon’s Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film and, above all, the work of author Danny Peary, in particular his series of Cult Movies books.

 Aaron and I just sort of hit on the idea at the same moment—“Let’s write a book about teen sex comedies!” In time, our paths split professionally. I moved back to New York. Aaron went into stand-up comedy.

 Over the next 25 years, I kept at the teen sex comedy book in one form or another. Aaron went on to a terrifically successful Hollywood writing career and was an Executive Producer of Family Guy. But—hey!—I got to write Teen Movie Hell!

 Why the title- Teen Movie Hell?

I’m a fan of calling the book what it’s about, as in the case of Cult Movies. That’s why Heavy Metal Movies is titled just that. So, initially, the name of this book was. There was a time when that might have flown. Now is not that time.

 A version of the book almost got published in 1999 under the title I Lost It in the Locker Room!, an allusion to Pauline Kael’s I Lost It at the Movies. At the eleventh hour, the publisher shut down the division that was handling my book and laid off my editor, so ILIITLR got scuttled.

 At Bazillion Points, the books started life as Going All the Way. Then publisher Ian Christe came up with the almost perfect title Last American Virgins.

 Finally, as we were doing edits, I came up with the idea to have an art show as the book’s release party and I thought—“How can I make the idea of participating in the show palatable to all these subversive artists I know and admire, beyond just saying, ‘It’s about Porky’s movies!’?”

Anne Elliott of the mighty Sideshow Gallery in Chicago offered to host the show. Sideshow specializes in witchy-groovy-occulty iconography, and I’d recently attended a show there full of devil imagery. That’s when the name “Teen Movie Hell” hit me. And, in short order, it just made perfect sense to apply that to the book—these movies took me through the hell of adolescence and they may well have sent society to hell at the same time.

 In addition, Bazillion Points specializes in books about heavy metal, hardcore, and punk rock, and it has a very metal aesthetic. So calling the book Teen Movie Hell automatically made it feel like it was more of a piece with the other Bazillion titles.  

  From an intro in the book it appears that music and film zines both played a part in your inspiration (Conflict, Rollerdeby, two of my personal faces, etc.). How do they play a part?

 I discovered zines in 1980 by way of The Uncle Floyd Show Gazette, a Xeroxed newsletter dedicated to a brilliantly hilarious and self-aware kiddie show that aired from New Jersey. I got a subscription.

 A year or two later, the New York Daily News ran a profile of Rick Sullivan, publisher of the horror zine, The Gore Gazette, also from New Jersey. I love New Jersey. I ordered a Gore Gazette and it blew my 12-year-old mind.

 From there, it was a short leap to tracking down The Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film and understanding that it, too, had started as a zine. Then, leaning into punk culture as a teenager, zines became a crucial element of my existence, though they weren’t always easy to track down at first.

 At the end of the ’80s/dawn of the ’90s, zines erupted with people doing surprising, personal things beyond just reviewing movies and music. I found that very inspiring. Gerard Cosloy’s hilarious, backhanded brashness in Conflict was a huge influence. Lisa Carver’s Rollerderby made it clear to me that anything was possible.

 All that led to me publishing my own zine, Happyland, in 1991.

 Aaron Lee and I met by mail after he sent me his zine Blue Persuasion in 1993. It was the best.

 What was the criteria for inclusion of the movies in the book?

 In cultural terms, the book covers the 20 years between American Graffiti in 1973 and Dazed and Confused in 1993, with a little smudging on either side into the years around them.

 What the movies have in common is that they’re about teenagers and were made specifically for a teenage audience looking for a good time. The marketing angle has a lot to do with it—“Hey, kids! There’s a party raging up on the screen here and you’re invited! All you have to do is buy a ticket or take that VHS box cover to the rental counter!”

 Exceptions exist. Bachelor Party, for example, is about clowns in their mid-to-late 20s, but they act like teenagers and it’s essentially just transferring the format to another setting. Same with Police Academy.

  How long did it take you to complete the book?

 In one form or another, I worked on it in spurts over 25 years. But, in earnest, once I got the Bazillion Points contract, it took three years.

 For those of us around when these movies were being released why do you think they play such a huge part in our brains? Is it just the sex or something else?

 What comes to mind is a bit of wisdom from Lorne Michaels. He said that anytime somebody tells him what they think were the best seasons of Saturday Night Live, it’s almost always the period when they were in high school—because you’re allowed to stay up late enough to see it, you’re watching the show by yourself or with friends rather than with your parents, and you’re getting jokes that maybe even just a year earlier would have sailed over your head.

 I think it’s the same with these movies. Fast Times at Ridgemont High opened in theaters on the very first Friday of my freshman year of high school. Ferris Bueller opened four years later the exact day after I graduated. That period represents the very heart of the teen sex comedy genre and I was there, being a teen. These movies were made about us and, more importantly, for us.

 How did Bazillion Points respond when you told them of your idea for the book?

Bazillion Points published my book Heavy Metal Movies in 2014 and did a superhuman job with it. Bazillion honcho Ian Christe and I have long talked about teen comedies and, back in the ’90s when I was pitching a book on the topic, it turned out he actually was too! I’m glad our knuckleheaded dreams got deferred and we were able to make it a reality together.

 How was the response been so far?

 So far, so cool.

 Of all the movies you reviewed what is your personal favorite?

 The two best-made films in the book are American Graffiti (1973) and Risky Business (1983), followed closely by Animal House and Fast Times at Ridgemont High (1982). Those are legit classics of cinema I love each one of them.

My heart truly belongs, however, to lunatic outliers on the order of King Frat (1979), Zapped! (1982), Joysticks (1983), Screwballs (1983), The Party Animal (1984), and Hamburger: The Motion Picture (1986)

  What’s next? Care to spill any upcoming ideas?

Back in 2015, I announced Teen Movie Hell way earlier than I should have. Lesson learned. There’s more to come, but I’m playing it close to the coconut buttons of my Hawaiian shirt.

 The man himself 

  www.teenmoviehell.com

https://www.bazillionpoints.com/product/pre-order-teen-movie-hell-the-crucible-of-coming-of-age-comedies-from-animal-house-to-zapped-by-mike-mcbeardo-mcpadden/

 Here’s my review of the book, posted earlier in the month

https://daggerzine.tumblr.com/post/184504282732/teen-movie-hell-a-crucible-of-coming-of-age

[collaborativeartspractice]

Calling artists working in social art, socially-engaged art, community arts, collaborative arts and social practice at all stages of your careers to come together and share work at the:

SOCIAL ART SUMMIT An Artist-Led Review of Socially Engaged Arts Practice in the UK

1st & 2nd November 2018, Sheffield Convened by Social Art Network

Over two-days artists from around the country will come together to share practice, showcase work and explore what it means to be making art through social engagement right now.

The Summit will showcase the work of artists from around the UK and beyond testing the ground for launching a Social Art Biennale in 2020. Artists, activists, community groups, curators, students, academics, funders and sectors working in the arts and social realm are invited to join the conversation through a series of events at Site Gallery and other venues around the city.

Founded in 2016 by artists Eelyn Lee and R.M. Sánchez-Camus, Social Art Network [SAN] aims to build an international artist-led network; expand dialogue and develop agency in the field of art and social practice. Sheffield based artist Ian Nesbitt is guest co-convener.

Major partners include Site Gallery, Peckham Platform, a-n, University of Highlands & Islands and Middlesex University. 

CALLS FOR EXPRESSIONS OF INTEREST IN PARTICIPATION

We encourage interested parties to consider and respond to the question what does it means to be making art through social engagement right now?

Proposals can take the form of exhibitions, presentations, seminars, performances, participatory workshops, walks, new media or any other form we haven’t yet imagined! We are actively seeking new ways of sharing practice and process while encouraging discussion so please feel free to suggest new ways of doing this. We are interested in forms that reflect practice and are keen to represent diverse modes of engagement.

Ten years of severe austerity measures together with the wider divisive political climate has triggered a sense of urgency for conversations around the impact on communities and the art being made with and within them. We are interested in questioning, what kind of society do we want to live in and what roles can artists play?

By issuing this open call we are seeking to reveal the practices and ideas that are out there at this moment in time. The artist-curators will select a range of contributors to reflect vital perspectives on race, class, gender, sexual orientation, disability, age and national status, including areas where each of these might intersect.

Proposals should include the following information: 

Title, Description (250-350 words), Visuals (max. 4 references),

Biog (max. 50 words per presenter), contact info email / mobile / website

Type of participation (talk, visuals. dialogue, film, workshop, one to one, meals, etc)

Proposals should be sent via email to socialartnetworkuk@gmail.com

Submissions extended deadline: 10.00am Friday 7th September 2018

FAQs:

WHAT IS SOCIAL ART PRACTICE? ‘Social Art Practice’ and ‘Socially Engaged Art’  are contested terms for an art medium that focuses primarily on human interaction and social discourse. These terms describe work in which engagement in social situations is not only a part of the process of the work as it develops, but also where the social interaction itself is at some level the art; an aesthetic in itself.

Artists working in this field may co-create their work with a specific audience or propose interventions within social systems that inspire debate or catalyze social exchange. Socially engaged art typically aims to create social and/or political change through collaboration with individuals, communities, organisations and institutions.

WHAT IS SOCIAL ART NETWORK? In 2016 artist and filmmaker Eelyn Lee was selected by Artquest to convene a group of artists with socially engaged practices to form a Peer Forum at Peckham Platform. These sessions, with twelve artists, triggered urgent conversations around the need to de-marginalise the practice, leading to the idea for the Social Art Summit.

In 2017 Eelyn and fellow peer forum artist R.M. Sánchez-Camus co-founded Social Art Network (SAN), a base from which to realize these ideas. Eelyn and Marcelo are working collaboratively to co-convene the Social Art Summit; build a network of artists with social art practices and develop the first ever Social Art Biennale. SAN aims to build agency for artists and communities making art through social engagement whilst developing new audiences for the work both nationally and internationally.

Social Art Network has been developed through the volunteer labour of artists interested in social practice.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? In mid-September a selection panel of six artist-curators will meet to select up to 20 artists from the Open Call who will be invited to present their work at Social Art Summit. Selected artists will be contacted soon after that.

DO ARTISTS GET PAID? All selected artists will be offered travel expenses and accomodation* if required, and will also receive a complimentary Summit pass. There is a small materials budget.

*Accommodation will be offered through an Artist’s B&B scheme, whereby local artists will host visiting artists and delegates in their homes.

*Travel expenses will be capped at £80

In the interests of transparency, as the budget for Social Art Summit currently stands, 59% of the total cash income is going towards paying artists and their associated travel and accommodation costs. Further fundraising is ongoing. The Summit has secured funding for this project but stems from the volunteer labour over the previous two years of artists participating in the Social Art Network.

The spirit of the Open Call is seen as an extended Peer Forum where artists can come and share practice, meet new collaborators and be part of a growing network of artists whose work involves modes of social engagement. By expanding the network we aim to drive up the critical discourse and raise the profile of social art practice.

WHAT IF MY PROPOSAL IS NOT SELECTED BUT I WANT TO ATTEND THE SUMMIT? A second release of Summit tickets will take place at the end of September. If artists have bought tickets during the first release and their proposal is successful the price of the ticket will be reimbursed.

HOW CAN I FIND OUT MORE? If you have any questions about the Summit or SAN, please get in touch via email: socialartnetworkuk@gmail.com

Travelling instructions, our local accommodation list and information about the Summit will be posted to our page: www.facebook.com/socialartnetwork

This Open Call was updated on 24th August to clarify the scope of the Call and disseminate information on fees and the selection process.

Image Credit: Ian Nesbitt, EK-UH-NOM-IKS [text, image, blog, exhibition, event, zine] 2016. Courtesy Ian Nesbitt

[seniorbrief]

This Was Jackie Kennedy’s Incredible Mark on History

AP/REX/Shutterstock

This article was originally written by Carl Sferrazza Anthony and first appeared in the June 2001 issue of Reader’s Digest.

“I’m sixty-two now, and I’ve been in the public eye for more than thirty years,” Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis told a friend in 1991. “I can’t believe anybody still cares about me or is interested in what I do.” How wrong she was.

When she stepped into our lives, she was just 31, the youngest First Lady of the 20th century. She lived in the White House only from 1961 to 1963, yet re­mained an object of admiration, and even obsession, until the day she died. Part of the fascination with Jackie was due to timing: television exploded as a mass medium at the precise moment she and JFK and their beautiful children became the First Family. We could see them on TV, we loved what we saw, we wanted to see them again. Later, after the assassinations of JFK and RFK, she provided a place to focus the national grief.

She was more, though, than a pretty face on the small screen or the queen in a sad fairy tale. As a modern Supermom, she raised Caro­line and John into exemplary adults, avoiding the potholes many of their cousins hit. Just as feminism ar­rived, she went to work as a book editor, brown-bagging her lunch and sitting in a windowless office until she earned her way up the corpo­rate ladder. She kept on trying at romance, too, marrying Aristotle Onassis and, after he died, settling into a comfortable relationship with financier Maurice Templesman. This spring a tribute to Jackie Ken­nedy— modern American woman­ plus some spectacular clothes she wore in the White House—will be on ex­hibit at New York City’s Metropoli­tan Museum of Art, before traveling to Boston. “It’s an opportunity,” says guest curator Hamish Bowles, “to ex­plore the style and the substance of a woman who defined a generation.” Here, a fresh look at Jackie, and why we still admire her.

Underwood Archives/UIG/REX/Shutterstock

Although she called it Camelot only after JFK’s assassination, Jackie began working on an image for the Administration the moment she and the President moved into the White House. She thought everything through­, especially how things looked.

Take, for instance, the many pho­tographs of the family at play, which appeared in magazines like Life, Look and The Saturday Evening Post. Seem­ingly casual, some of them were in fact professionally lit, and the peo­ple in them styled, made-up and posed. Photographer Richard Ave­don shot a breathtaking series of photographs of Jackie and baby John. The pictures are as crisp and allur­ing as the fashion-magazine covers for which Avedon is best known. “She was aware of what the camera did for the children, and for the fam­ily,” says Jacques Lowe, another pho­tographer who worked with Mrs. Kennedy.

All of her efforts at creating a Kennedy image came together in the 1962 television tour of the White House. One-third of the nation was watching that night—56 million peo­ple. The special, which won Jackie an Emmy Award, displayed her meticulous restoration of the Execu­tive Mansion. But it was the First Lady, not the glorious Empire style of the revitalized Red Room, that riveted the nation. “I remember watching and listening to Mrs. Kennedy more than thinking about the White House,” Barbara Bush later said in an interview. See these rare photos of John and Jackie Kennedy.

Creating Camelot also meant that bad habits were discouraged, at least in public. A lifelong smoker (Marl­boros, Salems), Mrs. Kennedy did her best to veto photos that showed her with a cigarette in hand. Her press policy was “minimum infor­mation given with maximum po­liteness.” Her unavailability, in the end, only heightened her mystique.

Palmieri Tony Machalaba Nick Traina Sal/Penske Media/REX/Shutterstock

“I feel as though I have turned into a piece of public property,” Mrs. Kennedy told an acquaintance in early 1961. During the Presidential campaign the previous summer and autumn, the press and the public focused intently on the young Mrs. Kennedy. And small won­der: no candidate’s wife in living memory had looked so good. The blunt cut of her hair, the clean, sim­ple lines of her brightly colored cloth­ing—American women craved the Jackie Look.

Partly it was the sheer novelty of her. Jackie was a new woman for a new time—the ’60s. She waterskied, she danced the twist, she listened to the bossa nova on her White House hi-fi.

Department stores began using models and drawings in ads that looked like Jackie. A movie maga­zine offered advice on “How to Be Your Town’s Jackie Kennedy,” with penny-wise advice on copying her look. The subject of all this atten­tion left her somewhat bewildered. “What does the way I wear my hair have to do with my husband’s abil­ity to serve as President?” she asked.

The scrutiny became so intense that Jackie realized she needed help from a professional. She turned to New York designer Oleg Cassini, a family friend who had once been one of Hollywood’s top costume designers. As she wrote him, “I re­fuse to have Jack’s Administration plagued by fashion stories of a sen­sational nature—or to be the Marie Antoinette of the 1960s.” Cassini re­called his initial meetings with Mrs. Kennedy, when they worked out what she would wear at her hus­band’s swearing-in:

“She asked me to come meet with her in her Georgetown University Hospital room just days after she gave birth to John], two months be­fore the Inauguration. All the other women [ would be wearing] furs, looking like bears. My concept was to make her look divinely simple­ in a beige coat and hat. She came out, and was instantly distinct.

“Immediately a style was established. It was not a French look, not an American look, but a Jackie Look. She said to me, ‘You dress me per­fectly for the role.’ For the role! And what was the role? First Lady of the country. And First Lady of the world, really, at that moment.”

(You’ll want to steal these 7 timeless fashion tips from Jackie Kennedy.)

CONSOLIDATED NEWS SERVICE/REX/Shutterstock

On Friday morning, November 22, 1963, Jackie put on a Chanel suit in the rooms she shared with the President at the Texas Hotel in Fort Worth. The President, Mrs. Kennedy told friends later, had chosen the suit for her. Within hours, the pink wool jacket and skirt had become a part of his­tory. Mrs. Kennedy wore the suit through LBJ’s swearing-in ceremony, on the long, sad flight back to Wash­ington, and finally for the return to the White House.

On the plane coming East, she began to reflect on how she wanted the White House prepared for the return of the President. As White House usher Nelson Pierce recalled: “That afternoon was spent looking up the details so that we could have things as near as possible the way they were at the time Lincoln was assassinated. It was 4:20 Saturday morning when Mrs. Kennedy came with the President’s body, and at 4:10 we had finished putting up the last pieces of crepe.”

Everyone had an opinion about the funeral details. Catholic Church officials in Washington wanted her to hold the ceremony in the grand Shrine of the Immaculate Concep­tion. She held out for St. Matthew’s, which was smaller—but was where the President had often attended church. Some members of the Presi­dent’s family wanted him buried in the Kennedy plot in Massachusetts. She decided on Arlington National Cemetery. The Secret Service ques­tioned her decision to walk behind the caisson from the White House to the church.

Jackie stood firm. Familiar as it is, footage of her long walk behind the riderless horse, Black Jack, a pair of boots tucked backward into the stirrups, has lost none of its awful majesty. Recalling Mrs. Kennedy, and the dignity she showed, French Presi­dent Charles de Gaulle said, “She gave the whole world an example of how to behave.” This is the last thing JFK said to Jackie before he died.

Traina/Penske Media/REX/Shutterstock

Even while attending her husband’s burial, Jackie never forgot her obligation to Caroline and John. Just hours after the funeral, the widowed former First Lady hosted her son’s third birth­day party at the White House.

From the time they were toddlers until they left home, Mrs. Kennedy’s children were her priority. Caroline and John drew nearly as much cu­riosity as their parents. “I think it’s hard enough to bring up children anyway, and everyone knows that limelight is the worst thing for them. They either get conceited or else they get hurt,” Jackie said. “They need their mother’s affection and guidance, and long periods of time alone with her. That’s what gives them security in an often confusing new world.”

She relished the role of everyday mom. For Caroline and her class­mates, Jackie managed to get ahold of a pregnant rabbit so that the chil­dren could all anticipate the arrival of a litter of bunnies. Recalled Kennedy friend and historian Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., “On Halloween evening in 1962, the doorbell rang. When my fourteen-year-old daugh­ter opened the door to the trick-or­-treaters, she found a collection of small hobgoblins leaping up and down. After a moment a masked mother in the background called out that it was time to go to their next house. It was, of course, Jackie.”

After the assassination, Mrs. Ken­nedy and the children moved into a house in Georgetown. To her dis­may, crowds of gawkers still showed up daily for a glimpse of John and Caroline at play or on their way to school. The next year Jackie moved to New York, hoping the big city­ and an apartment high above Fifth Avenue would offer a refuge. “I want them to know about how the rest of the world lives,” she told the New York World Journal Tribune in 1967, “but also I want to be able to give them some kind of sanctuary when they need it, someplace to take them into when things happen to them that do not necessarily hap­pen to other children.”

Through the ’60s and ’70s, Jackie made JFK as much a part of her children’s lives as she could. They visited some of his favorite places, such as the ranch of an Argentine family friend, where JFK had spent a spring vacation as a teenager. On that trip, John Jr. was too young to grasp what the visit was about, but Jackie said she believed it would all fall into place for him later. “I want to help him go back and find his father,” she said.

Said family friend Fred Papert: “She raised her kids so that all three locked onto each other in a way that families almost never do. They needed one another. They all came through for one another. She really liked them as friends, and they her.”

AP/REX/Shutterstock

Many people reacted with astonishment when Jackie married Greek shipping tycoon Aristotle Onassis in October 1968, just four months after the assassination of Robert Kennedy. She was 39. He was in his sixties. What was she thinking?

In fact, Onassis had been a Kennedy family acquaintance for years. Rose Kennedy, JFK’s mother, gave Jackie her blessing. As she later wrote, “I told her to make her plans as she chose to do, and to go ahead, with my loving good wishes.” Jackie later said: “When I married Ari, she of all people was the one who en­couraged me—who said, ‘He’s a good man. ‘”

One thing Onassis also offered was security. “He was a source of refuge and protection,” said her brother-in­-law Sen. Edward Kennedy. “I think she felt safe with him.” Jackie mar­ried Ari on his private island, Skor­pios, and had at her disposal homes in Paris and Athens, helicopters, a yacht and Olympic Airways—all of it heavily guarded.

Transformed from the Widow Kennedy to Jackie O, she became a sort of irreverent, naughty figure in the American imagination. She with­drew, but people still wanted to see what she was up to. Paparazzi from all over the world obliged, once even photographing her sunbathing with no suit on.

The marriage grew cooler as the years went on, and Onassis went into a slump after the death of his son, Alexander, in 1973. Two years later, he was dead. Jackie and Ari were together for just seven years. For her, it was a healing interlude. ”Aristotle Onassis rescued me,” she said, “at a moment when my life was engulfed with shadows.”

Peter Simins/Penske Media/REX/Shutterstock

The period that began in September 1975 was perhaps the happiest time of Jackie’s life. She was doing exactly what she wanted––and not what parents, husbands, family, friends, and the public expected. Now 46, she took an editing job at Viking Press. She had no previous professional editing experience. She was assigned a tiny office, which was what she also got when she moved to Doubleday as an associate editor in 1978. “Like everybody else,” she said, “I have to work my way up to an office with a window.” She finally got a view when she was promoted to senior editor in 1984.

She was an intense, hands-on ed­itor. Colleagues could tell when she was pleased—she would rub her hands together and say, “Hot spit!” Variety was the only consistency of her projects: photography books like Egyptian Time by Robert Lyons and Allure by Diana Vreeland, biogra­phies of Czar Nicholas II and Jean Harlow, recollections by friends of Fred Astaire and George Balanchine, and even a collection of articles from Rolling Stone. Says Doubleday colleague and friend Lisa Drew:

“Part of the joy of publishing is that you learn from every book. Much was made in the press about how she got her own coffee and did her own xeroxing. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was written about as if a mira­cle had occurred. It amused us how people outside were dazzled by this celebrity. Brighter, funnier, nicer than many, yes—but she was just another person.”

In February 1994, when she was 64, it was announced that the former First Lady had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, often a treatable form of cancer. Five years earlier, she had re­sponded to my written questions and then corrected the manuscript for one of my books, First Ladies: The Saga of the Presidents’ Wives and Their Power, 1789-l990. Judging from her notes, I sensed she was able to view the notion of being the world’s most famous woman with detach­ment. In the middle of a sentence that read “If there was one sphere where Jacqueline had great influence, it was fashion,” she scribbled, in blue ink, ‘Much to her annoyance!’”

She was pleased with the book because she felt it would move peo­ple’s opinions of her beyond mere style: “I hope now that people will realize,” she said, “that there was something under that pillbox hat.”

Now, take a look at these rarely seen photos of Jackie Kennedy.

Original Source -> This Was Jackie Kennedy’s Incredible Mark on History

source https://www.seniorbrief.com/this-was-jackie-kennedys-incredible-mark-on-history/

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Come together! How rave returned to the cultural mix | Society

Before the May bank holiday in 1992, Castlemorton Common in the Malvern Hills was chiefly known only to walkers keen to hike through its 600 acres of unspoilt, unenclosed land. After that bank holiday, however, it became known as the site of Britain’s biggest-ever illegal rave.

Partygoers arrived in such numbers that Castlemorton featured on TV and in the newspapers – which brought more revellers. In the end, an estimated 20,000 people flocked to the site. By the Tuesday, it had induced moral panic in the Daily Mail: “A walk through the hippy encampment was like walking into a scene from the Mad Max movies. Zombie-like youngsters on drugs walked aimlessly through the mobile shanty town or danced to the pounding beat,” it reported. By 1994, the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act was passed, with the now infamous ruling against parties playing music “characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats”.

Twenty-five years after Castlemorton, rave is back in the pop culture mix. The aesthetic, culture and sound has trickled down to everything from the growth of the festival to the concept of chill-out, to your DayGlo wallet, clubbing scenes in Girls, a weekend in Ibiza and the Kirakira app’s sparkles. Most people might not be regularly indulging in four-day parties but, in 2017, rave’s cultural legacy extends far and wide.

Castlemorton 1992 … the Malvern Hills beauty spot became the site of Britain’s bigest illegal rave. Photograph: Murray Sanders/ANL/Rex/Shutterstock

“Artists see it as a halcyon age,” says Seb Wheeler, head of digital at dance and clubbing magazine Mixmag. “I’m 29 and acid house started in the late 80s, so that’s my whole lifetime of dance music to explore … There are dance music legends that you will hear from your older brother or your parents and you’re like: ‘I’m going to check that out,’ and head down a wormhole on YouTube or a specialised playlist on Spotify.” Wheeler points to Bicep, the dance music duo, as the act most influenced by the rave sound, which itself developed from acid house roots in Chicago. Since 2008, the duo’s Feel My Bicep blog has brought their favourite tracks from the genre to other fans. These fans will soon also be able to watch the story unfold: Irvine Welsh, the author of Trainspotting, is working on a TV series, Ibiza87, about the roots of the movement. Matthew Collin’s upcoming Rave On, meanwhile, is a follow-up to his acid house book Altered State, telling the story of how rave went from underground to ubiquity.

Fashion brands including Charles Jeffrey, Molly Goddard, Christopher Shannon and Comme des Garçons – more known for conceptual experimentation than clothes for the dance floor – have all brought rave to the catwalk. The latter’s menswear show was a highlight of the SS18 season, with young men dancing, coloured lights and clothes made of neon glittery fabric last seen on Camden Lock market stalls in the 90s. Meanwhile, Russian designer Gosha Rubchinskiy, currently fashion’s golden boy, staged his spring collection in St Petersburg’s first-ever rave venue. He also published a zine with 90s images of teenagers on the rave scene in Russia, at clubs such as Tunnel.

Elrow party, Glastonbury 2017. Photograph: Alicia Canter for the Guardian

For these designers, rave is inspiring as an authentic youth culture. Goddard says she was influenced to turn her SS17 show into a rave from watching videos of raves at Lewisham library and thinking about her own youth going out to “parties in Hackney Wick and posh clubs in Mayfair”. Shannon’s sportswear aesthetic is influenced by the Joe Bloggs and Naf Naf clothes he saw his older brothers wear going out dancing. “I can remember wearing an acid house T-shirt on a school trip and getting told off,” he says. “Even if I didn’t understand it, [rave] taught me about clothes’ ability to antagonise things.”

Artists are also exploring rave. Jeremy Deller uses rave’s smiley face repeatedly in his work, and his Bless This Acid House posters are almost as popular as the Strong and Stable My Arse versions in households prone to making arty liberal statements. As part of Frieze art fair in October, Jarvis Cocker staged his Dancefloor Meditations, a kind of lecture-meets-disco with lasers, 808s and total darkness.

Nav Haq, the curator of the Museum of Contemporary Art Antwerp, staged an exhibition on the impact of rave, Energy Flash, last year. He says the period is relevant now because it shows what we are lacking: rave is typically seen as the last genuine subculture. “It’s hard to see something emerging in the same way now. People talk about the digital realm but that’s difficult because it gets corporatised very quickly. Youth movements emerge through things that happen in the world – the riots in 1968, the recession in the late 80s and early 90s. We’re in a similar period of time, but we have not been able to create that movement somehow.”

Jeremy Deller’s Joy in People at the Hayward Gallery, London. Photograph: Linda Nylind for the Guardian

As with any subculture, rave has become mythologised. It is remembered as a scene where community was key and money was insignificant, but that was not the case for long. The popularity of ecstasy had repercussions beyond breaking down barriers on the dancefloor – it brought with it organised crime. By the 90s, drug dealers with baseball bats were found at rave mecca The Haçienda and rising security bills contributed to the club’s closure. Rave going mainstream spawned opportunists ready to cash in, too. Wheeler points to Tony Colston-Hayter, the Sunrise rave promoter – and later fraudster. “This is a weekend youth culture,” he told an interviewer at the time. “A city banker can shed his suit, put on his dungarees, dance all Saturday night away.” Parties such as his – that do not fit the narrative of rave as cultural disrupter – have their own legacy in clubs as business: see the phenomenon of Elrow, a party organiser from Barcelona that will host 132 events globally this year, reaching an audience of 1.7 million people. In a recent article, Resident Advisor called it “the world’s most popular clubbing brand”.

The Facebook page Humans of the Sesh was started in 2015 by two friends calling themselves Brown Sauce and Grand Feen. It is dedicated to detailing the bantz around the house party, the after party and impromptu bender, all under the umbrella of the “sesh”. Brown Sauce, though, is convinced his fun will never live up to what he sees calcified in grainy images of ravers. “There is a massive feeling that everyone went to a great party but we were too late,” he says. “Our idea of a good party – the huge speakers, the warehouse space – is based on the idea of a rave, even if you don’t know what a rave is. There’s a nostalgia to that era even if you weren’t around then.”

There are some trying to make their own versions on the free party scene, working against how corporate the mainstream nightlife scene has become by going back to the ideology of rave. Scum Tek, the collective that organised the “Scumoween” party in 2015 that ended in confrontation with the police, has members from the original scene, and an anti-establishment feel. A Vice documentary last year, Locked Off, told the story of various collectives that aim to put on illegal parties around the country in disused warehouses and squats, a cat-and-mouse game between organisers and the police. Footage shows teenagers dancing to a backdrop of lasers, jumpers tied around their naked torsos, dummies in the mouths – convincing facsimiles of the ones in the original rave pictures but for the balloons of Nitrous Oxide. “It’s not simply a bunch of guys with a bunch of speakers in a field,” says a partygoer at one point. “It’s bringing people together in a way that nothing else really does.”

The political backdrop of rave will feel familiar to the young people of today. It’s one of a less-than-stable Conservative prime minister (John Major then, now Theresa May) who reached power through a resignation; a crash in recent memory (1987 then, 2008 now); high levels of youth unemployment (800,000 18-to-24-year-olds in the early 90s, around 850,000 16-to-24-year-olds in 2016), and general unrest expressed through riots and demonstrations (the 1990 poll tax riots; the Brexit and Grenfell Tower protests). “People will always create music to escape when they’re skint and there’s a Tory government inflicting spending cuts,” says Wheeler. “It’s a form of rebellion.”

Clubbers at Raindance, 1991. Photograph: UniversalImagesGroup/UIG via Getty Images

Will Stronge is trying to fuse the anger of disenfranchised young people with the desire to dance. The theorist found himself in the spotlight in September when the concept of Acid Corbynism – coined by Jeremy Gilbert and fleshed out by Matt Phull and Stronge – went viral. While the Acid Corbynism event at the Labour Party conference looked closer to Peep Show’s Rainbow Rhythms than a Spiral Tribe rave, the theory is interesting. Taking acid house as one of its bases – a scene where the collective ruled and everyone was welcome on the dancefloor – Stronge and Phull argue that encouraging similar values now could upset the establishment in a joyful way. “The ecstatic moments on the dancefloor tie into what it is to be a person, a person [who is] part of a community,” Stronge says. “Dance music as a collective experience means it’s already political, but it’s whether or not you can maintain that political experience as part of a larger cultural project.”

Stronge, 27, who is off to a six hour Erol Alkan DJ gig after I speak to him, is far from nostalgic. In an article for Red Pepper magazine, he namechecks contemporary musicians including Jam City and the Circadian Rhythms record label as signs that something is happening. Circadian Rhythms even apparently pepper their radio show with shout-outs to Diane Abbott. Stronge believes a genuine subculture could emerge from this scene – one that could outsmart the corporate world’s tendency to jump on anything young people flock to. “This is a call to say, ‘Let’s find ways that youth culture can become counterculture.’ How do we not make the mistakes so our revolutions aren’t sold back to us?” he says. “At its core, dance culture is where we can have individual pleasure through collectivity.” Or, in the words of Jarvis Cocker at Dancefloor Meditations, “Having fun is the most profound form of protest there is.”

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