PoV Magazine issue 5 by Benjamin Turner

The

Best of

I S S U E 5

year one

Cover by Ben Turner THE GUYS AT POV TOWERS: Designer: Ben Turner Editors and co-creators: Chris Pilkington and Ben Turner

ISSUE 2 2012

Hello

WELCOME TO ISSUE FOUR

AND WELCOME TO POV

Ben and Chris

A year. 365 days. 525,600 minutes. Four issues of PoV Magazine. And now, one best of. Yep, it’s true, we are one year old. And much like other one year olds we’re now crawling around on the floor and dribbling down our vests. Well, Chris is, but that’s nothing new. The question was how do we celebrate a year of what has turned out to be the most artistically fulfilling project we have ever undertaken? The answer? With a retrospective of course! So in the following pages you will get a chance to look back at some of our favourite writing, poetry, art and photography from our first year in business. And don’t forget if you want to see more of the great work by these amazing contributors all the past issues are available to read online or to download for free at our website right here. It’s been an incredible year for us, from the moment we came up with the concept of PoV to actually producing the first issue to where we are today. Hard work but worth every minute. We want to thank all the readers, followers and fans for the support – it’s what keeps us going – and to all of you who have ever told anyone about the magazine, you are our heroes. Now, before you go off and sample the delights that await you, a word for our contributors. When we started this magazine our intention was to help out a few different artists every quarter to get their work seen by a new and wider audience. We hoped people would want to take part and we really hoped that their work would be good. We were blown away. We couldn’t have dreamt of the number of people wanting to be involved and the unbelievable depth of talent we would uncover. We’ve been completely inspired by the quality, effort and imagination of every single contributor and it’s your work that people keep coming back for. We hope we’ve provided a nice, comfy place for it to sit. We started out wanting to help artists, it turned out they were the ones who helped us. Until next time… Ben Turner and Chris Pilkington Founders of the feast Visit: www.povmagazine.co.uk Follow: @pov_magazine Email: hello@povmagazine.co.uk

ISSUE 2 2012

WELCOME: YEAR ONE CONTRIBUTORS

CONTRIB OF THE 4

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BUTORS E YEAR THANKS FROM

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WORK TITLE: ARTIST

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ISSUE ONE THEME:

STREETS PICTURES PAGE 8 Some of our favourite photos and art from the Streets issue by James Maher, Max Zorn, .. .. Daniel D. Moses, Jurgen Burgin and Ben Turner WORDS PAGE 18 Joe Clifford’s stories from the street PAGE 24 An insight into homelessness by Tom Morgan PAGE 28 Street poetry by Jade Leaf Willetts PAGE 30 Chris Pilkington takes a walk down your street PAGE 32 Tom Pitts’ stories from the street ISSUE 5 2013

A SELECTION OF OUR FAVOURITE PICTURES FROM ISSUE 1

STREETS: SNAPSHOT

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James Maher on the streets of New York

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STREETS: SNAPSHOT

Max Zorn’s stunning tape art

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STREETS: SNAPSHOT

Scratching the surface of Tel Aviv with Daniel D. Moses

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STREETS: SNAPSHOT

.. .. Jurgen Burgin is the storyteller

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STREETS: SNAPSHOT

Passing out and passing by with Ben Turner

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STREETS: JOE CLIFFORD

streets? it’s as much about the context of the writer and writer’s mind as it is the content.

STORIES from the STREETS Part one

In which Tom Pitts introduces the work of

Joe Clifford

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Introduction by Tom Pitts

I first met Joe in a horrific house that was widely known as Hepatitis Heights. I initiated our friendship by offering half of a very healthy speedball (sharing anything was very unusual for junkies of our ilk). No wonder he warmed up to me so fast. It wasn’t long after that I heard Joe refer to me as “just a thug.” (Although later that same day I saw him leap across the room and attack a poor soul for trying to rip him off.) For a delicate flower such as I was, I took the tough guy reference as a compliment. Joe and I soon became thick as thieves, quite literally in this case. Beyond sharing a spoon, we were stealing, scamming, and scoring on a daily basis. We didn’t talk about books. We didn’t talk about music. We mostly just fretted over the next fix. One day, as Joe and I sat sick on a street corner, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the man, he said to me, “Tom, you know, later, when you’re in some rehab somewhere, it’ll be moments like these that we’ll miss the most.” That always stuck with me. There was a sick camaraderie there, a form of friendship that could not have blossomed under any other circumstance. Years later when Joe resurfaced, we found ourselves still friends, bonded with a kind of post traumatic stress syndrome that only street junkies can appreciate. It is no small miracle that we can both be here, alive, and able to share the stories that the ones who didn’t make it out will never tell. You can find some documentation of this madness in the excerpts from his heartbreaking memoir, Candy and Cigarettes, at www.joeclifford.com

CLOSE CALLS PT.III From the memoir, Candy & Cigarettes

I hit the street in search of Becky’s car. I need to find food or at least some sugar. It is the middle of the night. Becky is in jail. She skipped her court date for the Safeway arrest and they picked her up during sweeps’ week. When I get to the car, I find Gavin in the back.

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This happens a lot since I broke the locks. I’ll come out of some skid row hotel or music studio and one of my homeless friends will be sleeping in the back. Gavin isn’t sleeping, though. He’s tweaking on speed, cutting up magazines under a penlight, like a kidnapper pasting ransom demands, a mad scientist piecing together the keys to the universe in an old parked car. I ask Gavin if he has any needles on him. I won’t drive with needles. He says he doesn’t and slinks to get in front with me. Inside the 7-11, Gavin stalks the aisles, wheezing with asthma, which draws the attention of the clerk, since it is just the two of us in there. Watching Gavin move is fascinating. With

STREETS: JOE CLIFFORD those metal rods stretching his neck and atrophied muscles pinning his gimpy arm to his chest, he shuffles along like a retarded runt Tyrannosaurus. I look like shit, I know that. I am underweight and the opiates have drained most of the blood from my face. I probably haven’t showered in a while and my clothes are filthy, but I am still a handsome man if you can look past the minor skin eruptions, and that counts for something. Besides, next to Gavin, anybody looks good. While I am filling a Big Gulp and contemplating stealing a Twinkie, two cops walk in. I hear one of them say the word “tweaked,” and know we are fucked. After we pay, we walk out to find the cops searching the back of the car. They don’t need warrants for people like us. When Gavin was arrested in Sacramento six months ago, they brought him into a back room. There was a football helmet on the floor. When he asked what it was for, the cops told him to shut up and put it on. He put it on, and they beat the shit out of him with billy clubs. The cops tell us to put our hands on the car. They ask me if there are any needles inside. I say no. One of the cops says if he pricks his finger on one of our diseased needles he is bashing our skulls in. I tell them there are no needles. They search the car and find Gavin’s needles. I am livid. Not at the cops. I am used to this. I am furious at Gavin for lying to me. The bigger of the two strides up next to me. Hand on his gun, he asks whose car this is. I say it’s mine, I mean my girlfriend’s. He tells me to put my hands behind my back. I am starting to, when his partner comes up and grabs me, spins me around, jabs a

mean finger into my chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?” he says. “Don’t you know you catch HIV from this shit?” I know that. I get tested at the free clinic, a lot. It scares the hell out of me every time. But I do it, faithfully, anxiously awaiting the results and its possible walking death sentence. “I don’t have HIV,” I tell him. “Yeah?” he says. “How the fuck do you know?”

“the cops tell us to put our hands on the car. They ask me if there are any needles inside. i say no. one of the cops says if he pricks his finger on one of our diseased needles he is bashing our skulls in.”

“I was just tested.” “When?” “Last week,” I say. And I was. I got the results from the Haight-Ashbury Clinic yesterday. “And?” “Negative.” The cop takes his finger out of my chest and looks me in the eye. He looks long enough to make me uncomfortable, before finally dropping his hands. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.”

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THE SHACK

From the memoir, Candy & Cigarettes

I met my ex-wife Haley at Gluehead’s shack. Gluehead was our speed dealer. But he was much more than that. We called ourselves the Gluehead Army. There were a lot of people in the Gluehead Army. There was Kelpbed, who was Glue’s right hand man, and Brian Fast, at least in the beginning until he screwed everyone over. And then there was Bucky and Big Tom and Leif Irish and Troy. There were others, too. I only did speed back then. That’s all any of us did. We were all rock ’n’ rollers. Glue was a great storyteller. Because of all the speed he took, his short-term memory was kind of fucked. So whenever he told a story he’d forget that he’d told it many times before. Each time he told a story, he did so very enthusiastically. My favorite was The Prison Story. In it, Gluehead is in San Bruno Prison. One day he gets out of the shower to discover a bunch of big and nasty brothers have taken all his cigarettes. Now, if that’s me in the story, I don’t do a goddamn thing; I let them have my cigarettes. But Glue said that if you do that sort of thing in prison it makes you a little bitch, and if you’re not sold for a deck of playing cards by the end of the night, you can at least count on never eating dessert again. What Glue does, he pops the razor blade out of his shaver, and he walks over to those brothers, who are standing there, smoking his cigarettes, and he slices his own hand down to the bone. Gluehead holds up his bloody hand. He says, “Those are my cigarettes and I want them back. I’m real sick. You don’t want my blood on you.” Gluehead gets his cigarettes back. v A piano prodigy-turned-skateboarding-

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punk-turned-speed freak, Gluehead lived in a 19 x 8 shack in the Lower Haight on the back edge of some property belonging to his ex-girlfriend, who was a much bigger dealer. She dealt to the big boys; Gluehead dealt with people like us. Gluehead still played piano. He was really good at one time, I heard. He was really good when I knew him, too. But it was different because of the drugs and brain damage. There was electricity in the shack via a generator but no toilet or shower, no refrigerator, no stove. Tweakers don’t sleep much, so Glue didn’t need a bedroom but he had a mattress anyway and a coffin that he sometimes crashed in. The place was overrun with crap. There were toppled shelving units and jagged light bulb bases and spent lighters, paint thinner, books, broken furniture piled high next to spreadout clusters of dismantled radios and tape decks, milk crates and mountains of unwashed, picked-from-the-street clothes. Instruments in various states of decay lay scattered throughout the place—half a guitar here, a keyboard missing keys there, a snare drum, a horn. There were giant cord balls everywhere, instrument cables that had become so intertwined they looked like snakes writhing

STREETS: JOE CLIFFORD in heat. The shack was basically a storage shed whose construction had been halted. It certainly wasn’t up to code for human occupancy. You could see the exposed beams and 2 x 4s, the anchors and joists and clipped electrical wiring, the mangy pinkishbrown insulation, which was waterlogged and smelled like old tuna fish. It got very cold in the shack at night and the roof leaked in the rain. It was one of the best homes I ever knew. A student at UC Berkeley who’d call Gluehead to score from time to time, Haley came from upper crust in Edina, Minnesota. I can’t say whether she had schizophrenia back then. I know she drank a lot. I think the signs of her sickness were there, had I known what I was looking for. Haley’s cousin, Juliette, had flown in from Minneapolis, and the two of them had stopped by the shack looking for speed before hitting the downtown nightclubs.

center of attention. Not even close. I’d later learn that without the alcohol Haley was cripplingly shy, and further withdrawn into herself than anyone I’ve ever met. I had to work in the morning, but I let Haley drag me out with her. The nightclub was awful and my not being high made that thumping techno music excruciating. I’ve always hated crowds, everyone dancing and hopping like a fool. I didn’t have the energy to be charming and I just wanted to go to sleep. I had a loft where I was squatting—a nice loft, as far as squats go—and a job at the airport. I was one of the few guys who even had a job in those days. While most of the Gluehead Army just hung around the shack waiting for Glue to kick down free drugs, I was actually responsible, earning money to buy mine by delivering important documents from cargo planes. (I’d be fired two weeks later when they’d find speed in my delivery van.)

“You didn’t see girls like Haley at the shack often. Beautiful, yes, but there was something otherworldly about her, too.”

There wasn’t any, though. Hadn’t been for a while. The Feds had popped a major Mexican cartel a few weeks earlier, clogging the pipeline, the whole city dry. We were all hurting. You didn’t see girls like Haley at the shack often. Beautiful, yes, but there was something otherworldly about her, too. Long, straight black hair with a face as white as porcelain, she reminded me of a doll. She wore a short magenta dress that night, and was so drunk at one point that when she tried sitting on Glue’s lap she fell over and her legs spread apart. As she lay on the floor laughing, I saw her panties. They were royal blue. It would be one of the few times I’d ever hear her laugh. I couldn’t have known that then. The way she carried on, Haley came across as vivacious, the life of a party, a girl most comfortable at the

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I was surprised when Haley said she wanted to see me again. I don’t think she could’ve known how hopeless I was. It wasn’t until she was gone for the night that I started to fall in love with her. Before our second date, I went to Kerrie’s house. Kerrie was a stripper and older than I was. I’d once told her that life is over after thirty. I was twenty-five. She was thirtyfour. I needed to shower and borrow some clothes. My squat didn’t have a shower, and Kerrie always had nice men’s clothes lying around. Her marriage to John Wayne Newton had dissolved by then, and we’d sometimes fuck. John Wayne was one of the Boys of Belvedere, the first friends I made in San Francisco, before the drugs made things like friendship expendable. Kerrie was in love with me, and I was sort of in love with her. She was a

knockout—a blonde haired, big-titted, blue eyed girly-girl, the sort that knocks anyone out. I’d once suggested while she was still married that we run away together to Arizona, leave this city behind. Even then I could see where my life was headed if I stayed in San Francisco. I was half joking. When she said, “Let’s go,” she wasn’t kidding. Kerrie scared the hell out of me. After I showered and got dressed, I asked to borrow money so I could buy flowers for my date. Haley and I had made plans to meet at Glue’s shack. But she never showed. I sat there, with my stupid hair combed and clean clothes ironed, holding those damned flowers, for hours. v Around 1:30 a.m., Gluehead said we should go to a bar. It was cold, the fog rolling in. San Francisco, where sometimes it got so dark and gloomy you felt like a ghost walking on the moors. I was depressed. If I liked Haley before she stood me up, I was definitely in love with her now. Glue put his arm around me. “Why are you always so nice to me?” I asked him. “I’ve always been a sucker for a sensitive boy,” he said. That was Glue, a sensitive thug. One minute he’d be fending off convicted murderers, like the time Indian Paul, a maniac fresh out of San Quentin, was pounding on Gluehead’s ex’s door and Glue stared him down, and the next he’d be saying something like that. Coming over Buchanan Street, this little hill with a church at the top, a Buddhist temple I think, the streets were dead, soundless, not even traffic coming off the 101, whose off ramp was Fell Street, which became a straight shot to Golden Gate Park, which usually meant traffic, no matter what time of day or night. From out of the shadows, this black kid on a bicycle came flying over the hill, from the direction of the Webster Street projects a few blocks away. His front wheel slammed down and he flipped over the bars, face scraping along the asphalt. Jumping to his feet, frantically reaching for his bike, one foot on the pedal, spinning a wild 360˚ in the oily mist, the kid hauled ass out of there. Right behind him came the police,

“In the middle of the road lay fifty, maybe a hundred tiny baggies, each one packed with crack cocaine.” two squad cars, lights whirling, sirens slicing through the murkiness, taking air like the Streets of San Francisco. They blew past us like we weren’t even there. Glue was staring at the spot where the kid crashed. “You see that?” “Kid’s going to jail. So?” “No, that!” Glue said, pointing. In the middle of the road lay fifty, maybe a hundred tiny baggies, each one packed with crack cocaine. For the next few weeks, people would stop by the shack, hoping the meth drought was over. Glue would break the bad news. “But there’s some crack,” he’d say. The speed freaks would sigh, hang their heads. In a corner a pipe was all set up with Brillo pads and a blowtorch. Glue wouldn’t ask for money. The speed freaks would mutter how it was better than nothing, and then begrudgingly smoke some rock, spitting out fumes, angry at the government. They’d leave ten minutes later. They wouldn’t even say thank you. And Gluehead wouldn’t have expected them to. It was funny. Just over that hill, there were people in those projects fighting, stabbing, shooting each other—people who’d sell their own mother out—for a crumb of the stuff, and here we were, a bunch of tweakers, acting like we’d been forced to suffer handjobs from the pretty girl’s significantly less attractive best friend.

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STREETS: TOM MORGAN

IT ISNâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T WHAT YOU THINK

Nobody wants to be homeless

You may think this is a statement of the obvious. But in 250 hours of interviews I conducted this year on this topic, one of the most common things that people believe about the homeless is that they want to be homeless. See opening statement. As someone who had no previous experience with homelessness but who has since over the past year immersed

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himself into a documentary film on the topic, I thought I would share seven things that I think any smart, well-read, socially-aware person needs to know. 1. The leading cause of homelessness in the US is lack of affordable housing.

On average, states have seen an increase in minimum wage of 9% since 2000. Rents, on the other hand, have increased on average 41% in the same time period. Further contributing to the issue has been the lack of up-keep and the ageing of current affordable housing units. It is estimated that over the next four years 300,000 units will

Mark is homeless in Denver. He picks through dumpsters looking for metal scraps he can take to the recycling center, getting pennies per pound

be lost due to expiring contracts and lack of funding. The most impactful statistic is from the National Low Income Housing Coalition. Their research shows that currently there is no county in the US where even a one bedroom apartment at fair market rent is affordable for a person working fulltime at minimum wage. 2. Logically, the second leading cause of homelessness is the lack of a livable wage.

Several of the homeless we interviewed had full time jobs, and they were still homeless. If you were lucky enough to be employed, particularly in these

economic times, you most likely are making minimum wage. Half of all of the jobs created in the US right now are minimum wage. If you are making the minimum wage, you need to work 89 hours a week in order to afford an average two bedroom apartment in the average city, based on affordable housing guidelines. This flies direct in the face of the passerby who yells out to the person on the street, “Get a job!” The answer is, yes, we need to give them a job but we have to pay wages that allow everyone to afford a place to live. Hand-in-hand with liveable wage is the notion of how one “gets out” of homelessness. This sounds so simple

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(get employed, find a home) but quickly becomes a dizzying logistical dance. You can’t get a place without an ID. Getting some form of an ID is more difficult that it sounds. Depending on where you live, identification costs a minimum of $10, and if you are lucky to have the money, you also need to have to have an address. Here is the Catch-22. You cannot get an ID without an address, but you can’t get an address without an ID. Then, if you have no home, you have no place to store belongings – interviewing for jobs with the clothes on your back puts you at a serious disadvantage. Even if you get the job, your first paycheck doesn’t arrive for two weeks. During that two weeks you may not have the money to eat or for transportation to and from the job. Here is a true example that I saw first hand that illustrates what I am talking about. I met a man named Ted who, on the day we met, was going in for a second interview at an oil change garage. He was really excited about the opportunity, as he had previously worked as a manager at a competitor. A few days later I saw Ted sitting on a bench mid-day. I asked him how it went. He proceeded to tell me that he had got the job that day, and was really excited. He lived at the shelter, which had no place for him to keep his clothes, but a local church had agreed to let him a locker there. For his first day, he had to get up at 4:30 am, catch the bus to the church, change his clothes and “bathe” in the sink. Then he caught another bus across town to work. “The first day went pretty well,” he said. At lunch he sat outback and drank water, as there was not a soup kitchen or anything nearby. When the day was over, Ted hopped on the bus and rode across town to the shelter. He arrived too late to get in and so he had to stay under a nearby overpass. Because he missed dinner he “scrapped” meaning he went through the dumpsters outback of restaurants looking for food. The next day, he was up at 4 am and back on the bus. When he got to the church, someone had moved his clothes. He panicked. He told me “The last thing I wanted was

STREETS: TOM MORGAN for anyone at the job to know I was homeless.” Realizing the time, he ran out to the bus stop – just in time to see the bus pull away. He called his boss and explained that he had missed the bus and that he would be 30 minutes late. When he got to work, his boss let him go stating, “You really need to learn to be punctual and responsible if you want to hold a job.” Ted told me the story with tears welling up in his eyes. I asked if I could call the manager. I think, initially, Ted thought I was calling to confirm his story. Instead I was calling to ask the manager to reconsider. I explained that he had an opportunity to really make an impact, to help this man who was homeless get back on his feet. I went on to say how excited Ted had been for the opportunity and explained what had made him late. There was a pause, then his response, which I can still hear as if he were talking to me now. He said, “If I had known he was homeless, I would have never hired him in the first place.” Then, a click on the other end of the phone. 3. Drug and alcohol addiction is not in the top five reasons people become homeless

It is true that of the chronic homeless – which is a small portion of the overall homeless population – drug and alcohol addiction is higher. However, the chronic homeless are only 25% of the overall homeless population and of all those who are homeless and struggle with addiction nearly half became addicted after they became homeless. 4. More than 3.5 million people will experience homelessness in the US this year. Over 1.5 million of them will be children.

Some estimate the actual number of homeless to be much higher – closer to 5 million people. That makes homelessness the 22nd largest state in the US. Surprising to me was that there is no standard method of counting the homeless; the politics around how we count tends to get more air time that the issue of homelessness itself. The government count is through

Housing and Urban Development (HUD) which consists of a count in January of anyone at a shelter and those they can find outside. The count is done every two years. This does not include those living out of motels, cars, campgrounds, or anyone doubled up. It also doesn’t take into account any of those who become homeless and get off the streets in less than two years. Interestingly, because of the new McKinney Vento Act, we count children who are in temporary housing situations differently now but do not include their parents – who are in the same situation – as homeless.

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5. There are four to six times as many animal shelters in the US as there are human shelters.

This statistic pains me. There is a shortage of beds for the homeless across the country yet we care more for animals? I saw this first hand in Virginia Beach where they have criminalized homelessness by issuing tickets to people who sleep outside between 8:00 pm and 8:00 am or who are caught panhandling. Because there is little shelter space, many are forced to hide in the woods. If the woods are owned by the city, the police come through and issue tickets for trespassing and

Jose who was abandoned by his family at 14, lived in the football stands of his high school stadium. Through the help of a Las Vegas organization he graduated high school and is in his first year of college

The homeless are bankers, grandmothers, middle-class, administrators, teachers and they come from every walk of life cut down any tents or camps they may have. One particular stand of trees served as a makeshift camp for as many as 100 homeless in Virginia Beach. The city bought the land, pushed out the homeless, cut down the trees, and built a $10 million no-kill animal shelter. This is a city that says they don’t have the money to build a human shelter, but was able to find public funds to build an animal shelter and displace homeless families with nowhere to go. 6. The fastest growing demographic of the homeless

population is the family.

With not nearly enough shelters to accommodate a family, more and more find themselves living in cars, tents, motels (when they can afford to), or other make-shift accommodations. The majority of shelters split up men and women, adults and children, leaving families with no options other than to go to separate shelters, often miles apart, with no means to communicate. 7. Many of the homeless have lead lives just like yours. It could truly be you or I one day.

The homeless are bankers,

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grandmothers, middle-class, administrators, teachers and they come from every walk of life. Many of those we interviewed had lead lives that were not so unlike mine, and then, as if hit by a bolt of lightning, events conspired to change their course. In some cases, an injury or an illness, a loss of a job or a relationship, or a natural disaster that had destroyed their homes, their businesses and left them with nothing. Some, of course, described households where parents were alcoholics or addicts, others were abandoned at a young age, and yet others told stories of horrific abuse which caused them to run with homelessness being a better alternative to remaining in an abusive home. Several recounted their dreams as kids of what they hoped they would be. Many talked about their plan to get housed and what they were doing to get there. And almost all talked about the shame and humiliation they experienced in being homeless. Homelessness is right outside your window, on your way to work, in the bus station, on the Tube right in front of us. The issue is massive and making change seems like it will require unlimited resources, willpower and tenacity of the masses. But it will not be because our governments have figured out what to do – it will occur when we decide as individuals that we want to do something about it. Squelch the stereotypes that fuel unfounded fear that holds you back from helping. Figure out what you can do, and do it. Mardy Gilyard, homeless as a college student and now a professional football player for the St. Louis Rams, summed it up. “When I was living in my car and I was hungry, I prayed a lot. I wasn’t praying for a god to come down, scoop me up and give me a home. I was just praying for a god to walk across that parking lot and hand me a sandwich.” Get involved, volunteer, figure out what you can do on your own, do something. I mean really, we could all walk across a parking lot and hand someone a sandwich.

STREETS: JADE LEAF WILLETTS

Trailer trash: who didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t understand the endearment, the mock insult Trailer trash: who walks with no shoes through glass and beer and blood never cutting her feet perfect feet dark dark, pale but darkened by the street the street a sanctuary a home Trailer trash: trashing traditional beauty with sandals, with bare feet with too much gold and not enough clothes with slang, with beautiful vulgar language with cheap wine with cigarettes and green

Trailer trash: who brought tears enough to melt the skin from your bones igniting something in your soul that cannot be extinguished who the moon broke down for crying tears of amber, lighting your way your way that saw me stop dead in my tracks to lay down and die in the heavy rain of my broken head and heart who caused me to write words in blood that were washed away to nothing

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Trailer trash: carved of stone and dirt still playing cards with the door open and the light on Trailer trash: who gave me water on the steps when I was thirsty a few summers ago who remains there smiling in my mind.

behaving well I move into town drink at a faster pace, In a hole of a place race to the next bar and pick up pace mix the grape and the grain I chat up cheap women, people I am not interested in I sound nothing like myself In fact I sound like them I carry on mindless like a fool dancing to music I despise because the girls like it and right now that is all that matters as I dance to some soulless noise inside I can hear Miss Holiday and I think about art and death and the sparrow I saw earlier In the day I spend money that should see me right for days I waste it like spilled beer

I get covered in bruises from fights that I could never start or finish I am in a room full of bad memories and girls with sad stories my phone gets broken In an altercation along with a bone in my hand I make a dozen or so calls to my ex-wife (from the payphone) there are girls hanging around like shadows masquerading as angels I try to erase the past from my memory as she deletes my message from her answer phone I take another drink (for the road) we leave when they tell us it is time and line up at meat counters we pay for fake meat lashed with sauce and I walk in the direction of a temporary home alone for hours in the rain and the part that really kills me Is that I know I will do it all again.

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PHOTO CREDIT: BEN TURNER

I open a bottle of wine at 6, the sun has gone down I need no more justification I am quiet, reflective, I have good intentions

STREETS: CHRIS PILKINGTON

The arranged line of brick boxes for people storage

By Chris Pilkington

Contained

neatly, amongst lighting, heating, water piping and questionable decorating, boxed in amongst designs for heat capture and retention. Numbered in an odd way on one side and even on the other, the street, is home, on the way to and on the way from. It is passing scenery or the last stop. Or even a place of departure. Mostly though it is a bullet point list of stories hidden away behind a wooden door. Often the sort that is kept hidden by the daily greeting and by a thin veil of dull thumps, thuds and neighbourly privacy. Number 63 The stamp enthusiast, Timothy (something-or-other, when referring to his surname) was and is a pleasant and quiet character. He was always with a keen set of eyes. The sort of eyes useful should one need to look for mice at night while out walking. Also of useful tongue and nimble finger when he was allowed to hold them. The Black Penny was something of a joke to him, having acquired one through questionable methods and later having to swallow it to prevent his misdoings catching up with him; he was reminded of the paper quality of such a stamp when it re-emerged 4 days later. (A testament to his high-fibre diet). He had it framed

and it garnered much curiousness from visitors when many questioned the existence of the Brown Penny. Number – N/A The bored housewife – actually this is an umbrella term for any woman who has rushed into marriage for the wrong reasons and is now unhappy with her lot or the type of female who is only happy when she can feel sorry for herself. The Umbrellas themselves are fine. As indeed are the ladies themselves whom mother nature has reserved for her revenge on mankind, the Lady brain being used for its computing power, enabling the Gaian network to number crunch ways of wiping out humanity to enable a rebirth on the planets surface once again. So I’m told anyway when one finds the time talk on the lay lines. Often in the 1970’s one would see the side affects of this natural subconscious algorithm, emerge as a quick fling with the milkman. Number 26 Upon a stern looking sofa, there is a man whose idea of a terrifyingly enjoyable night is to parade his sticker collection- gathered almost impossibly through the ages, and is brought to your beautifully bored eyes in his sitting room. Which, luckily is a dirge brown to accompany the predictable and stereotypical emotional setting. This fanatical mediocre bore was such a

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menace that girls coming of age would be warned via officially sponsored pamphlets. In later years, being set into the folklore of the area, Japanese tourists would flock to his gate only to leave with a growing sense of anger at the world. He, like myself, had a remarkable ability to resist the charm of attractive weather ladies on the evening and morning telly. Number 43 A legend in his own mind, the wouldbe effeminate tailor who lived in a bright Orange house. Unfortunately having been blessed at birth with the mind/body/voice and soul of a burly builder, he had set within him an inner rage and conflict. Which meant he not only lashed out at the freely “effem” and homosexual but also had a deep hatred of builders, DIY, and the city and guilds as a name. By the time he had reached the age of 50 he had not only forgotten that he was married but that he was also a father and business owner. Having been consumed by rage and confusion he was alas found hanged in the loft amidst decades worth of browned paper detailing a tailoring service run akin to a mobile hairdresser. Fancy. Number 28 Locked away, dull eyed and alabaster of skin, reliant on mummy and daddy but with the street facade of a warrior: The middle class drug user. Who will one

ILLUSTRATION: BEN TURNER

day fall from grace and be devoured by his sins. Fingers crossed, anyway. For now, he can chomp away on his own vices and then become self aware of the spiral of decent that he has embarked upon. But not until after tea. Number 33 and indeed many other houses... As with legion (for they are many) there are the lonely pensioners and the well accompanied pensioners. All complete with ‘sweets’ in cupboards and cluttered sideboards. Gas hob begging to be switched off as they head off to bed or the smell of lavender that seeps its way out into the street and hangs there like an invisible lilac mist. (One street on my route home is like this and either it has the spirit of a lavender merchant loitering in the middle of the road OR it has a house containing an old lady – a nan – nearby that is full to to the maximum capacity of lavender scent that air struggles to carry out its duties. The scent drifts and hangs across the road. I get a mouthful of this and it takes me back to being bored rigid in a field in Norfolk.) Number 4 Pacing this street in a military like fashion, is the avon lady, rain, snow, winds of misery will not stop her. She is only ever seen actually enjoying herself when pressuring those who wish to evade her perfumed grasp. Once, long ago, the milkman and pools-man were a common site but now only their ghosts are visible to those who can be bothered to witness them. You may also see... The glow of large rectangle TV’s are gradually drying out and cooking the idle members of the population whilst cats hold secret meetings on table etiquette and the finer things in life, once again out in the quiet dark spaces. Lovely. If you like, on the space at the bottom of my leg feel free to add your own story for this segment.

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STREETS: TOM PITTS

streets? it’s as much about the context of the writer and writer’s mind as it is the content.

STORIES from the STREETS Part two

In which Joe Clifford introduces the work of

Tom Pitts

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I met Tom Pitts sometime in the late 1990s at a shooting gallery, on top of a very high hill in San Francisco, called Hepatitis Heights. In a drug world filled with liars, thieves, and criminals, Tom fast became a rare commodity in my life: a reliable doper. He was my best friend. Even then, in the middle of all the junkie bullshit, Tom considered himself a writer. He used to tote his computer, which contained all his stories, everywhere he went. But this wasn’t a laptop. We’re talking a big ol’, straight for the ’80s, bulky-ass desktop. Tom would drag that computer with its tangle of cords and keys up these giant hills, dopesick, trying to duck the crooks looking to rip him off or the cops looking to drag him in. I thought he was fucking nuts, but such was his commitment to his art. He believed even then he’d get out. I wish I’d shared his faith. But he was right. He got out. We both did. And he took his stories with him. Here are two stories from my friend, Tom Pitts. Both are as accurate pictures of life on the streets as you’ll find. Honest, humiliating, hilarious. Because if you can’t laugh out there, you’ll lose your mind. You can find some more of Tom’s work here at http://tom-pitts.blogspot.com

HIGH SPEED CHASE IN L.A.

Introduction by Joe Clifford

L.A. is a cold and closed down place. I was an outsider there. It seemed like everyone was an outsider there. I didn’t see movie stars walking down the street. Even though I lived two blocks from some of the biggest studio lots, the closest I felt to the movie business was peddling by the huge billboards on my endless loop back and forth downtown.

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Looking up at those billboards was a constant reminder that I was shut out from the magic of Los Angeles, the Los Angeles of the mind, the Los Angeles that existed in box office totals and Billboard charts. The glitter and the glamour would continue on with no help from its ocean of citizens, the leagues of poor bumping into each other down on the streets—where I was. I was alone there and, except when I was copping, I spoke to no one. I knew no one. It was hard to cop. Each day I had to peddle my bike from Robertson and Venice all the way downtown and back. This journey I made three times a day— usually sick. It seemed as though once for every three times I went downtown to cop, I was jacked up by either the cops or some gangsters. But if I was mugged or chased out, I had no choice but to go right back again. It was hit and miss and I needed to reach out and find a better way to score. I called a friend in San Francisco, a girl that came from LA, a rich girl. “You know who you

STREETS: TOM PITTS should call? Mercedes,” she said. I liked the sound of the name. It certainly sounded better than risking myself on the street again. I called and talked to the girl with the luxurious sounding name and envisioned a junk bearing angel with movie star good looks. She told me how to get there and I got on my Scwhinn one-speed and started peddling toward Hollywood. Mercedes lived in a classic Hollywood bungalow with another junkie roommate. The place was sparse, undecorated, and dark. Cigarette smoke hung in the air. There was no music playing, no TV on, only Mercedes and her roommate sitting in their tiny breakfast nook waiting for me. She was pretty—rich girl pretty—with arched and plucked eye-brows and well bred features. “Hi, I’m Tom,” I said. This was the first female close to my age that I’d met since being in LA and I was happy to make a friend, especially a friend with common interests. “Hey,” was the unenthusiastic response. Her voice was flat and uninterested. She looked bored and irritable. Her roommate looked up and her chin made a barely perceivable nod. “Hey.” Silence hung in the air. I stood there feeling ignored. “So …” “Yeah, let’s go,” she said and, still making no eye contact, got up and walked right past me out into the daylight. We climbed into her big SUV that looked more expensive than anything I’d ever sat

in and headed downtown. I tried to get more information about where we were going. The need for a new junk source was exciting and important. I was trying to plan my daily route, calculate how much more dope I could get for so much less money. Mercedes was evasive and seemed too annoyed to answer my questions. She kept her face tight and her eyes squinted at the road. After a few more minutes of being ignored, I settled back into my seat. “Here we are,” she finally said. I was confused. We weren’t parked, we weren’t looking for parking. We were downtown, only a few blocks from where I scored daily. It looked hotter here than on my corner. “Here?” I asked. “I thought we were going to someone’s house. Don’t any of the Mexicans deliver down here? Everybody cops in the fucking street?” A deadpan “yeah,” was all that was returned. This didn’t seem safer or smarter than what I was doing. I watched the cars ahead of us. Drug dealers ran up to the window to compete for the sales inside. There was no one on the block but junkies and dealers. Every time a car slowed the dealers swarmed it. Like lepers grabbing at Jesus, I thought. I was terrified. Next it was our turn. There was shouting and confusion, hands reaching in the window. Flashes of aluminum foil and balloons. Bartering and exchange had to happen within seconds. Before I knew what was happening my money was gone and I had four balloons in the palm of my

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hand. I closed my fist and said, “Let’s go.” But we couldn’t go; we were stuck in a jam of narcotic trafficking. The car ahead of us had not finalized its deal and was not budging. The car behind us had what they wanted and began to honk. Finally we reached the corner and Mercedes took a right at the red light. That’s when I heard the whup-whup of the police siren. “Fuck,” said Mercedes. “Shit,” I added. All this trouble and I was going to get busted. I should have stuck with risking my life at 12th and Hoover. We both were silently hoping that the siren was for someone else, that the police would fly by on their way to a real crime. I heard the whupwhup again and looked over at Mercedes. Her face was still tight, her eyes focused and determined. She wasn’t going to pull over. “Fuck,” was all she said. The SUV sped up, so did the cops. Mercedes hooked a hard right, a surprise left, sped up when she had space, slammed on the brakes when cars got in front of us. Goddamn it, I was in a high speed chase in downtown Los Angeles and there was a madwoman at the wheel. I promptly stuck the four balloons deep into my underwear, under my ball sack and clenched in between my butt cheeks where I could feel each individual balloon. The chase went on for several more blocks till Mercedes decided it was futile. She pulled over on the side of an overpass and took a deep breath. I sat silently waiting for some kind of direction, some kind of cue, as I watched the cops in the rearview march toward the vehicle. There was no command to show our hands or to exit the vehicle slowly, the officer just opened up the door, grabbed me by my shirt, and pulled me out of the car. When he had me standing upright, he pushed me back against the car—hard. “What the fuck is your problem? You

“Mercedes hooked a hard right, a surprise left, sped up when she had space, slammed on the brakes when cars got in front of us. Goddamn it, I was in a high speed chase in downtown Los Angeles and there was a madwoman at the wheel.” fuckin’ deaf? You not see us behind you? Where’s the dope?” I wasn’t sure which question he wanted me to answer. I began to shrug. “I didn’t see you,” I said. “Bullshit,” he bellowed and a little of spit flew off of his lips and onto my cheek. “We know you just scored, we watched you, so give it up.” He was poking me in the chest with his index finger. I could hear the other cop giving Mercedes the same treatment. “I’m clean, I swear,” was all I could muster. It even sounded like bullshit to me. It was a line the cop had heard a thousand times and would hear a thousand more. “What are you doing down here then?”

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STREETS: TOM PITTS “Down where? I’m not even sure where I am. I’m from San Francisco, I was just riding in the car. I don’t know anything about any dope.” “What did your friend from the street want? Directions?” “No, to sell us dope, but we said no, we waved him away.” It sounded good to me, sort of a partial admission to make the story more palatable, but the cop’s face just turned an angrier shade of red. Just then the other officer brought Mercedes around to my side of the car. “No dope, huh? Roll up your sleeves,” he told both of us. As I began to slowly and laboriously roll up my own sleeves, I saw both the cops staring at Mercedes’ arms. I stopped what I was doing and turned my head. Mercedes arms were unlike any I’d seen before. They were lumpy and scarred. It looked as though she’d been attacked by a swarm of bees, over and over again. Arms that damaged didn’t belong on someone so young. I could see the disgust register on the policemen’s faces. “No dope, huh?” the cop repeated and turned toward me. “What the fuck are those?” he said, pointing to a red line on my arms that was crusted with tiny puncture scabs. “These? Ha, no these are at least ten days old. I’ve been here six days already, I told ya I only came down to kick. I’m clean…” The cop gruffly grabbed my arm and held it up under his nose. He studied it closely and decided there was no way he could tell how old those marks were, but there was one thing he did know: All junkies were liars. “Empty your pockets,” he said and I did. I could feel the balloons of heroin clutched between my cheeks as I began to spread my possessions on the hood of the car. Change, scraps of paper, my empty wallet, a twenty dollars bill, which confused him, (why would they have a twenty on them after copping?) and the coup de grace: a small marijuana pipe. “Hey,” the cop said to his partner. He held up the pipe. His partner looked back

with disappointment. We were minnows in an ocean of easy drug busts. He pointed at Mercedes and said, “Next time you fucking stop when you hear a goddamned siren behind you,” and that was it, they both walked away, leaving us in the midday sun in downtown LA. No arrest, no ticket, and most importantly, we still had the dope. We climbed into the SUV and were on our way. When we were rolling again I reached deep into my pants and retrieved the balloons. I pulled out three, looked at them confused, and reached back down my pants again. I searched around like a magician searching a top hat for his rabbit. “Fuck, I think I dropped one.” She sneered at me a little. How could I be so lame, so stupid. “Well, good thing I didn’t swallow them,” I smiled. She stayed silent. When we got back to the bungalow, Mercedes’ roommate was already waiting at their breakfast nook with spoons and water. She could tell that Mercedes was pissed off. “What happened?” she asked. “Fucking cops. Then he …” there was enough of a pause before he to let me know she didn’t know my name, “fucking drops one.” There was no point in arguing now. We all wanted to fix. So fix we did. I knew I wasn’t going to call them again. I left them with one balloon. We were supposed to split it 50/50, but the chase had changed the equation. It was my money, but they were supposed to turn me onto a new place to score. I wasn’t going back there either. I figured one balloon was pretty generous. After I hit up, I looked at my hosts, they were beginning to nod. I guess one balloon was plenty. I walked out to my Schwinn one-speed and, before I got on the seat, reached into my pants and pulled out that missing balloon.

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PEANUT BRITTLE Plink. I waited. Nothing. Plink. Still nothing. If I threw the pennies any harder they might crack the window. I’d been out there for what seemed like an hour, but, in reality, it had only been a few minutes. “Jimmy.” I tried to both yell and whisper. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, still early for Jimmy. I didn’t want to piss him off; I needed to get into that apartment. I’d known Jimmy for years. We worked together, we were drinking buddies. We shot dope together. He knew my weakness and I knew his: Junk. “Jimmy,” I squeaked again. I was sick, broke, and desperate. Business as usual. Finally, the blinds moved. I tossed another penny. Jimmy’s annoyed face appeared at the window. It took him a couple of tries before opening it. “What?” “What do ya mean what? Lemme in.” “I don’t have anything.” “Come on, Jimmy.” I decided to keep my agenda a secret, I just had to make it inside, then he’d have to agree. I pleaded a few more times before Jimmy realized I wasn’t going anywhere. He threw down his keys and I made my way past the garbage cans, up the back stairs, and into his apartment. He’d left the door cracked. I walked into a tiny studio choked with cigarette smoke, so dark that you had to let your eyes adjust before you could see the mess. Jimmy sat slouched in a ratty recliner, remote control in his hand. Cable TV was Jimmy’s other drug of choice. “Zup?” he said. “Zup?” I answered. I sat down across from him on the couch. “Watching this lame-assed movie, not fucking funny, just stupid.” That meant I’d woken him up. If Jimmy could stay conscious during a movie, he loved it, but if

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he nodded out, it was shit. We sat staring at the screen for a few more minutes. I yawned. I yawned again with purpose. I moved to light a cigarette, grunting a little when I struck the match. “I told you, I don’t have anything.” Jimmy always had something. He never looked uncomfortable, never wore the mask of discomfort. I felt like shit. “I’m sick.” He was already one step ahead of me. “I can’t call him; I already owe him eighty bucks.” “I could call.” It was an insincere offer; I owed the Mexicans more than Jimmy did. “He’ll never show up.” “There’s always the peanut brittle …” “No,” said Jimmy, flatly and completely. If there’s one thing you can count on melting, it’s a junkie’s resolve. I sat there, letting silence argue my case. Silence was winning. “No, dude. It’s not okay. I can’t let you.” “You’re not fucking sick then.” “I’m a little bit sick.” Jimmy lied, sniffling a little for added effect. “Come on then, let’s do it. It’ll be fine, good even. Let’s do it.” He caught the excitement in my voice; I knew that I had him. v Jimmy was a bartender. I worked for Jimmy. I was a bar-back, a gopher, a fetcher, considerably further down the food chain than a bartender. We worked in a big nightclub downtown, a disco located in the belly of the Hearst building. I stocked bottles, wiped tables, picked up broken

STREETS: TOM PITTS glass. I had my senses beat senseless with relentless hip-hop beats; I stared at impossibly beautiful women and mopped up their vomit when they had too much nightlife. The more glamorous job belonged to Jimmy. He was behind the bar, center of attention, clown prince swirling ice cubes. Jimmy was where the cash was. Every night he’d make out with a fistful of dollars. Tips were cash, and that meant it went straight to the dopeman. He never had any trouble finding a twenty to call the man with in the morning; he usually had a couple of half gram balloons waiting for us when we got home from the club too. The second we entered the apartment, we dropped our jackets on the floor and went straight for the balloons. Jimmy would stand at his stove, swaying back and forth, “How much you want?” “All of it,” I’d answer back. He would always hold back a little till morning. He’d soon return to the couch with two syringes loaded with thick brown goo. We’d then begin the long and painful process of finding a vein and trying to hit it. Sometimes this process would take minutes, sometimes an hour. We never got it on the first try. v

It was after one of these nights that I woke up on Jimmy’s couch and asked if he had anything left for a wake up fix. “I got nothin’,” he said, as usual. “Nothing? What happened to the shit from last night?” “What do you mean? You said ‘all of it’ so I put it all in. You did it, we did it. It’s gone.” He said it matter of fact-ly, like he wasn’t too worried about it. He had to be lying. “That wasn’t a half gram, what happened?” “Maybe I spilled some.” “Spill some, how do you spill some? Spilled some where?” It seemed impossible that anyone would leave something so precious spilled without some kind of action; a mopping up, a wail of agony. Maybe it was bullshit. I jumped up and went into the kitchen to investigate. I couldn’t see anything on his stove but a couple of black splotches where he’d set down the burned spoon. “Spilled where? I don’t see anything.” I could hear Jimmy sighing with futility as he put a great amount of energy into getting up. This way, I would know that it was

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pointless to look for the dope, it was gone. “I cooked it right there,” he said, pointing at the gas burner. Most people found a disposable lighter sufficient enough for cooking dope, Jimmy, who was excessive to the core, apparently roasted his dope over the blue flame of the gas burner. “Fuck, Jimmy, no wonder that shit always comes out looking like molasses; you’re burning the shit out of it.” I squinted at the burner. “I still don’t see anything, are you sure you spilled it?” “Yeah, it happens all the time, look.” Jimmy reached past me and lifted up the black grate that guarded the burner and pointed to a light brown gooey substance around the base. “That’s heroin?” I asked, astonished that it’d just been left sitting there. “Let’s get it out.” “Dude, that shit is fucked up, you can’t use it. It’s full of … food and shit.” “Are you fuckin’ sick or not? How do we take the top off the stove?” We cleared away his kettle and a large frying pan and lifted up the metal cover of the stove to expose the bare burners. Our eyes grew wide when we saw a large brown puddle to the left side of the burner he’d been using. “Holy fuck, how much dope did you spill?” Jimmy didn’t answer. He was confused; there was more dope there than we’d even done last night—or any night. I reached down and touched it lightly with my finger. It was sticky, hard, like sugar candy. We both realized at the same time what it was. Jimmy had been coming home fucked up, night after night, sloppily cooking his fix, spilling again and again. It had been collecting here over time, condensing and hardening, re-cooking, distilling. “Dude, it’s nothing, there’s bacon grease and ramen and all sorts of shit in there.” Instinctual denial. But I knew better. I knew that Jimmy never cooked. Any junkie, if he didn’t have to, he never would. Jimmy never had to. His kitchen garbage overflowed with Styrofoam take-out containers and pizza boxes. “I’m gonna try it.” I said, holding a butter knife in my hand to wedge out the goo. “What do you mean? If that’s dope, then it’s my dope.” Instinctual greed. The technicalities were lost on me as I began to remove the dope. Discovering the

“we suspected our warm buzz to actually be the beginnings of a fever... What horrible plague had we contracted by shooting the feces of vermin directly into our bodies?” goo was harder than I thought, I hit it with the butt of my knife and it cracked apart like toffee. Jimmy and I both picked up a little wedge and held it up to the light for examination. It looked like dope, it almost smelled like dope, but there were little black spots in it, crumbs or food particles. “What is that shit?” asked Jimmy. “Eh, that’s what filters are for,” was the best answer I could come up with. We sat down and dropped the wedges into our spoons. The stuff melted quickly, except for the black crumbs that were left behind. We weren’t fools; we knew that we didn’t know what we were doing. We used extra water and extra big bits of cigarette filter to suck it through. “I’m too sick to try to find a vein,” I said, plunging the needle straight through my jeans into my thigh. “What the fuck,” Jimmy agreed and stood up, dropped his pants, and jabbed in his share. We lit cigarettes and sat back waiting for the slow moving muscle shots to hit. Soon, that familiar warm glow began to both relax and invigorate us. “Goddamn. That shit’s pretty good.” Jimmy smiled as he got up to stretch. We were both surprised. It was the best high we’d had in a long time. I felt good, instead of just better. I wanted to get out and get things done. I felt energetic, positive. Jimmy started to move about his tiny apartment, picking up empty cigarette packs, dirty clothes. He opened up the blinds; the sunlight came streaming in.

“You never pick up your shit, man. Look at my fuckin’ coffee table, there’s black shit all over it,” he said pointing to the smudges from my spoon. The daylight had transposed the whole room. The dust coating everything was visible and the air was thick and grey with smoke. Jimmy picked up the spoons and walked toward the kitchen. He stopped suddenly. “This is shit!” “Yeah,” I replied. “Good shit.” “No, really, this is shit.” He threw the spoon onto the table. The black spots clung tightly to the cotton. His face was repulsed with horror. I picked up the spoon and looked closely. Clustered around the cotton filter were at least six tiny mouse shits. In the daylight, there was no question; there was mouse shit in my spoon. Immediately we suspected our warm buzz to actually be the beginnings of a fever. That familiar fuzzy feeling was now coiled disease. What horrible plague had we contracted by shooting the feces of vermin directly into our bodies? I squeezed my eyes together to see if I had a headache, if my vision had blurred. How long would it take, I wondered, till my muscles ached and I began to foam at the mouth? We sat, smoking in silence, waiting for our deaths. An hour passed, Jimmy had fallen quietly asleep. Comatose, but, like me, still quite alive. I got up from the couch and crept into the kitchen. I decided to break off another piece of the dope that, in the afternoon light, looked just like peanut-brittle. It wasn’t peanut-brittle. It was better.

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WORK TITLE: ARTIST

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ISSUE TWO THEME:

POWER PICTURES PAGE 42 Some of our favourite photos and art from the Power issue by Francesca Harris, Rogan Josh, Judah Passow, Ben Turner and Ira fox WORDS PAGE 52 Emma Seymour and the changing face of conflict PAGE 60 Power and glory by Will Buxton PAGE 68 Power poetry by W.M.Lewis PAGE 70 Slide by Kyrsten bean PAGE 74 Elly Lacey dares to dream ISSUE 5 2013

A SELECTION OF OUR FAVOURITE PICTURES FROM ISSUE 2

POWER: SNAPSHOT

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The deer and the crow by Francesca Harris

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POWER: SNAPSHOT

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Rogan Joshâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s incredible super powered illustrations

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POWER: SNAPSHOT

Judah Passow explored the power of the Jewish community

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POWER: SNAPSHOT

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Ben Turner followed a few friends on a day off

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POWER: SNAPSHOT

Brief encounters by Ira Fox

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POWER: EMMA SEYMOUR

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As journalists and photographers continue to lose their lives in war-torn Syria, four times World Press Photo award winner Judah Passow reflects on the changing face of conflict. By Emma Seymour All images ÂŠJudah Passow Photography

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POWER: EMMA SEYMOUR WEST BEIRUT 1983 A Palestinian boy aims a toy pistol at Italian peacekeeping troops patrolling the Sabra refugee camp in West Beirut.

Women frantically flee a rising tide of fighting as their children clutch pistols in an all too realistic game of war.

A Palestinian man weeps at the loss of a friend caught up in an operation to root out suicide bombers. Refugees look on helplessly as they survey the damage of their homes. Judah has been capturing these images of war for 30 years, bottling the raw human emotion etched on people’s faces. But as the news industry becomes ever more saturated with celebrity, he questions the impact powerful pictures can have on the world today. “Pictures do influence people, there’s no doubt about it,” he said. “Look at how they changed the way the US saw the war with Vietnam. They woke the US up to the fact that war is an ugly brutal way of resolving a dispute, and it helped to end it. “But that couldn’t happen today. The people that deliver this information no longer see themselves as being in the business of news, they’re more interested in

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entertainment. The public is still hungry for news but the industry has reinvented itself.” Born in Israel and educated in the US, Judah moved to the UK in the late ‘70s when he started working for The Observer. He was sent to Belfast during the Troubles where he shot pictures in Europe’s worst housing estate, the Divis flats.

“It was the period of Bobby Sands and the hunger strikes, it was a very heavy time,” said Judah. “After that I asked to be sent to Afghanistan and I realised you have to be careful what you wish for. This was a world away from Northern Ireland where we spent a day on the street before going back to a nice hotel. In Afghanistan we slept on the ground.”

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The recent death of Sunday Times journalist Marie Colvin in Syria brought home the danger faced by reporters and photographers in the field, with some believing she was targeted by government forces. Judah said he sometimes questioned whether the pictures were worth risking his life for. “It’s a lot easier to get killed today than

POWER: EMMA SEYMOUR

BOSANSKI BROD 1992 An elderly Muslim woman weeps on a street corner in Bosanski Brod as the city falls to the Serbian army.

“My guiding principal has always been that I’m here to give somebody a voice that has no voice”

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it was 10 years ago. Photographers are targets on both sides. Syria is a difficult one because it’s a story that’s crying out to be told but does that justify the risks involved in telling it? There’s a whole new core of young photographers who are covering their own conflicts and it’s solving our dilemma for us. “But there often isn’t the budget to cover these things anymore so while the pictures are still being taken they’re not being used. This leads to another serious problem. A whole new generation of young photographers are spending money they don’t have going into these places and getting killed.” Judah has spent much of his career covering the Israel and Palestine conflict in the Middle East, something he describes as a very personal project. “It’s a conflict in the country I was born in, it’s my conflict. I have an emotional investment in it,” he said. “This is an issue that’s incredibly complex and most people simply have no understanding of it. That’s part of the problem. One of the reasons it’s festered for as long as it has and has eluded a resolution is because of the incredible ignorance of it that exists in the wider world, and both parties exploit that ignorance. “I’m very definitely taking a political side in this case. It’s a plague on both your houses. Both bear equal responsibility for not finding a solution to this conflict.” Journalists often pride themselves on their ability to be objective, to provide a fly on the wall view of what’s happening that’s unbiased and true. But the idea that photojournalists

can stay completely neutral when covering a war is, according to Judah, a myth. “My guiding principal has always been that I’m here to give somebody a voice that has no voice. That means deciding what side of the conflict you are going to take so you know whose story you are going to tell. “I think people like to imagine photographers as dispassionate, impartial observers. But observing something at one removed means not having an emotional investment in what you’re observing. And that completely misunderstands what it’s about. Photojournalism is about engaging with what you’re observing. In order to tell that story you have to look through somebody’s eyes. You have to pick a side. “Sadly I look at the conflicts raging around the world and I can’t find a single one I’m prepared to go to. There are no sides I’m interested in throwing my light on. “Photojournalism is dead. It’s a tragedy that could have been avoided, a mess created by the news organisations and now it’s come to haunt all of us.” To find out more about Judah and see more of his work, go to www.judahpassow.com

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POWER: EMMA SEYMOUR FAHME, WEST BANK 1992 A Palestinian woman refuses to hold a pistol offered by her son who works as a collaborator with the Israeli security service on the West Bank.

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POWER: WILL BUXTON

By Will Buxton

ISSUE 5 2013

A snake

of rental cars trace a familiar route through the early morning fog, turning off the Autovia and lining up at the imposing entrance gates to the Circuito de Jerez. The security guards, bleary eyed and barely awake give a cursory glance at the access passes hung around the necks of the vehiclesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; occupants, before waving them past with a nonchalant flick of the wrist. As morningâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first light rises over the Andalucian hills, a melee of photographers and TV crews bustle for position in an empty pitlane as a set of blue garage doors slowly open and a car is rolled forward into view. Two young drivers stand and pose for

photographs next to the steed which will carry their hopes of glory into the season ahead. At this one singular moment, they have as much chance of being crowned world champion as any one of their rivals. But by the end of the day, they will know in their hearts how the next ten months will unfold and that their ultimate competitive fate is now sealed. There is, perhaps, no more important moment in the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most watched sport than this one day. After months of research, development and painstakingly precise design, after tens of millions of dollars and countless man-hours of production, it all boils down to this. This is the first time that the cars which

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POWER: WILL BUXTON will fight for the 2012 Formula 1 World Championship will be run in anger: the first opportunity to see if the work of the preceding months has paid off. This is the day that a balance of power is created. This is the day that a champion is born. Testing is about as far removed from the Monegasque glitz and glamour usually associated with Formula 1 as one could possibly get. There are no grid girls here, no parties, no super yachts. Instead of the rich and famous quaffing champagne, posturing in Dior dresses and Louboutin heels, here in Jerez the dress code is hats, scarves and gloves: one’s drink of choice, a polystyrene cup of coffee. Milk. Two sugars. The grandstands remain empty of all but a select breed of ultra hardcore fanatics, who will travel from far and wide to be the first to see their heroes in action. But today there will be no racing, no trophies won, and no anthems played at the end of the contest. The only music will be the hypnotic and constant scream of eleven cars, pounding out lap after lap after lap for eight solid hours. The story of this day began a year ago. No sooner had the teams of the Formula 1 World Championship launched their 2011 cars than the attention of their design offices would have shifted, in part, towards 2012. While one group of designers would have continued to develop and improve the cars being raced around the world last season, another separate group of boffins would have been scouring the 2012 regulations and coming up with initial design concepts for their team’s new car. With one set of tight regulations in place, you’d be forgiven for assuming that all the teams would come up with nigh on identical designs for their cars. But the creative genius at work within these design offices is such that one team

will always find a loophole, a way to interpret the regulations that gives them an advantage over their rivals. As the months wore on in 2011, the 2012 regulations were tweaked and altered to try and remove these loopholes. Then, in January, just weeks before the new cars were due to be launched, news started to filter through that two teams, Ferrari and Lotus, had discovered another such advantage. The governing body of the sport acted fast to stamp out the technology and so, after almost a year of research and development and just weeks before the first running of the new car, the design offices of the teams who had believed they’d got a jump on their rivals had to rip up their clever innovations and amend the new car to be just as fast without them. After months of running model cars through wind tunnels and hours of research with computational fluid dynamics, the new cars will be launched to the world just days and in some cases hours before they hit the track for the first time. But Formula 1 is a secretive world, and so the design which is unveiled to the press will rarely be the exact model which rolls out onto the track on this cold February morning. It’s why the garage doors during testing stay closed and screens are erected in front of them until the car is ready to roll. It’s why the top teams employ photographers whose sole job it is to try and take as many detailed shots of their rival’s cars as they can. And it’s why there is such

There are no grid girls here, no parties, no super yachts. Instead of the rich and famous quaffing champagne here in Jerez one’s drink of choice, a polystyrene cup of coffee. Milk. Two sugars.

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excitement about this day. Rumour has it that the reigning world champions, Red Bull Racing, have employed extra security at their own factory to stop the majority of their employees from seeing the 2012 car. Only the designers and the boys building the car are allowed access to it. The fear that someone could take a photo on their phone and sell it to a rival team is that real. This isn’t just a sport. It’s a technological war. Everyone wants to know what

everyone else is doing. Everyone wants to know if they’ve missed a trick, and if they have, whether it is something that could work in conjunction with their own design. With just 12 days of preseason testing permitted under the regulations, and with the teams able to run just one car on each day, time is limited. Every second spent out on track, accumulating real-time data, is invaluable. The press releases today will not focus on success or speed. They will, the teams hope, speak of

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untroubled running, a high number of laps completed and will, they all pray, at some point feature the words “a good day.” It may sound cold and mechanical, but that’s because over the winter Formula 1 is just so. But today it becomes a sport once more, as the most critical element of an F1 car is added to the mix… its driver. You can spend millions of dollars producing the most cleverly designed car on earth, but if the man driving it doesn’t

POWER: WILL BUXTON

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know how to draw the most from it, if he doesn’t know how to relate his experiences within the cockpit to the team in order for them to make the alterations he needs to take his ride to perfection, and if he can’t race the thing faster and harder than anyone else on track, it quite simply won’t be competitive. Formula 1 racing drivers are an elite breed of sportsmen. F1 cars in 2012 will hit an estimated top speed in excess of 345kph. Under braking, drivers can experience up to 5G, a force so great that the tears in their eyes are flung forward and splash onto their visors. They may be strapped into the car, but their internal organs will be thrown about inside their chests with every shift in direction, every stab on the throttle and every stamp on the brakes. They will race in three-layer fireproof overalls, in temperatures sometimes exceeding 50 degrees C, for 2 hours. They will do so racing at over 300kph, millimetres from their rivals, and in the full knowledge that a mistake, no matter how small, could not just signal the end of their race, but potentially their lives. And incredibly, at those speeds, they will not only race but provide the team with constant information about how the car is handling. They will advise their mechanics and engineers on miniscule alterations to the stiffness needed in the suspension, the height the car needs to be off the ground or the level of downforce that needs to be produced by the car’s wings. In the middle of a race they will be able to tell the team when one tyre starts to lose grip compared to the other three. They will help the team to decide on strategy. And, no joke, they will often be so aware of everything going on around them that they will know which photographers are positioned on which corners. They are some of the toughest

sportsmen you will ever meet: mentally, physically and competitively. This season will see the highest number of world champions line up on the grid in the history of Formula 1. There will be six in total, including Kimi Raikkonen, the monosyllabic Finn with a penchant for vodka, ice creams and massive nights out. A driver blessed with the kind of natural racing ability that almost seems to have been bestowed from on high,

There is only one person who knows how quick the car actually is: the driver. This first day is therefore not about reading times, it’s about reading body language he returns to the sport having walked away two years ago to try his hand at Rallying. With the new and highly secretive Red Bull not due to run until lunchtime it is perhaps unsurprising that the biggest buzz surrounds Raikkonen’s garage on the first morning of testing. But it is his compatriot Heikki Kovalainen, driving for Caterham, who is the first to step into a 2012 car and launch it around the circuit, exiting the pitlane precisely as the clock hits 09:00 and the most important day of the year begins. The drivers will conduct installation laps, checking that everything with the car is working correctly. When the data is checked, and everything is confirmed to be operating as it should, the test programme can begin, and the driver will get his first real taste of his 2012 car. The problem with testing is that nobody can ever know, with absolute clarity, how much better or worse than their rivals their cars actually are. Everyone will run different fuel

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levels meaning their cars will be different weights. Some will try long runs in excess of 20 laps to gain an understanding of how the car works in race trim. Some will be fuelled for just five sprint laps, to get an idea of how the car will be in qualifying. Different tyre compounds will be used at different times of the day when track temperature, air temperature, wind speed and direction will all have a bearing on how slow or fast a lap time will be. Journalists will sit in the media centre, watching the laptimes come in on banks of screens, trying to decipher a code which is nigh on impossible to break. There is only one person who knows how quick the car actually is: the driver. This first day is therefore not about reading times, it’s about reading body language. With testing being conducted using smoke and mirrors, it is in the words a driver uses to talk to the press and explain his day, the agitation or ease with which he describes the car’s handling to his engineers, or simply the way he holds himself

POWER: WILL BUXTON that tells you what you need to know. Jenson Button, the 2009 world champion, knows that feeling only too well. At the end of the 2008 season his Honda team pulled out of the sport leaving him unemployed. Ross Brawn, his team boss who had overseen Michael Schumacher’s championship triumphs at Benetton and Ferrari, bought the team, created BrawnGP and set about creating a car for the 2009 season. The team missed every test except for the very last four-day session in Barcelona. Jenson conducted his first few laps in the car, brought it back to the pits, climbed out and looked at the times. He was fastest. And not by a small margin. Rumour has it he walked straight into the team truck, opened his laptop and placed a bet on himself and his team to win that year’s world championships. They would go on to win both titles. Nobody knows how much Jenson had bet on himself but the odds that day had him and the team at over 500:1. And that’s why this day is so important. When a car is good, when it is championship-winning good, the driver just knows. And when it isn’t, when it fails to go for two laps without breaking down, or when it runs without failure but handles so badly the driver might as well be driving a truck on ice, then a driver is faced with the gut-wrenching knowledge that he will struggle not just to win races, but to even score a point. The Red Bull finally breaks cover at midday. It’s a neat solution to the regulations and features some interesting elements. The photographers click away, the journalists stand, nod and make interested noises. And then it’s gone, out on track. Within no time it is up to speed. Watching it tackle the many corners of the Circuito de Jerez, the car seems to be running on rails, a sign of a well balanced car and one in which the driver, Mark Webber, already feels comfortable. As the championship winning team for the last two years, everybody knows this will doubtless be the car to beat. Red Bull Racing

has Adrian Newey in their employ, the highest regarded designer in the sport. Put simply, he just doesn’t produce bad cars. But it isn’t the Red Bull that finishes the day on top. That honour falls to Raikkonen with a laptime faster than we saw at this track in preseason testing last season. Naturally, the questions start to surface. Was it a low fuel run? Was it grandstanding for the team’s sponsors who were present in numbers for the first day of testing? Was it the team creating the perfect headline-grabbing story for the returning champion? And so, the acid test. Hear what the man has to say. Watch him, watch how he moves, how he walks. But then you remember… it’s Kimi Raikkonen. The man who on winning the world championship, sounded about as happy as someone who’d just discovered that their most beloved pet had died. But the man who hates talking to the press is surprisingly open and relatively chatty. He stands at ease, raising a smirk, a grin, a knowing glint in his eye. He tells the press he wasn’t

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on a low fuel run, the car is just quick. Jenson Button has been driving out on track with Raikkonen all day. He, too, seems happy. His team has taken a unique design approach to the season, but the car has run without major issue and is clearly fast out of the box. He can’t help but smile, laugh and tell us all that it’s been a good day. Ahhh, those golden words... a good day. And as for his feelings on Raikkonen’s lap time? As Button was only too ready to admit, low fuel or not, his rival’s car is clearly quick. And like that, the first day of testing is over. The sun begins to set as the teams get down to work on the cars for the following day. Just 11 days of testing now remain before the teams, their cars and their hopes of glory are shipped off to Australia for the first race of the season. Ironically, it is only there, in Melbourne, that we will know for sure who is truly competitive. These cars will develop and change over the coming days of testing as problems are ironed out, and initial designs tweaked. As for now, the phony war has

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begun. From the outside, all we can do is look at the lap times, watch the cars on track, note how well they stick to the road and how comfortable the driver seems to be within them, and, of course, watch the drivers and their body language outside the car. Deep down, however, only a few of them will feel, in the pit of their stomach, that this could be their year. They will have that excitement, that anticipation, and for them Australia will not be able to come soon enough. For the others, they will pray that Australia was further away, as the realisation of another trying season unfolds ahead of them. Amongst these 24 heroes, there will be but one champion in 2012. The balance of power has been created. Their fate has already been set. And all the while, as we try and guess what the drivers will already know, back in the factories of the Formula 1 teams work will already have started on the 2013 car. The countdown is on. The most important day of the Formula 1 season is now just under a year away.

POWER: W.M.LEWIS

COLOSSUS We found a new Colossus, though ‘discovered’ is a better word. His torso is a map of Hell from which we’ve been inured.

They paved the road, they wiped the sweat from brows of stinking men. They wiped the other gunk off, too, and whispered deaths to them.

His legs are roads, his eyes are stars, his toes an understanding. They display without a moment’s pause the demons he commanded.

He is a thing of wonder, though: the ancient past, and more. He makes us wish we understood what had gone on before.

He was buried in the mountains, which used to be the sea, and fighting with the rock and shells for anonymity.

Before the wars, before the peace bought so dearly with the blood of those they slaughtered and the tears of those who lived.

They made them big in those days, one digger spake with mirth. They made them big, I think I said, to terrorize our worth.

The digger turned to me and spat and threw upon the earth, his shovel, wishes, wonderings, accompanied by a curse.

They carved it when they thought that they were finally in the clear. They were celebrating freedom, though it’s what I know they feared.

I came here after myths, said he, I didn’t want the truth. I spat right back, What you’d expect? When what you want is worse.

The first one was for Victory, while this one was for Lust. The wrenching cries from war became just words immersed in dust.

We found a new Colossus, yes, he exceeded all our hopes. But we were left wondering just this: are we and History dopes?

The dead tongue wrapped around his thigh: You see it fails to say? The slaves and whelps and women were the ones who had to pay.

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THE TYRANNY OF GOVERNMENTS

By W.M.Lewis

Politics is what we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say At the breakfast table Then on the train We arrive at the tyranny of governments before our destination Always Over the cereal Across the aisle Those of us who are free take the first bites We chew so slowly

TENDER BIRDS IN CONFERENCE The tender birds in conference like those old men of Versailles deciding the fate of the world ; arguing over every crumb with the aid of fine whiskey as if they were Poland Oslo Berlin ; who will take their sepia photographs write partisan biographies and comfort their loving wives with lies ?

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POWER: KYRSTEN BEAN

“There’s

a part of me that doesn’t want you to succeed,” he says. The musician and I are sitting on his king-size bed, our backs resting on the headboard. We are staring out the window at the blue sky, other Park La Brea apartment buildings stretching out as far as the eye can see. “Why?” I ask. “I’m afraid that if you do,

you’ll leave me.” I am his girl of the moment, one of many to come and many before me, but at this moment, I am the girl. This is all that matters. I’m in Fresno. I drove three hours with my little sister and her friend to see his show. He loops samples in his songs – a chain gang singing the blues, a Bulgarian women’s choir, Gregorian chants – they play behind electric guitars, drums and bass. His melodies splice themselves straight into my head, leave me hungry for more,

as if Mozart has come alive in the twentieth century to try his hand at rock and roll. I’m jealous. I want to be that good. As I stand near the stage, an errant foot connected to a crowd surfer hits me in the head, sends my face slamming into the guard rail. Sparks and blackness swim in front of my open eye as I cover the other one with my hand, push my way out of the venue in a rush, aiming for the fresh, cold February air outside. As I head towards the tour buses, a tall guy with a beanie cap emerges from the venue,

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walking out from behind a chain link fence. He lights a cigarette. “Hey,” I say. He looks up from his cigarette. It feels familiar, this scene. “You’re a musician, too, aren’t you?” he asks. He remembers me from an email conversation, but I swear I’ve met him in person before, in a parallel world. He moves closer, we fall in step, heading towards the sidewalk, where we stand, making small talk and then eventually, as we continue to talk, we sit side by side, our feet stretching out onto the black asphalt of the street.

The world stops spinning, I feel breathless as he continues to ask me question after question about my life. I joke with him about his shoes -- his big boots. “You know what they say,” he says, and I’m too young to cringe at the cliche. On the drive home, I notice a flashing light in my rear view mirror. As he approaches my window, the cop tells me to get out of my car. “What happened to your eye?” he asks, staring at my face. “I was at a show, got hit by

a crowd surfer.” He sneers. “Are you sure your boyfriend didn’t hit you?” he asks. “I would never let a boyfriend hit me,” I say. “Not unless I hit him first.” He lets me go, not finding anything else to hold me for. We are sitting at a fancy restaurant in Santa Monica, on a date. The musician has offered to help me with my songs, let me

IDE

By Kyrsten Bean

ISSUE 5 2013

POWER: KYRSTEN BEAN

sing on his. We are sharing dark red wine from a giant glass. Before I put the wine to my mouth, tip it back, remember the bitter, sour taste, I will have been sober for four years. I feel the old familiar wooze, a lost friend, slip over me, and I relax, falling into the warm copacetic balm. I am sitting across from a man I am infatuated with, he wants me here. My guts feel as if they’ve been snipped out of me, are dangling by a thread and swinging, a nervous tingle creeping through me every time he watches me. He feeds me buttery salmon gnocchi from a fork, it is better than anything I’ve tasted in my life. After he pays the hefty check, an amount I don’t even earn in a week, we go outside, onto the pavement. “Look at the stars,” he says. I look up, and he kisses me full on the mouth. We walk to the car, the electricity so thick between us I can’t even touch him. I’m afraid I’ll short circuit. It is four in the afternoon. I am laying on the same side of the bed we were on when he told me he was afraid of me succeeding, downing Tylenol PM, chain smoking cigarettes. I stare out at the light blue sky, tufts of tiny clouds wisping by. He is composing songs in his studio. My guitar sits face up on the floor by the side of the bed, untouched; I am afraid to touch it in his presence. He loops a woman’s voice through his keyboard, a mournful, haunting lament. It plays over and over again as he layers it with drums, bass and guitar. I will the Tylenol PM to kick in, to turn my brain off, but I remain conscious. Sensing an ending of some kind – the nice dinners and deep conversations have stopped – I tell him I’m going home for a bit. I haven’t been able to find a job other than a purely commission telemarketing gig I quit the first day;

I’ve been circling ads for months. That’s a good idea, he says. After we load all of my belongings into my tiny Acura Integra, I sit in the driver’s seat. He slides into the passenger seat. I start sobbing. I’ve got chunks of snot pouring from my nose, keep wiping it on my arm. He is staring at me like I’m a toy that broke in his hands, angry and a little confused. “What is wrong with you?” he asks. “Why aren’t you more responsible?” He asks me why we didn’t even use condoms in all the time we’ve been together. I shake my head. “Can I come up and use your phone?” I ask. “No.” He says it so loud, and with so much heat, I flinch. “I don’t have enough money to get home,” I say. He pulls bills out of his wallet. “Is this enough?” he asks. I nod. I want him out of my car, now. But I desperately need him to stay in my car. It is this very struggle that will keep us repeating an increasingly repugnant scenario over and over again, in which he will call and beg and coax and I will crumble and acquiesce, quickly going into withdrawal without his eyes on mine, his approval, his fixation, a year in which I will allow him to hollow me out, making myself into an empty vessel for him to fill with his own insatiable need. As I lay on his couch in Burbank, asleep after blacking out, he straddles my pelvis, starts hitting me in the

I’m in the Arctic, I am ice an avalanche down a s waters. I can already fe

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face. He is wearing blue briefs I’ve never seen him wear before, the bulk of his now significant body weight pinning me down. How fancy, I think. The girl he is currently fucking, the girl sleeping in his bedroom at this very moment, must have bought them for him. “You are such a drama queen,” he shouts in my face as he smacks it harder and harder. His black unruly hair is scattered like the fur of a road kill animal. “You only care about yourself.” Smack. “What the fuck is your problem.” I lay there, drunk, not flinching. I’m sure I deserve this; that I asked for it by using the knife in his kitchen on my own skin hours ago. When he took a break from her in the bedroom to come try and fool around with me in the living room, I told him not to get blood on himself, wiped my wrist across his arm. Later, that night, after he kicks me out and I come back, beg to stay because I don’t want to take a taxi back to my car in North Hollywood, she will goad me to do it and I will smack him across the side of his face as he sets his jaw, stares into my eyes, says, “Yea, hit me.” I won’t think about the feeling that I was in the exact right place at the exact right time. I won’t think about purity. Instead, I will think that hitting him feels a lot like hitting myself. Useless. In the morning, he drives me to my car, still parked on Wilshire Boulevard, where his girlfriend and I were partying with her coke dealer

e sheets, I am sliding in snowy bank into black eel myself going under

for three days before things went awry and she called him to come and rescue her. My replacement sleeps on his king size bed, waiting for him to be done with me. “What happened to you?” he asks. His eyes tilt and fixate on the scab in the corner of my chapped lips. “What happened to your lip?” he asks. He knows about the pills, about the cocaine, about the vodka he bought us to come down off it. I stare at his strange eyes, his eyes that are avoiding my eyes. “I don’t know,” I say. I get out of the car. There is electricity between us, but it is only an errant spark from a snipped wire. He drives away as I sit in my car, not looking at him go. I stare out the windshield, at the palm trees outside. My body starts shaking. I realize I’m crying, gutwrenching sobs. I light a cigarette, choking on snot and spit and smoke as I start up the car. The phone is blinking as I walk through the front door. I’m in San Francisco – in the apartment I share with a new boyfriend. I pick up the phone, check the messages. His voice stops me in my tracks: I’m in the Arctic, I am ice sheets, I am sliding in an avalanche down a snowy bank into black waters. I can already feel myself going under. “Just calling to say hi,” says the voice I know so well, that California guy voice that says “like” and “rad,” but sings about loss and sanctity and pain. I can see the hook, the fish line, the hand connected to the pole. I run through every permutation of scene in my head – what he would say, what I would say, what he would ask me to do. I make a decision, standing on the hardwood floors of my foyer: I will break my slide. I will not call him back. Later, I will find my voice in the background of one of his songs, a song of his we worked on together, a song he later sold for cash.

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POWER: ELLY LACEY

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N E E U Q S A W IF I … D L R O W E H T OF By Elly Lacey

I mean for the riches, t n’ do I d. fe uf ch ty e World I’d be pret y father entirely for m e am bl I . If I was Queen of th ad m er w ranks see I’m a little bit po through the teaching want the power. You se ri m hi w sa I up dly. I – as I grew age I didn’t do too ba im s hi this state of affairs In . at th of or ing of this, direct l and then, the tower ir G d ea and become chairman H y ut ep D ep, Form Captain, the World is still the of en ue Q ut started with Form R B . ty cie e Musical Theatre So glory, President of th ultimate goal. ter is a highly sought af ld or W e th of en ue e position of Q onstrate this I have m de To I understand that th . ng ro st y rl candidacy is particula Order, as t’were… one but I believe my ld or W ew N or s ea strategy id pulled together some like. exhill-on-sea and the B , ls el W e dg ri nb Tu to be banished to * Slow-walking people ays. down for families, go s st co t * Four-day-weeks. Alw igh fl – week summer holiday my afraid they’re h “O . e.g lls ca k or * Everyone has a six w d decrease and no waste you”. opportunities to riot paid a lot more than ts ge ly ab ob pr e sh , ah lish Literature degree ng E y on holiday…Antigua…ye er ev on ed ur tter series is feat * The entire Harry Po course. exiled. * Odd socks will be put on mute. Forever. is ey el ad M aracters. It was just d ch ar en M ich R ad * M of e ag ust dress in the im * The whole world m Muppets’ Christmas e Th on d te better then, wasn’t it? ta ins re e is sung by Michael Cain * ‘The Love is Gone’ e , I’m still annoyed. ovies are made of th m at re -g Carol DVD. Oh yeah so tno e th the books before * Everyone must read t. main forms transpor books. e th e ar s et rp ca ic rting and mag * Time travel, telepo the World. I look of en ue Q r fo n tio ering my applica Thank you for consid onse. forward to your resp the time being then… r fo y tr en ta da is Better get back to th

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WORK TITLE: ARTIST

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ISSUE THREE THEME:

IDENTITY PICTURES PAGE 78 Some of our favourite photos and art from the Identity issue by Francis Hawkins, Daniel..D. Moses, .. Olga Valeska, Katie Fearn and Jurgen Burgin WORDS PAGE 88 Jeff Chandler takes us behind the curtain PAGE 90 The wonderful double identity project by Caroline Briggs PAGE 96 Not just a uniform by Gareth Liley PAGE 98 Mummy, am I fat by Emily Tredinnick ISSUE 5 2013

A SELECTION OF OUR FAVOURITE PICTURES FROM ISSUE 3

IDENTITY: SNAPSHOT

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Frances Hawkins looks back on her past

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IDENTITY: SNAPSHOT

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Daniel D. Moses gives us a glimpse of his Lightbulb project

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IDENTITY: SNAPSHOT

Some of Olga Valeskaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stunning self portraits

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IDENTITY: SNAPSHOT

Katie Fearn’s fairy-tale style

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IDENTITY: SNAPSHOT

.. .. Jurgen Burgin’s inimitable style

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IDENTITY: JEFF CHANDLER

VANISH As the

light slowly dims, a ghostly silence falls over the auditorium. Crisp packets stop rustling, paper ceases to turn and conversation falls away. Darkness surrounds me as I walk into position, and there I stand. Invisible. Waiting. A solitary cough rings out. Music begins to stir and my body is suddenly filled with electricity, forcing my heart to beat its way out of my chest. With a flick of a switch, light floods dramatically onto the dusty stage and so begins the spectacle. It has begun. And I vanish. For the next 90 minutes, I no longer exist. Diving deep into my new identity, I swim around in it, safe in the knowledge that even Miss Marple couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find me. I love the feeling of having everything wash away in an instant as I become someone completely different, forgetting everything that I am. From up here, bathed in bright light, a thousand people disappear into the darkness. I know that they are there, watching, listening even though I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see them. I will never know who they all are. In a few short minutes light will change and applause will pour onto the stage, pulling me back in the room; son, brother, uncle, lover, friend, confidant and everything else in between. Each identity wrapped neatly into a single package. I will have my successes and failures, hopes and fears once again... But for now, I am immersed in the moment and nothing else exists.

By Jeff Chandler

ISSUE 5 2013

IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

DOUBL IDENT By Caroline Briggs

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Being an

identical twin, and my relationship with my sister, has been the most important influence on me and my life. As a photographer, it is therefore perhaps not surprising it also proved to be the biggest inspiration on my work. And I’m not the only one. Identical twins are a popular subject for photographers, including the likes of Diane Arbus and Mary Ellen Mark, and it is easy to understand why. It’s the intuitive empathy, the watertight bond, and, of course, having a real-life clone that seems to fascinate nontwins. So while I was a little nervous about taking on such a well-worn topic, I hope my personal experience of being one half of a pair means I’m approaching it from a slightly different perspective. Like most twins, I hate being compared to my sister. Which one is the prettiest? Who is the cleverest? Most twin photographs encourage the viewer to do just that – linedup side-by-side, the images invite the viewer to flick from one face to the other… and back again. It’s a voyeuristic approach that plays on the novelty factor of twins, and one that – I think – exists for the non-twin to indulge in.

LE TITY

While I’m also interested in those physical similarities and differences, it is the inward, emotional side of being one half of pair that preoccupies me. The battle between wanting to be alike, yet craving an identity separate from your twin, is one I have lived. Identical twins endure a particular struggle with identity. Their search for self is dominated by their twin status - an intense bond defined by conflict, companionship, love, competition, sharing, and separation and, of course, a shared physical appearance. It means each twin has two identities - as an individual,

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IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

and as a twin. I am Caroline, but I am also one of ‘the twinnies’. I draw of both of these identities daily, and each is as important as the other.  My series, using a double exposure technique, allows the viewer to appreciate the twins’ physical similarities and differences, and thus see them for the individuals they are. There is no way of knowing who is the prettiest, or the fattest, or make any other direct comparison, merely accept there are two separate people in the portrait. I want the viewer to look at the portraits and to understand the realities of being identical twin. Not the misty-eyed, ego-driven urge for a lookalike and best friend, but what it must be like to live your life inexorably linked to another. By creating a single portrait from two people also poses questions about the twins’ relationship and their desire - or lack of desire - to live completely separate lives. Who is this ‘third’ person who seems to be both twins at the same time? Is it their shared identity, or is it the person they would have been if they had been born a singleton? Take me and my sister. Kelly is kind, caring and trusting to a fault. I’m told I’m more wary, cynical and confident. It is almost as if our characteristics developed to balance each other out. But scratch below the surface and you see we are we are incredibly similar. It makes me wonder if the face I show the

world the person I actually am, or the one being a twin has made me. The process itself is straight-forward. I shoot each twin individually in the studio while the other is in the room and have a chat about what they like and dislike about being twins – it’s good that we have that in common. When the second twin sits for the picture on the same stool, with the same backdrop and lighting, I rarely have to give them much direction - they seem to instinctively tilt their head to the same angle, or eye-level, which I find fascinating. In postproduction I overlay one twin on top of the other so each face has equal prominence. Sometimes some features fit identically, other times their faces seem so different. Photographing young twins is interesting as they are the ones who look most alike and turn up for the shoot wearing the identical clothes chosen by their parents and an unquestioning acceptance of being one of a pair. By teenage years the struggle for identity is beginning to show in their choice of clothes and hairstyles and the tensions in their relationships is palpable. Older twins are the most interesting to shoot. Often their life choices and experiences show in the face and the physical differences are very clear. But it is the warmth and easiness between them, and their shared delight in being a twin, that makes the relationship feel so special.

The project is very much ongoing and I’m always is keen to hear from twins – particularly adult twins – who might be interested in taking part. My email is caroline@carolinebriggs.co.uk

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IDENTITY: CAROLINE BRIGGS

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IDENTITY: GARETH LILEY

I walk

into a well-known bar in my local town. Its Friday and I’ve just finished a 10 hour shift. It’s time to get my “drink on”. I’m with one of my ‘buddies’ from PDU (professional Development unit) and we are in the mood for a good ole’ booze up. As we walk past the smoker’s area my mate whispers, “oh shit, let’s move, quickly!” I pick up on the fact that he’s clearly seen someone he doesn’t want to bump into. I figure it’s an old flame or something so I quickly usher him through the doors where we have our hands stamped for entry. As we make our way to the bar I decide to do some fishing to find out what made my mate so shifty. He nods towards the entrance to the bar where I see 3, tall, skin heads making trouble with the bouncers. “Oh shit” I mutter , echong his previous statement, I glance at him and we both quickly grab our beers and stalk off to the darkest, quietest part of the bar. Now I don’t want you to think that we’re into anything dodgy, we don’t owe gangsters money and we definitely aren’t into drugs. Our concerns were of a purely professional nature. As two student police officers the 3 gentlemen with shaved heads were well known to us. In fact, we had nicked two of them for public order offences the previous evening. An altercation that did not go well and resulted in my buddy and I having to use C&R (control and restraint) in order to move one of them from the van to the cell at custody. Now we have a decision to make, we know we are in a bad situation, these guys are known violent offenders who do not like police. To make matters worse they knew us and were probably still not happy with the fact we had arrested them, we had to decide how to leave. We chose to finish our beers quietly and then just walk out, we had lost sight of the lads and figured they had left, or were out in the smoking area. After finishing our beers we went back up to the bar to put our glasses down – a little habit we have. As I put my glass on the bar I turned to look for my

NOT

A T S JU UNIFORM

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Somewhere along the line we have adopted a theory that our ‘identity’ is held in our bank statements, utility bills and other shred-able documents. We forget what a person’s identity really is. People are made up of a million ‘individualisms’ which make them who they are. Their lives, their hopes and dreams and unique personal characteristics. Do we ever picture the Al-Qaeda terrorist taking his children to the park for an ice cream? What about the Bishop in black with a dog collar, imagine him with a scotch in a crowded bar watching the footie? Identity can be stripped away or provided in abundance just by the job we have, the uniform we wear or the way we look. We can make instant opinions and decisions about a complete stranger just based on their looks, the way they walk or their accent. Far too often people forget the true meaning of identity. Strive to be different, strive to conceive ideas others don’t, look past your first opinions to find, in any way you can, the most important part of each person you meet. Their identity.

By Gareth Liley ISSUE 5 2013

PICTURE CREDIT: 1000 WORDS / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM

colleague who was already a few feet ahead of me on the way to the door. As I follow him I misjudge a gap and knock into the person to my right, spilling the remains of his beer all over the floor. I quickly bent down to pick up the fallen glass and stand up apologising all the while for my clumsiness. As I look to the person who’s drink I’ve spilled I wither inside realising that, as per usual, sods law has dictated that I bump into one of the skinheads and it would of course be the oh-so-savoury individual that I’d had the pleasure to arrest the previous day. “Oh, sorry mate” I mutter, all the while screaming “OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT” in my head. I waited for the recognition which was bound to come, an eternity passes in the blink of an eye as I hold my breath, waiting for it to all kick off. “No worries mate didn’t see you there”, the skinhead mutters, clearly embarrassed at his own clumsiness. “Ok cheers”, I say not really processing the way the situation is panning out. I’m half way to the door before it all clicks in my head. “WAIT… Hold on, did he just say that? My head whips round to look at him and he grins at me and says “no harm done blud”. BLUD? This is not what I had been expecting. Shouting, punching, stabbing even, but not... “BLUD”! I hurry past him to catch up with my mate and we spend some time discussing the incident on our walk to the off licence to get beers for home. v It has been three years since this incident but it stands out as one that illustrates the power of identity. As a police officer I was just a uniform, a statement of power and loss of rights to freedom. As a civilian I posed no threat. Despite spending 4 hours with the gentleman the day before, I realised he had only seen my uniform. As a police officer I was too far removed for any ‘normal’ human being, I couldn’t be a person with hobbies or interests. It was inconceivable that I could have a social life, or love life. My uniform had been my mask, the law my cloak. It made me unrecognisable. In effect ‘I’ ceased to exist. I mean, the real me. So many people think that stripping someone of their identity would be complicated, expensive or time consuming.

IDENTITY: EMILY TREDINNICK

Mummy, am I fat? By Emily Tredinnick

‘Mummy, am I fat?’ asked Brianna, my tenyear-old sister. She was standing in front of her bedroom mirror at the time, having just tried on a bikini for a summer holiday. Although Mum reassured her, as Mum’s do, what struck me from overhearing my little sister’s concerns, were her insecurities over her body image. And she was only ten-years-old. Over the past decade, girls from the ages of six and upwards have become increasingly obsessed with their identities. From an early age, most girls, as well as boys, are introduced to the stereotypical expectations of their sex. Retailers have targeted young children by selling Barbie dolls to girls and action-hero figures for boys. But it’s the more recent issues regarding the mass media’s influence on the identities of young girls, which has caused concerns. A couple of years ago, I used my final piece for my photography A-Level to focus on how the media has an affect on teenage girls. I was inspired by the work of documentary photographer and filmmaker, Lauren Greenfield, who had completed a

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project based on the influences of the media, advertising and peer groups on young women. The project, ‘Girl Culture’, examined how girls and women suffer from issues with their self-esteem and body image. Although Greenfield’s photographs of women as bodybuilders and models were troubling, it was the unnerving images of teenage girls that stood out. In an interview, Greenfield declared how ‘the body has become the primary canvas on which girls express their identities, insecurities, ambitions, and struggles’. But this metaphorical ‘canvas’ has to be skinny, desirable and attractive, as Greenfield’s photographs show. Girls would pose in provocative ways to meet the idealised image the media promotes. Despite Greenfield’s documentary being completed over ten years ago, the photographs and her findings are still relevant to today’s society where the mass media are persistently bombarding teenagers with messages related to their identities and body image. In the UK, the reality TV shows, ‘The Only Way Is Essex’, ‘Desperate Scousewives’ and ‘Geordie Shore’, focus on the regional lifestyles of men and women. These programmes have been criticised for producing inappropriate role models for young girls, as the shows promote girls with limited ambition who favour a materialistic world of fake-tan and hair extensions. The commercialisation industry as well as TV have also been criticised for encouraging the sexualisation of young girls. The UK clothing retailer, Primark, was in

the news recently for selling padded bras to children as young as seven. Aside from the mass media influences, however, lies a darker and more intense pressure that is found in peer groups. From what I can remember at school, girls were constantly competing with one another for popularity. Whoever had the best self-image, clothes and make-up would be admired. Anyone who stood out as original or unique would be considered otherwise. You had to conform to be ‘accepted’, although in reality girls were losing their identities and becoming clones of each other instead. Body image also became crucial to how girls were perceived. At my school, boys would use the back of their notebooks to jot down their ‘perfect girl’. This fantasy girl was made up of different bodily parts from girls in our form, i.e. Jessica’s boobs and Lucy’s legs. It seems crazy now, but at the time you would be considered un-popular if boys believed you were unattractive. It’s easy to sit here and say that teenage girls should stop worrying about their image and instead, go outside for some fresh air. But it is important to figure out who you are and what you’re about. When your body starts to change, it can be hard to deal with. You want to be older than you really are and be like the singers on MTV or the models in Grazia. Perhaps I sound like a middle-age nag, but it is because I have experienced the pressure, the expectations, the battle to survive in your peer group, that I can relate to the issues of identity that teenagers are faced with today.

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WORK TITLE: ARTIST

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ISSUE FOUR THEME:

HUMAN CONDITION PICTURES PAGE 102 Some of our favourite photos and art from the Human Condition issue by Mark Smart, Nicole Kircher, Emelie Gilson and Illustrating Rain WORDS PAGE 110 A Kryptonian view of the Human Condition PAGE 112 Deliverance, a short story by Emma Seymour PAGE 116 Sgt.Pilko even manages to find a story in a desk PAGE 118 The Switch by Luis Amate Perez PAGE 121 Poetry of life and death by Jade Leaf Willetts ISSUE 5 2013

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A SELECTION OF OUR FAVOURITE PICTURES FROM ISSUE 4

HUMAN CONDITION: SNAPSHOT

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Mark Smartâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beautiful portraits of human life ISSUE 5 2013

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HUMAN CONDITION: SNAPSHOT

104

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More than flesh by Nicole Kircher

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105

HUMAN CONDITION: SNAPSHOT

Exploring life and death with Emelie Gilson

106

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107

HUMAN CONDITION: SNAPSHOT

108

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Drawing the patterns of the mind by Illustrating Rain

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HUMAN CONDITION: SUPERMAN

N A M PER

SU S AY S

We’ve were lucky enough to grab a word with the one and only Superman to get his view on our theme – The Human Condition. Ben Turner asks the questions... As a Kryptonian what do you see as ‘The Human Condition’ and is there a Kryptonian equivalent? Do you have the same goals and fears as us? The perfect example of the human condition is calling the first flying man you see a bird or a plane. And to be honest, I don’t know if we had “The Kryptonian Condition” back home. Even if we did, probably it exploded along with the planet. When it comes to goals&fears mine are a bit different than the common man. My biggest goal is to wear rash-free tights one day and my biggest fear is to fly under an airplane toilet at the wrong time.

What do you think are the human race’s best and worst qualities? Best quality: Sense of humor (Excuse my American spelling there..) Worst quality: Kim Kardashian

Q Q

110

I’m sure we’d all like to be Kryptonians, with the excellent black

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outfits and all those crystals lying around, do you ever wish you were a human? Well this is a hard one to answer. I’m still trying to solve my dual personality disorder issues with my shrink. Clark, do you want to answer this one? . . . He doesn’t. Do you have a favourite Human – not including Lois – who are they and why? I love everyone who buys my official S-shirts. I make a 50 percent sales commission on all sales.

And finally, we think a very important part of being human is the ability to laugh, have you learnt any good jokes since being here? - Knock knock. - Who’s there?” - I’m Batman - Batman Who? - Alfred, your Alzheimer’s is getting worse. Open the door.

“sorry, was I meant to be writing down the answers?” ISSUE 5 2013

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DELIVERANCE HUMAN CONDITION: EMMA SEYMOUR

The woman looks down at the paper again. 5.30pm Dr Richards, Wellness Centre. The desk clock flicks to 3:24. Not long, she thinks. It’s stuffy inside the flat so she opens the window. The still February day enters the room. Everything is grey this time of year, the sky is white, a sun-bleached photograph. A crow swoops down to snatch at a worm, exposed and vulnerable in the middle of the lawn below. Another crow joins the grappling pair, unfairly matched. A tug-of-war begins. The woman turns away from the scene and plunges into the bathroom. She runs a bath. The water bubbles and steams, slowly filling the tub. It seems to take an age, the water inching its way up the side until she gets impatient and gets in. She is submerged only up to her knees. Her mind turns to this evening. Have I made the right decision? Or am I being rash and hot headed. Mum always used to accuse of me of acting first and thinking later. No, I’ve had plenty of time to think this through. I’ve thought of nothing else since that day two months ago. v It was already getting dark outside as I sat in the itchy polyester chair in Dr Lovell’s office. I remember thinking the tinsel stuck to the outside of her computer was pretty

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inappropriate given the occasion. The room was still ringing with the echo of her words. Awkward in the ensuing silence. The ancient storage heater pumped out stale, warm air and the white walls of the small room seemed all of a sudden oppressive. I need to get out. I eyed the window and thought momentarily of making a break for it. But instead I said thank you, got up and walked calmly to the door, grasping the handle to steady myself. v The woman rinses the shampoo from her hair, letting the hot water soothe her aching head. The pain has intensified again. Forcing her eyes shut as if to block out the shards of glass cutting through her scalp, she massages her temples. Yes, she thinks. I’m doing the right thing. Back in her bedroom she carefully leafs through her wardrobe, hovering momentarily over a strappy scarlet number. She pushes it aside and instead reaches for a dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt dress. The wool feels soft on her skin, comforting. Black leggings, black boots, red lipstick. Teasing her hair into place she eyes herself in the mirror. Something’s missing. She reaches under the bed and gropes around. After a couple of minutes her fingers chance upon it. The box’s

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By Emma Seymour smooth, hard surface offers itself to her. She pulls it out. A thick film of dust has dulled the once bright burgundy cover. Taking a deep breath, she opens it. An old cinema stub, a plastic flower, a bus ticket to somewhere distant and foreign, a business card, a packet of matches, a handwritten letter, a photograph. She pauses over the fading image. The smiling faces look almost alien. Then there it is. The soft velvet pouch reveals itself. Pulling gently at the ribbon it opens. Inside the woman touches the ring. Fading in the dark it has lost its old sparkle. Bit like me, she thinks. She slides it onto her left hand, packs up the rest of the box and puts it back under the bed where she found it. Dr Richards eyes the file quickly and closes it with a sigh. He checks the clock on the wall above his desk. 5:20. He lifts the phone and dials 0 for his assistant. “Is it all prepared?” he asks. “All ready Dr Richards,” said Sylvie. “I did have one question though. Are you sure she didn’t want anybody here?” “Of course.” “And she didn’t want to call anybody, not a relative even?” “What does it say on the form?”

Silence. “Sylvie?” “It says no visitors. It’s just, well if it was up to me…” “Well fortunately for you Sylvie it’s not up to you. It’s not for us to question what our clients…” “I know, ‘our clients’ choice is paramount’ and all that. I dunno it’s just…” “What Sylvie?” There’s a pause. Sylvie lets out a slow breath. “Nothing.” The taxi pulls up outside the pristine white building. It’s raining now so the woman reaches for her umbrella, fumbling for the fare. The driver avoids her eyes as she hands him the money. Inside the building there’s a strange smell, a mixture of antiseptic and vanilla. The smell of fear, she thinks, snorting to herself for being so melodramatic. She walks over to reception and hands the lady her appointment card. The receptionist’s dark curly hair crowns her face like a halo. “Good evening,” she says. “I’m Sylvie. Please come through.” The woman follows Sylvie through a wooden door and into a bright corridor beyond.

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HUMAN CONDITION: EMMA SEYMOUR

They pass several closed rooms before reaching an open doorway at the end. The room is sparsely decorated. A heavy wooden table sits in the middle of the space, surrounded by three chairs. There’s a bed in the corner by the window, scattered with chintzy cushions and a plaid blanket. Either side is a small table. The curtains are drawn and a lamp lets out a dim glow, giving the room a feeling of familiarity. Like being at your Grandma’s house. “Just make yourself comfortable,” said Sylvie. “There’s some paperwork we need you to look at and sign.” She gestures to the piles of paper on the table. They lay out side by side like marble tombstones. The woman nods. “Dr Richards will be with you shortly. If you need anything at all please don’t hesitate to ask.” Sylvie vanishes through the door and closes it behind her. Once again the woman is alone. v “I’m not angry,” I said. “Yes you are, I can tell. You’ve got that pursed lips thing and you’re cleaning. You only clean when you’re pissed off. Talk to me.” Poor Ryan, there really was no point. I couldn’t explain why I was upset. If he knew it was because I thought the romantic trip we’d just got back from hadn’t ended in a dramatic proposal, he’d run a mile. “It’s nothing,” I lied. “Clearly,” he said, an edge to his voice. This wasn’t fair. The thought hadn’t even entered my head until the girls at work started teasing me about it. ‘You’re going to Paris? Surely there’s only one reason he would take you to Paris on your birthday!’ They squealed like a bunch of overexcited children.

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It was ridiculous. I didn’t even want to get married that desperately. But the problem was, they’d planted a seed and that seed had grown. It had grown into an ugly weed, its roots lodged firmly in my brain, twisting and knotting until any sense of logic was suffocated. Ryan came back into the bedroom dressed in a coat and scarf. “I’m going for a walk.” The door shut behind him. I sat down on the bed and looked over at the birthday card on the desk. A cartoon bear holding a birthday cake grinned back at me. Get A Grip. Three hours later and my anger had turned to worry. Where the hell is he? The stew I’d lovingly prepared to say sorry sat on the hob expectantly. My stomach grumbled. There was a knock at the door. I waited. The oven clock said 9:15. Why would he knock? I got up, charging to the door. “About time,” I said. “Where have you…” But it wasn’t Ryan. Standing in the doorway where he should have been were two uniformed police officers. “Is this the residence of Ryan Allan?” “Yes,” I said breathlessly. “What’s happened? I’m his girlfriend.” “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.” v It’s been two months since the funeral. The body shuddering grief is gone, leaving only an empty pain in my chest. I’m shuffling around the flat, sorting through Ryan’s things. I’ve been putting it off but today the piles of empty meal boxes towering on the side force me out of

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my torpor. Macaroni cheese, vegetable curry, chow mein. Meals-for-one. I open the suitcase, still packed from Paris. His clothes smell musty. I tip it upside down, emptying the case. Something rattles. Setting the case down I notice a zip, hidden beneath the lining. I’ve not seen it before. I tug at it, slowly unfastening the pocket. Reaching inside, I feel the soft velvet beneath my fingers. v The woman leafs through the papers. I accept all responsibility…I fully understand the consequences. I am free to change my mind at any time. She signs along the dotted line. Her throat is dry so she pours herself some water, draining the glass just as fast. Her head is pounding now. There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” she says. Sylvie reappears. Checking the papers she nods. “Great, I mean…thank you. Dr Richards will be with you shortly. Please lie down on the bed or under the covers. As you wish.” And she’s gone. The woman slides herself onto the bed, leaning back against thee wooden headboard. I wonder how many people have lay here. She shudders. Don’t think about it. She peers through the gap in the curtains. It’s completely dark outside. A new moon. She looks down at her left hand, lightly brushing the ring with her finger. There’s another knock at the door and Dr Richards enters. He’s carrying a tray. On it is a glass of water and a tablet. “Good evening,” he says. “Hello,” the woman’s voice is raspy.

“You have signed all the documentation. But before we proceed I am required to ask, do you still wish to continue?” The woman nods. “Is that a yes?” “Yes.” “Very well. Are you ready?” v Dr Richards’ kind face is blank. He’s speaking but I can no longer hear him. The white tablet sticks in my throat as he hands me the water. It’s slightly milky in colour. I drink it down, lying back on the bed as Dr Richards takes the empty glass. “Just relax,” I hear his voice, distant and quiet. My eyelids feel heavy and I give in to the exhaustion sweeping my body. So tired. I feel as though I’m drifting out to sea. For the first time in months the pain has subsided, washing away with the tide. All is quiet. v Sylvie switches off her computer, puts on her coat and escapes into the night. Outside the rain has stopped. She drives onto the high street. Office workers spill out of the pubs, revelling in an evening pint. A gin and tonic. Sylvie keeps driving. She grips the steering wheel. It’s what she wanted. She shakes her head, hoping to rid herself of the day. She gets home at her usual time, eats with her husband and goes to bed. Her brain buzzes with another day’s events until tiredness takes over, pulling her into sleep. In the morning the sun rises, Sylvie wakes, gets dressed, gets in her car and goes to work. She takes her place at reception. Soon enough another client, anonymous, comes in through the front door for the last time.

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HUMAN CONDITION: SGT.PILKO

The apocal ago my gran burned her sleeve Twenty years while cooking milk. The culinary

world revolves around tomatoes and that liquid dairy gold. That was her way of thinking. Her shriek caused her voice to bleed and hence I never heard her call for tango and dinner as she plummeted head first into the family well. Father always maintained that it should have been moved from the hallway. I would later write daily passages on stone about this and my search for the smugglers inside the sandstone cliff. It was a Tuesday. Back on the train the Sarge looked at the man opposite, wondering what the air pressure change would bring as they descended the slight gradient at high speed. He concentrated hard on the man. His ears popped, in fact they exploded clean off the side of his head. Looking around, perplexed, he regained his composure and tried again. A whistling and then gurgling emerged from the bleeding holes on the side of his head. The vultures loomed... That was how he had envisaged his fathers death instead of the plain old age which had crept up on him. Upon alighting at the station the Sarge immediately sought out a library. He needed to be in the company of lots of paper. One was easy to find and soon he was inside like a man making love to a building, in and out, in and out, then finally giving a little cough before falling over limp. Looking up at the sun he suddenly thought how bad a sentence that was that was. Smut-laden-written-text.

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After a slight snooze he was back up and inside once more and found a wooden table to sit at. He read about cavemen, he read about the history of Avon, he even read about Reading. The town was of no interest at all. He began to doodle on the edge of the desk, his black biro making good steady work. Doodles on the edge of a desk in his local library – the crime! The shame! Oh but they were very good, even for his standards (which were normally very low and consisted of drawings of owls in different hats.) This time he had gone for a procession of enigmatic figures playing tuba’s, a man and a bowling green. v Suddenly several thousand years and 4 months into the future there was nothing but a stereotypical wasteland of a post apocalyptic world. Grey, smoke, bits of robots, and total desaturation of colour. Then, another something hundred years later, the seeds of a leftover civilisation had reconvened upon Earth’s surface. These new Earth dwellers are smart and keen and wish nothing more than to learn about humans of old. The one item telling of ancient man, that has managed to survive the ravages of time, is the doodled-on-desk. Only this desk has survived after the fall of man thanks to the Sarge sealing the images into the wood by wiping his ear wax over them, the bizarre depictions in biro are as vibrant as they were when new. Beings examine and study humans from these.

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lyptic desk From these drawings the beings made a hasty decision about their ancestors. The official report sent to the academical research and mind expansion centre read as follows:

ACADEMICAL RESEARCH AND MIND EXPANSION CENTRE FIND: WOODEN PANEL Decoration most likely ceremonial l Purpose uncle ar. Must have been a revered item to have such goo d lacquer* placed upon it. l Social intellige nce low, better off dead. l l

* re: lacquer- science boffs want a sample , to replicate this valuable substance.

Back at the library the Sarge had been rumbled, it was closing time and the librarian wanted her library back for herself. The sight of the Sarge digging deep into his lug-holes and smearing the dark, black brown substance onto her clean desks make her feel sick and violent. Not only this but closing time was when she could put her mix-tape and dance around the library revealing her true beauty to all of nobody. The Sarge instantly fell in love with her and while he was trying to reason this out with her, had was hauled out onto the pavement by his sleeve. Back home the half summoned spirit guide (in the form of an annoyed half made morris dancer) had slithered his way into the house and messed up the neat display of china tea cups, a prized collection amassed from years of visits to tea shops and stealing the china from bemused old lady folk. “What in blazes have you done? You half imagined half wit! The dust has come off! Clean off! Do you know how long it will take me to find it all again and put it back on? Do you? Well neither do I but I guess we’ll find out won’t we? They won’t sound right you know, bloody spirits, no respect. Just as well I came back when I did. You can’t be trusted. Now you’re here make yourself useful, go and bother the religion fanatics down the road.” With that the Sarge carefully set to his task, caressing each cup and arranging the dust so that they were a testament to his lack of hygiene or use of anti-dandruff shampoo, wistfully looking at the picture on his wall of a sunset walking off heroically into a cowboy.

By Sgt. Pilko ISSUE 5 2013

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HUMAN CONDITION: LUIS AMATE PEREZ

The

By Luis Amate Perez

Switch The best

part about switching bodies with my grandson was getting to play little league baseball again.  The worst part about switching bodies with my grandson was having to watch him die in my body. I still don’t know what happened exactly – or if this whole switch is just one big dream I’ve yet to wake up from – but I figure it has something to do with the night I took Michael to the carnival in Douglaston, Queens.   The “carnies,” I guess you call them, set up every year in the parking lot of Saint Anastasia’s church and grammar school. It’s the same thing every year: the same folks from Douglaston, Little Neck, and the other nearby towns; the same rides; the same food stands – overpriced and sure to give you heartburn. Jesus, they have this one zeppole stand – every time I’d get close to the parking lot, the smell of that deep-fried dough would just get inside me! And I’d want it so badly – but I’d hold myself back. Because, of course, it wasn’t good for me. When you’re a 67-year-old diabetic widower, and only 40-percent of your heart is functioning, you learn that nothing is good for you. It was around the time that the stench of zeppole started to make my stomach churn that Michael asked if we could go on the Zipper ride. I looked up at the contraption: five stories of steel and metal cages spinning on axes – the whole thing looked used-up and ready to collapse. “We?” I said. “You’re gonna have to go at this one alone, Michael.” Poor Michael. You had to be at least 48-inches tall to ride the Zipper, and my grandson, though smarter than most of his seven-year-old peers, didn’t measure up in the height department.  “You’ll get there one day,” I said. “Don’t you worry

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PHOTO CREDIT: GARY L. BREWER / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM

about that.” And for a moment I was jealous of the long life plotting itself before my grandson. Carnival rides aside, there’s so much fun to be had once you get over that 48-inch hump.  “It’s bullshit,” Michael said.   “What did you say?” I wasn’t scolding him for saying a “bad word” – I was just surprised by how old he sounded all of a sudden. But he apologized anyway.   “Sorry,” he said, like a little boy again, fighting back his first real tears of rage.   Suddenly, there were flashes of lightning – I swear a bolt struck the top of the Zipper – and the smell of zeppole turned electric. The hairs on my arms stood up just as the rains came. We raced back to my car – well, Michael raced. I lagged, unable to avoid the downpour.   We woke up the next morning – Michael was spending the weekend with me – and shared screams in the bathroom. Jesus, the ultimate switcheroo had been made!   Could it have been the lightning storm that switched us? But how? More importantly: why? Just so we could ride the Zipper? It doesn’t make any sense. Because even with our minds swapped, it’s not like our respective bodies had changed. I’d still be in the body of a boy under fourfeet tall, and he’d still be in the body of an old fart who can barely take a crap without fainting.   The next few hours are a blur. But sometime during our hysterics we remembered that Michael had a playoff game only hours away. What were we gonna do?   Well, under the circumstances we figured it was time Michael learned to drive. I never thought trying to keep a Maxima under 15 miles an hour would be so damn scary. But for Michael it was thrilling: every left-hand turn, bump, and intersection – it was like he was in one of those Fast & Furious flicks.   After what felt like a daylong car chase, we finally pulled into the parking lot of the ball field and found a spot.  “I did it!” Michael said, my old hands – now his – still gripping the steering wheel so hard they were white. “I can’t believe it – I drove!” “You sure did.” I put the car in park, reached over and took the keys from the ignition, and put them in the pants pocket of the baseball uniform I wore. “Now don’t go telling your mother about this.” “I won’t,” he said, with a grin.   So, I thought, that’s what my grin looks like. I went two-for-four in that playoff game. During my first at-bat for the Little Mets I got caught looking at a fastball. Later, I almost legged out a double. Cut me some slack – it’d been over 40 years since I’d last played. But that didn’t get in the way of my two singles – both beautiful shots down the third-base line. Or how

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HUMAN CONDITION: LUIS AMATE PEREZ

What a gift I have been given! Who hasn’t thought about having another go at his life? about my game-tying RBI in the ninth inning? Coming out of retirement after four decades, batting .500, and the closest thing to a golden glove on that field – Jesus H. Christ, you should have seen me at shortstop! And we won! The Little Mets won a come-frombehind slugfest and advanced to the semis. I joined the dogpile on the mound, and just before I lost myself completely in the celebration, I looked up at the stands and saw myself cheering back at me – my ride home – a hotdog held in what was once my hand. It was surreal. But for the first time in a long time I looked happy for me.   Then I collapsed. I mean, my body in the stands collapsed. Michael folded in half and fell over the two young mothers sitting on the bench below him. The women struggled to escape his bulk. One of the assistant coaches from the other team tried to resuscitate him – but I’m sure Michael was dead before their lips even touched.  Was this what it was all about? Take my grandson away from this world, just to give me, this broken old man, nine more innings?    v Today I’m back at my daughter and son-in-law’s house. I never liked him, but over the last few days I’ve realized that he’s doing the best he can. I’m thinking about telling them what happened to their son and me, but it’s probably best to wait it out a little longer.   I just stepped out of the shower and I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror, looking over the body my grandson has left me. There’s no hair to speak of.   “But just you wait,” I say to his reflection. “If you’re anything like your grandpa, you’ll have monkeys picking ticks off your back in no time.”   Poor Michael. I wonder what he thought of my body – confronting the veins, the spots, my battle wound from open-heart surgery – the horror of age.

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The hair. The penis.  What a gift I have been given! Who hasn’t thought about having another go at his life? Looking at this young body – soon to break the four-foot mark – I’m thinking about all the opportunities it has in front of it. I want to see how strong it can get, how much knowledge it can gain, how many lives it can change. There’s a whole carnival of possibility here. I don’t want to waste it again. The semi-finals are this coming weekend.  I feel guilty when I have these thoughts. And the guilt makes this gift feel like a curse.  “I am so sorry, Michael. But I did not ask for this.”  I wipe away the fog on the mirror with my hand, so I can see my grandson’s face.  “No, I did not ask for this. But it’s here – this new life – and all I can do is live it. It starts here. I’m gonna go into your bedroom and put on that little suit your mother – my daughter – laid out on the bed for me. Your father won’t need to help me with the tie.”  There’s an itch near the right elbow – I’m still getting used to these familiar sensations on my new body. I scratch at the area, which is completely free of callus.  “When the limousine pulls up outside, I’ll hop in with your mother and father, and we’ll head over to Gleason’s funeral home in Bayside for the last viewing of my body. Then after Mass, we’ll follow the hearse out to Cold Spring Harbor, where your grandmother’s buried.”  I wipe my eyes on a facecloth. “I’ll ask to say a few words at the grave, and after I’m done, everyone will ask, ‘Where would a seven-year-old learn to speak like that?’ And your mother will say something like, ‘He’s just like his grandfather.’”  I blow my nose into the facecloth.   “Jesus, she has no idea!”

ISSUE 5 2013

HUMAN CONDITION: JADE LEAF WILLETTS

WHEN I DIE When I die – Can it be at night? Can I see the stars turn on, the moon fade up? Can I hear the river running? Smooth, it soothes, whispering over my days. Let me die – looking up, hair pushed back. Lay me down on sweet damp grass, let me feel my body cool, as the warmth of the day leaks away. Let your eyes wash me with forgiveness, let your tears dilute my blood, look down on me with love.

By Jade Leaf Willetts ISSUE 5 2013

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YEAR ONE: LOOKING FORWARD

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ISSUE 5 2013

In issue six we explore

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THANKS, WE’VE HAD A GREAT YEAR. NOW WHAT’S NEXT?

I S S U E 5

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