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JESUSBUNNYPRESS /TTAWA This ebook licensed to Cristian S. Aluas Aluas. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this ebook is illegal.


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!DAM&RASER$AVIDSON ! LEXANDER(ERNรกNDEZ6ALDIVIA BASEV "EN+ ALMAN #LAUDIO0ARENTELA #3! $ANIEL-C+ILLOP $ARRELL5RBAN"LACK $AVID#LARK E $I NU3ERBANESCU %RIC' OSSELI N GE E Q *EF F+ISK O ,ORENZO0ETRANTONI -ADONNA,I MOGES$ARREN,A2OSE -EAGHAN-ULLALY .ATHAN-EDEMA .ATHANIEL'-O ORE 0AOLA"AUER 0ETR-AUR 3HAYNAKRISHNASAMY 9OMAR! UGUSTO

                     


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provocative alien

cage

Signal Punctuated in Visions Flight Don’t forget what we’re all about and live without regrets. the whisper’s spoken, a trace to follow; the sphere awoken, a shell to hollow. Just another guilty pleasure what to find the time; day to say so, every way to save my mind. All these moments/thoughts flowing through my mind and I just sit there and twitch. I won’t live without your love, when I don’t understand myself.

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Any of all a quote and token a note written and hard to swallow.

bent

Blue Jacket Windmill Never let your enemy out of your sight Taking us all speaking off into the night The space’s haunted vacant on mind Not worthy to mention Listen now spoken Try to sell vile of remedy You’ve awoken the enemy with no true identity


The Terminal Agent The worth of our reality draws into concession; felt to be lost without reason. Stuck in this existence, with no true question. When the darkness makes me feel I’ve fallen into exile. When I’m gone and you follow, the question now just mist. As I’ve always said, As I’ve always done, I finally realize I need you. At the times I loose my worth; meaning nothing with no way back. Hating the pressure as lost, twitching remembering only a verse. Hold me down or let me know. What am I to you? Having given you all the pieces? Let me through as an answer, I don’t want to know. Now I am a method to madness only related as over thrown. Don’t talk to the Terminal Agent; where else was I today? ...and how I new suddenly. Instigate with force and delete with treason; I’m always content to rewind.

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No rest for the wicked. That insidious question, thought itself to innocence. We’re going to blow this world out of the water and find another.

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I went down through the system. The instance I found the raise of depth. The true identity, a perception of faith. The addicted mistake, in our own stories. The censored ignition of the terminal agent, stuck in this spite existence. The over tone elsewhere in silence, we’re not alone. Anything over is under the edge. The truth Is not yet written and trying again. Death from above our chosen weapons; intelligence or quite insane. The world is one. How to recover a wound. Believe within’ so you will know the mind and begin milking the tension. I had to believe and know why You were or are talking aside.. Walk the unleashing now, clear above it all. As once done in the mind as your own. Paralyzed in fear. No answering this is for you, all this to anyone.

grasshopper


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Jacket

!DAM&RASER$AVIDSON


Never Enough

I won’t rest now; I’m not to know. They’ve locked every door and the only way threw is down. I won’t comply I need the key Lifting from below I’ve awoken deeper than bone for my own sake. Write back to the good old days I remain to hide from the pain. My reality caved through the floor. I need that remedy again All my trouble now in control losing all but boredom the moment to let down my guard.

I smoke until I’m insane cause the cult of the world is to find the quickest way to completely lose your mind and all feels as though life is going that way.

Write back to the good old days I remain. where the walls have fallen away. I’m not to know. To be struck in the delusion Every door without a key. The vile I don’t contain My reality how far fallen below the floor. I won’t rest now I’ve awoken deeper than bone.

The vile don’t contain the moment in turn to keep pushing the walls as they are falling away. I can’t take it again; in the believing of living for a delusion. wide awake in deep sleep.

I’m not to know, I won’t comply.

Lifting from below I’ve awoken deeper than bone. I won’t rest now I’m not to know. They’ve locked every door I won’t comply I’ve to find a key. My reality caved though the floor with the walls that had fallen away. I need that remedy again to hide from the pain. That the vile doesn’t contain.

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mustfourx

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Timeposter Alternation; the death Altercation; mind lead. Never let the whispering wind tell you everything; to see before your eyes, comes to you as reality dies. The turmoil shall never end as the shell remains. The cricket is riddling all of those that has fallen upon them. The option line. What’s gone entitled the same, tells you anything? To see before your eyes, comes to you from the edge as reality dies.

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Object you as one; condescending is the cricket. Reacts you claim, given essentially take your aim. The turmoil shall never end as the shell remains. Alteration the death altercation. Mindlead; system synastics. Object you as one, clean sent; “ The cricket riddles those that have fallen upon them. “ Anything for you these don’t concern.

Digital bird

Brandy The bar code stung the reading fell threw on came 6 min of hell The laughter I’d rather due to being awkward not spite and definitely the sound of crickets

!DAM&RASER$AVIDSON


WINTER IN A LIGTENING-THUNDER STORM

the moments of facilities to sense a talking secret knowing all you’ve felt believing your within’ it

living within’ some one else’s space be with anyone you can deem worthy cause anyone can tell of anyone from anywhere when that person is an idiot, but listening to itself don’t redeem yourself-live with no regrets

these ends are harsh redeeming what presents only to a final price.

put your self on the wall in pieces and never say your self is denied

Anyone survive this one came out of nowhere

we have seasons and many terms that thought’s have meanings anyway to say it the rhyme has approved non-blinding.

we’re going no further Jan. 11 ‘03

looking at another way you’d deceive me life is a river how to interpret these decisions every road finds a dead end street and the signal is red in a cold clear evening

abduct

they all have strikes on me there decision where to be a pretty little increment to lift off for a fallacy the true propriety of a god with race as truth and no one in there right mind to recommend me., the actuality of the entire circumstance is an image to achieve a scene. the sky is as uncertain as I’d believed all before these days all have ends don’t retrieve the cearn as all is here just remember the mind as it alters an delivers this fragile sphere and we replace every motion with another as we veere from retrieving the birth

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Angelic

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Otherside the only way we realize now is to see the otherside no deadline to insist and an antidote to life itself we just might get away with jaunting from one way or another talking or ridiculous system in out and gone from any world we can locate or find falsely sing a little song for me decendent of my seed and cry from laughter when you think of me over that distent moon that I only dream to see you in my place I hope you realize and I in mine here not even knowing what I’ll become, follow your heart.

the darker the storm the reality to glow the colder the rain the better the sound the black of a sun a momental eclipse and the bird still held within the earth’s grasp All these days I mind my time to live mine in sanity and knowing the love I find will never turn me wrong for long as the zone will always displace itself we always know our forward ground still proving this in ourselves I hope we pay attention Today is a theory a.k.a. MeTwo Jan. 22 ‘03

amusing a god I might say I’ve got a good mission you are a wonder and the talk of everyone I myself believe in truth and that is never answered as we always prove ourselves wrong with no other way to go

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save yourselves not me was the selfless act of my past and to know what I know best under an unattainable love

mustfour

!DAM&RASER$AVIDSON


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! LEXANDER(ERNรกNDEZ6ALDIVIA


Mural (My Car) 2002 11m x 5m acrylic

Bio of Alexander Hernández Valdivia

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Alexander Hernández Valdivia was born in 1973, in the municipality of Morón, province of Ciego of Ávila, Cuba. His devotion to art began when he was very young. In 1995 he participated in his first collective exposition at the Hugo Cortijo Gallery in Moron. In the same year he participated in two other collective expositions at the Hugo Cortijo Gallery. In 1996 he had his first personal exposition called “Personalidad” at Hugo Cortijo Gallery. T hat same year he participated in a collective exposition exploring the medium of wood sculpture, obtaining first prize for his work by the Cuban Ministry of Eduction, as well as working as a muralist for the Cuban party. In 1997 he worked as a craft designer obtaining a diploma at the Empresa Provincial de Producciones Varias, Ciego of Ávila. In 1998 he participated in several collective expositions and later that year travelled to Havana to participate in a collective exposition at 23 & 12 Art Gallery. However, his main interest was to enter into the Academia de Bellas Artes San Alejandro where he was permitted to observe classes for several months. In 1999 he returned to Ciego of Ávila, and later that year had his second personal exposition called “V ida ”. In 2000 he obtained a prize from the Asociacion Hermanos Saiz, as well as an honourable mention for his contribution in the collective expositon called M “ i gallo” at the Hugo Cortijo Gallery. Later that year he participated in the event “Entorno” organized by the Unión de Escritores y Artistas de Cuba (UNEAC) on the national level. In 2002, he began working as a set designer at the Melia Cayo Guillermo Resort, Moron and also participated in the activities of UNEAC, assisting in expositions, conferences and events that contributed to the cultural development of Cuba. T hat same year he completed a mural for the corporation Micar. In June 2002 he emigrated to Montreal, Canada. In 2003 he completed his first mural in Canada on Case Street in Montreal, as well as participated in a collective exposition in a small gallery Montreal. Alex currently resides in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.


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Audrey 2001 28” x 21” oil

Maternidad 2002 58” x 58” oil

Inspiration 2001 30” x 23” oil

Girasoles 2001 22” x 12” oil

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Limites 2001 36” x 23” oil


Soledad 2001 48” x 38” oil

Fin de la Juego 2003 30” x 23” oil

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Mural (T iempo de Arte) 2003 77” x 100” acrylic

New Upcoming Collection 2003

! LEXANDER(ERNáNDEZ6ALDIVIA


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BASEV


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“T he History Intervention� 2-color print over paper, 17 x 23 cm comic by Rafael Coutinho interfered by Anderson Zansky Freitas David Magila Danilo Oliveira Giseli Vasconcelos Ricardo Ruiz

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contact: http:// basev.has.it basev@email.com


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#LAUDIO0ARENTELA


art 461

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Like ever all the artworks are drawn in paper with ink and pen.T he real size for all is A4(21 cm x 30 cm).T heyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all untitled.T he year for all is 2003... CP


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art 492

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art 502

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#3!


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.AME Cristian S. Aluas sign paintings as CSA !GE26 *O BTITLE: book publisher, visual artist .AMEOF#OMPANY: jesusbunnypress )NTERVIEWBYJustyna Rechberger Monday night, the event was called T he Fundamentals premier - art exhibit / book launch? Why “T he Fundamentals”? #3! What is in a name? What were your contributions to this event? Details please. .you organized it, you formaly exhibited your artwork for the first time... #3!My contributions to the event were everything. I built the paintings and installation. Carried the paintings, three of which were on 36 x 62 in. of wood, and installed them. I painted the walls of the gallery. I scrubbed the floors with a little brush. I cleaned the washrooms. I published Nathan Medema’s book during the course of 8 months. I actually did the printing and binding of his books because my printer was busy renovating. I edited the 30 minute documentary by Adam Fraser Davidson, and although I gave him full credit for producing it, I actually produced half of it. I packaged his video cd. I worked with Ron Wood, a technician, to get Adam’s documentary to screen properly. I set up the lighting everywhere. Hung the banner that I made. Made all the food that was served. Picked up the drinks that were available. I worked the bar.I greeted people at the door.Helped set up the dj, Nodrog. Arranged the performance area. I was the MC. I recorder the event. I photographed the event. And I reminded everyone that I am the greatest artist in the world. Did you enjoy hosting this event? #3! How I feel is unimportant, as long as the audience enjoyed themselves. T hat’s all that counts.

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Was this your first time putting on an art exhibit/book launch? #3! I have had other shows but the Fundamentals was my first formal art exhibit.

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What in your opinion made it a success? #3! What made T he Fundamentals a success was that I was in attendance. You said you were a guest to the gallery. When did Susan invite you and what was the initial idea/proposition? #3! I said, I want to have a show here. She said, How about September 15th. I said, Great. Why do you think collaboration is important and how do you promote it? #3! Collaboration is important because you can only learn about yourself through the eyes of others. I promote collaboration by leading through example. Have you recieved employment opportunities or sold art work as a direct result of the events and opportunities offered through Studio One? #3! T he greatest thing is that I can display my art at Studio One. T he only art that I have sold is a couple of Nathan’s books at Monday’s launch. All in all, I lost money that night, like I always do. My paintings don’t sell because nobody can relate to my work. T he only time that I can foresee them selling is late in my life and hundreds of years after my death, when my art will be the status quo. What contribution do you feel you made through Mondays event to the arts community? #3! My contribution is always to put on the greatest art show anyone in the world will ever see. I aim to blow your mind. How does it feel to have the opportunity to display your work in a showroom and host your own event? #3! It feels like the hardest job you will do in your life.

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Were you nervous? What compelled you to share the story of your first love? #3! T his is just my nature; I don’t give a shit.

#3!


T he phallic symbol? #3!Yes. Resulting creative ideas? #3!Always. Have your portfolio/contacts expanded? #3! I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t keep portfolios. I am a professional artist. But contacts, yes. Most importantly, you.

T he overall significance of the event? #3! T he overall significance of the event is that I premiered an art exhibit in which I, CSA, revolutionazed the way you think about art. Before T he Fundamentals, you simply viewed Art. You now read Art.

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Whats next? #3! I am publishing an annual titled Sam, and producing a feature length documentary.

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#3!


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right side of painting assisted by Adam Fraser Davidson

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assisted by Adam Fraser Davidson

#3!


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$ANIEL-C+ILLOP


[Background: The story begins in the midst of a house robbery, when the narrator and his friends burn down a shed, and are then involved in a rape at a local teenage party. Continuing the escapade, a few members of the group make their way to a gun shop, which they plan to rob to intimidate a rival gang. Chapter 3 begins below:]

The

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hypnotic and tranquil sound of grinding sand and stone under our footsteps died as we stopped in our tracks at the end of the block, not far from the empty tavern we left behind. The intersection remained lifeless and quiet, and the red light dangling high above our heads seemed to burn longer than usual. A wide signature had been spray painted across the brick wall of an abortion clinic, only slightly visible in the dark, a spray job that wasn’t our own. “From here on, we move through the dark areas, right?” Darren said to Lambe. “I can’t believe we’re doin’ this,” I said. “No shit,” he said, with a fearless laugh. We crossed the street through the chill air, glancing down avenues for signs of movement or sound. The protruding fronts of buildings were washed with a tone of yellow, from the glow of streetlights above, and the buildings grew deeper in blackness as they receded farther from the light. The grinding noise of a car engine burst loudly, and the rasping tires sharply squealed, shattering our night from some unseen path in the distance. The calm, inviting street ran deep into a black oblivion, formed by imposing walls of tall, shadowed, and sometimes misshapen houses. Likely long asleep, the idea of absent grown-ups sent thrills of unexpected fear through my bones. The taste of booze in my mouth, and the escaping whirls of my steaming breath disappearing into the night air, made me feel even more alive than usual. “I hear something,” Darren said. We stopped on the sidewalk and were concealed in the shadow of a tree, which blocked the glow of a streetlight. I heard people talking excitedly from a side street, around the corner of a nearby house. They made little effort to be quiet or discreet, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Is it them?” Lambe asked. “It’s probably the patrol,” I said. “If they were quieter, they might’ve stopped us,” he said.


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We stood still for another moment, and then kept moving. As we approached the house on the corner of the tight intersection ahead, I could see flashes of blue and red light reflecting off the side of an old Chevrolet parked three houses down. The voices grew louder, and I thought I heard the police radio crackling. A patrol car was parked in a driveway several houses away, with both windows open. The flashes of red and blue reflected off every front door and shining car bumper, lighting up the whole street like a circus. Two officers stood quietly near the front lawn, and a black woman in a beige housecoat stood on the curb, arguing with them. We reached the other side of the street, and traveled on our way. “They couldn’t do nothin’ if they stopped us,” Lambe said. “Jesus”! Darren suddenly said in surprise. He bent down toward the grimy sidewalk. “What?” I said. “I found a coin,” he said, with a look of exaggerated excitement on his face. “Fuck,” I said, and looked up the street ahead. “Fuck,” he replied, looking at me. “It ain’t worth anything; it’s all rusted and stuff.” “A penny is a penny,” I told him impatiently, as he dropped it into his pocket. We reached the edge of the next intersection, brightly lit, and Darren stopped. “I’m hungry,” he said quietly. “You’re always fuckin’ hungry,” I said to him. “I need food,” he said. He crossed the street to the other side, and disappeared into an alley between a house and a convenience store, closed for the night. As Lambe and I followed, a soft burst of clanging and crashing rang through the tunnel-like alleyway. We moved quickly to the store’s rear, and Darren fell into sight. He tried to bend back and bust a lock on the back door, with a metal bar he apparently picked up nearby. His hands firmly gripped one end of the bar, with the other end wedged below the lock. His teeth grinded together, his face squeezed tightly as if in pain, and he leaned down on his tool with all his weight. We robbed the joint a couple of times in the past, and were sure the store still wasn’t protected by an alarm system of any kind. The owner, a known heroin addict, boarded up the place sometime later.

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“It ain’t budgin’,” he managed to articulate. ‘Snap, plunk,’ the metal lock-piece disassembled and fell to the ground. He looked up at us and grinned, pushing the door open. At the time, he likely didn’t have the voracious appetite he claimed he did, but instead prided himself with the idea that no task could be left unaccomplished. He wanted to show himself what he was capable of, and to us as well. Obtaining food was more of a defiant act to prove his courage, than something he really craved that night. “You go ahead,” I told Lambe; “I’ll stay out here.” He stepped into the store after Darren, and I stood at the corner of the building, alternating my attention between the alley we had come through, and another alley located opposite to the back door. The new alleyway that faced me lay open, and crept far beyond the food store; it crept away from our familiar security and deeper into the unseen thicket of the slums. The irregular, asymmetrical walls lining the dark passage were grossly shambled, which made the thing seem like a cryptic underworld, something wholly irreverent and unnatural. The blackness softly pulsated in my mind, as though having an influence of its own, reaching out and beckoning me. The endless dark reaches pulled my consciousness into a disturbing anguish, dampening my insides and chilling my blood. It felt like just by standing where I was and thinking about it, I could weaken my soul. Of course, the alley really meant nothing: it was an avenue of absolutely no substance. A cool breeze swept through, barely whistling as it traveled near, and I shivered uncontrollably when it arrived, looking to my left, and then behind, at the closed, white door of the shop. I stepped closer to the alley we entered by and stared at a streetlight burning a hopeless block away. Soon enough, I thought, we could make our way further into the ‘hood. The night nibbled and grew cooler, and another freezing wisp of air brushed down my spine through an opening in my jacket, causing my whole body to convulse once again. That night wasn’t much different than any other, and for the time I had known it, the city was equally indifferent.

$ANIEL-C+ILLOP


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Portrait of a New York Artist: Darrell U. Black by Hans D. Pflug Actually, he became my friend even before I had met him face to face. It was during a vernissage at the Frankfurt Airport, where a flight captain had arranged an exhibition of impressive photos of clouds and sunlight, viewed from his cockpit. In the background, I heard a Homeric laughter. It was not somebody who laughed at a joke or so – no, it was the hearty, sonorous laughter of a man who obviously enjoyed life. I turned around, and it was Darrell Black, the New York painter, who was just having a chat with my wife and some other guests. I shook hands with him and said: We must become friends. And his answer was: Yes, we will be friends. It seemed to be something very natural to be his friend. He said with a mystic smile: Yes, I am a painter – but it’s modern art, very modern. I replied: I am a writer, I have not yet published anything. I am just enjoying writing, it’s so much fun. We made a deal. Darrell said: I would be interested to read some of your stuff. Let me have it, and in return I give you a painting. When we met again, Darrel gave me two little paintings, size 8.5” x 12.5”, he had called them “Synchronized Jumping” and “The Pillars”. I sent him a copy of my novel “The Miraculous Adventures of the Little Bear and the Little Monkey”. Pinned to the lapel of his jacket were the colours of the Stars and Stripes. The Nine-Eleven had its impact on Darrell’s art. He created four different flags which bear the words “America a nation of hope, heroism and humanity”, “America wanting resolution in exchange of war”, “America’s strength lies in its diversity” and “America a symbol of unity and resolution in times of crisis”. He is a patriot but he shows no desire to discuss politics. On Nine-Eleven, I was at a conference in Washington. At nine o’clock, they told us that the WTC Towers in New York had been attacked, and a little later the Pentagon. Just at the time when my wife was strolling about downtown Washington. The shock stayed with us after we had returned home. I said to Darrell: Once I liked to look at the sky when a plane was crossing. It was a foretaste of my next trip. Now, I don’t look anymore at planes. It’s as though this shattering event has made me older all at once. Darrell said: I just feel the same. Somehow, I found solace in his simple words. When I asked Darrel for his business card, he gave me a brochure with his address and the print of one of his images, called “The King and His Four Sons”, followed by a short text that read: “My work portrays various differences in human nature, from life’s everyday dramas to humankind’s quest to understanding Self. The pen and ink drawings transport viewers from the doldrums of their daily reality to a visual interpretation of another reality…” It is somewhat amazing to read these pensive lines and then to hear Darrell saying: Yes, I enjoy my life. Despite his everyday dramas and the doldrums of his daily reality? You would expect such a serene composure from a white-bearded Greek philosopher at the summit of his wisdom, but Darrell has not even reached his 40st birthday. Darrell Urban Black was born in Brooklyn in 1964, later the family moved to Rockaway, New York. There he spent most of his youth. At highschool, he got excellent marks in science. In June 1969, America fulfilled J. F. Kennedy’s dream to conquer the space. American astronauts, planting the Stars and Stripes into the dusty surface of the moon. Darrell, then five, began to build his own spaceships from utensils he found in the bathroom: pieces of clothes, shoe laces, hair pins, soap boxes, shavers, and from the kitchen: forks and spoons… Phantasmic spaceships that would eventually carry him to his unique wonderland of strange forms and colours.

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His elder siblings watched his imaginary activities with suspicion. They thought it was an odd behaviour of a child to spend its pastime in such an unreal world. Sure, there were signs of mental illness, they thought,


which demanded appropriate action. Fortunately, his parents were more supportive to his art and decided against institutionalizing poor Darrell. In those days, he had one close friend, this was Kenny, living just round the corner. He was always available, when Darrell was in need of company. The other children in the street were curious to meet Kenny, and Darrell tried his best to arrange this. It never worked out, because Kenny did not exist in the real world. In 1980, the family moved to Long Island, where Darrell’s mom still lives. At this time, Darrell made still another transition. Till now, he had created replicas of spaceships, aerodromes and futuristic cities. Now, he turned to placing his artistic visions on paper. Within a two year’s period, he produced some 500 drawings. He received much encouragement and support from his mother, who worked in a mental hospital. She bought him paper, ink and pens. His father, who was an expert in avionics with PANAM, had left the family in 1979. Then, something happened to Darrell that was to leave him behind in grief and bewilderment, to say the least. In 1982, he joined the National Guard in New York. Upon his return home from duty he was keen to resume drawing. He wished to study his earlier drawings to spark inspiration. It turned out to be a desperate search to no avail – the 500 drawings were gone. His mother, mistaking Darrell’s genius for a passing phase, had thrown his work to the garbage. Darrell: I was devastated and decided never to draw again. I was unable to even look at blank sheets of paper or ink or pens. It was a kind of anguish torturing me that could be only soothed by forgetting that I once was a fledgeling artist. If his early oevre had not been destroyed – would Darrell’s career as an artist have taken different turns? It’s idle to muse at this question. However, in retrospect of the catastrophe, in the mellowing shades of time, we may be reminded of the purging impact of a forest fire. The surviving seedlings still grow to another mighty forest. For the next six years he turned away from art completely, and for another three years he grappled with his genius to come to life again. It was like a miracle: In 1988, the year he joined the regular army, he discovered by chance ten photos he had once taken from his earlier work – the only pieces that were left, just enough to kindle the fire… He has the natural gift to be a friend, he is a sociable and convivial guest at parties, being always surrounded by curious people. He is a good listener, he is very courteous, and he has a big heart. This is the Darrel, we shake hands with, the man with the big laugh, with the broad, overwhelming smile. If you meet Darrel, the artist, you will discover some other traits of his personality: He appears more detached from his surroundings, wrapped in thought and quite serious.

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Once, we had invited Darrell and Christina, his wife, for dinner, and Darrell glanced at the few paintings which adorn the walls of our flat. The artists were friends and relatives, and Darrell did not give much comments, except to one: An oil on canvas, showing the yellow flowers of an arnica plant in the state of withering, some heads already drooping. Darrell said: This painting does not give me something, it takes something away from me. The artist was a former girl friend of mine, and I told him, even in later years she still suffered from memories of a loveless childhood. JESUSBUNNYPRESS3AM


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The same evening, I got a glimpse of Darrell’s creative work. I asked him some questions related to his art, and he said: Give me some paper and a pencil. Then he filled nine pages with patterns of a continuous flow of crisscrossing lines. The pencil, as though driven by magic, never came to a rest. Out of these bewildering mazes, figures and faces evolved. Darrell put his name on three of the drawings. Why don’t you sign the other ones? Because, I don’t know what they mean, he said. When Darrell Black was safely back to art in 1991, he expanded by creating paintings and wall hanging sculptures. One reviewer depicted Darrell’s pen and ink drawings as “large and colourful and disturbing in a way, hard to classify. It is urban, quasi graffiti-like, cubic themes, and challenges the viewer to intellectually differentiate between artistic fulfillment and failed endeavours of the past… Without an open mind, the images are difficult to view and fascinating at the same time. Wasn’t the same thing said of Picasso?” This is an excellent description of what most viewers will see, and perhaps you couldn’t come nearer to the mystery of Darrell’s art. And yet, you might be eons away. The more you try to understand Darrell, following the straightforward guidelines of your intellect, the more deeply you get lost in an intricate, fabulous maze, a mystic, puzzling wonderland – a strange, cryptic fairy tale. Why should we try to unveil this mystery? Why not just enjoying our great amazement – in times that believe to have an answer for almost everything? When I first read Darrell’s e-mail address, I wondered at the word “definism”. It was Christina, his wife, who hinted to me: Think of cubism, surrealism, dadaism ... Usually, artists have an ancestry, Giotto, for example, was the most prominent forefather of the Italian Renaissance. No, said Darrell, I had none. Spaceships, if you like. He is the first representative of “definism”. I tried to recall someone else, who in an similar way appeared out of the blue with some novel art. Friedensreich Hundertwasser came to mind. Darrell Black lives with his family in Frankfurt am Main, Germany. He is a flourishing artist. In April 2001, he was nominated to the German government “for this year’s prize for promising young artists”. The idea came from John Provan of the Zeppelin Museum in Frankfurt. For the exhibition entitled “The Zeppelin in Art, Design, and Advertisement”, held between May 11 and July 30, 2000, Darrell had created “The Invasion”. In the nomination letter, he was cited for his exceptional abilities in various art works. Another piece of art, referenced in the letter, was titled “The Cosmic Linen”, executed with a unique glue and acrylic on linen technique. The image was described as “universally appealing and representing a topic which concerns all of us – the universe”.

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Darrell Black’s art is represented in a number of art galleries, museums and other institutions in America and Germany: Guggeheim Museum of Modern Art, James Baird Gallery; Frankfurt International Airport; Zeppelin Museum Frankfurt, American Center for Artists, The Amistad Foundation (at the Wadsworth Atheneum, Hartford CT), Stand-up for Kids (Boston), Annual Art Auction for Homeless Kids (two works on paper auctioned off in December 2002).

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peace today

woman seated at the vanity

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dropping the bomb

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The Tennis Club Murder It was hot. Maybe that’s partly why Rebecca had told Eric about Dan Carmel. He apparently wasn’t too impressed with his wife sleeping with a court guy. Maybe the heat was what Rebecca had broken twelve windows. To get some fresh air. Dan wasn’t going to stop her. Not his windows. He just drank his beer and watched. She used rocks from the garden, a tray book, furniture. Apparently Eric had left an hour before, angry as hell. Maybe he was somewhere breaking windows too. Maybe the whole of Ottawa was out there smashing windows. What he was doing with a woman who broke windows when she was upset, cheated on her husband and had a horrible serve from what he had seen ... was just beyond him. Christ, he’d only screwed her a couple of times. Now he was in the middle of an episode of Reality TV From Hell. Rebecca walked into the room carrying a big rock. “Why don’t you settle down?” said Dan. Wrong thing to say. Rebecca snorted and she walked into the next room. He heard a crash. Anything on television? They had one of those giant wall units. He turned it on. That was another mistake. Rebecca heard the noise. She came back into the room, and totalled the set with a lamp. Then she sat down, and shot Dan a jaunty look. “Happy?” asked Dan. “Yeah.” She was breathing hard. Her hair was wild, her clothes a mess. “You know what?” asked Dan. “You tell me.” “You look cute when you’re mad,” he said. “Fuck off,” said Rebecca. They sat in silence. “Let’s go for a little ride.” “All right.” Rebecca went upstairs to get some clothes. Dan walked outside and stood waiting on the driveway. She arrived with her suitcase. They got in Rebecca’s car and drove off. “What do you think he is going to do?” asked Rebecca. Her voice was husky in the night. “I think that when he has had time to think things through, he is probably going to get a gun. And then I think he is going to set about trying to kill you, me or both of us. And I think I’m out of a job.” Rebecca laughed.

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“What?” asked Dan. “Well, what are we running away from?”


“Eric.” “You could take him.” “No, I couldn’t. Besides, he isn’t going to fool around. He’ll have a gun or a knife are something .” “You sound so sure of that.” “I am. He’s pissed, right?” “Maybe he’ll just take me to court or something,”she said, then sighed. “Eric is crazy mad right now,” said Dan. “He knows you fool around. Why’d you tell him anything?” “Maybe he’ll just divorce me.” “Maybe he’ll just blow your brains out. And mine.” Rebecca made a turn off from the Queensway. Dan sighed and stared at the view. Close your eyes and rub them and it looks like Ottawa at night. Any city does. “Eric’s broke,” said Rebecca. “What!” said Dan. “Eric’s broke. I mean not broke broke. But he lost a bundle in the dotcom meltdown. Never made it back..” They drove along in silence. “There’s gonna be trouble,” said Dan. “A lotta trouble.” Then he said, “Where are we going, anyways?” “To your place. To get your things. You’re going to move in with me.” “Oh,” said Dan. “Don’t,” said Rebecca. “Don’t what?” “Don’t look at me that way.” There was silence. “I don’t know why I told Eric,” said Rebecca She pulled up and parked near his apartment. The Towne is a run down, sort of glum, low rent version of a real apartment buiilding. It’s located off King Edwaard, where the lights get a little dimmer, and the girls quite a lot glummer. “I`ll go with you,” said Rebecca. “Just pick up your things and let’s go. They walked through the lobby, as Sinatra came over the sound system. The elevator up. “You really think he is dangerous?” He just looked at her. “I mean, he is my husband. This is the twentieth century. The 21st I mean.”

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They got out and walked to the door of Dan’s place. Dan opened it and then Eric said, “I’ve got a gun.” Eric was standing by the door to the stairs. He had been waiting there, evidently for some time, since the mickey in his other hand was nearly empty.

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Several things became clear to Dan, in no particular order. Dan might have known. Dan might get shot. The twentfirst century is not all it is cracked up to be. “Just walk in, slowly,” said Eric. “I’ll kill you, you know. I don’t care.” He finished offf the bottle and dropped it to the floor. They walked into the room. It occurred to Dan that he hadn’t made his bed. Rebecca, every day brings a new surprise, seemed perfectly calm. So did Eric. Maybe they did this sort of thing frequently. The only one who was looking pathetic was Dan. He was shaking and he was nauseous. “Eric, don’t do anything silly.” It was Rebecca speaking. Her words raced around Dan’s brain. Yes, Eric, don’t do anything silly. Be a good boy Eric or Rebecca will get upset. You can have her back Eric. I didn’t really want her. “Shut up,” Eric said. Everyone just stood there for a moment. Nobody had done this kind of thing before, at least not recently. That much was pretty clear. Dan thought of suggesting that maybe he and Rebecca should put their hands up. “Give me the gun, Eric.” It was Rebecca again. Eric slapped her across the face with it instead. Rebecca fell to the ground. She lay there stroking herself where she had been hurt. After a moment blood came out of her mouth. She spat out a tooth. She tried to sit up. With a horrible sort of leer on his face, Eric kicked her again. Dan wanted to speak, but his mouth was so dry. “Give me the gun, Eric,” said Rebecca. He was grinding his teeth. “Give me the gun, Eric.” It was amazing to Dan, watching Eric. His breathing was lik a creature beached and dying. “Give me the gun, Eric,” said Rebecca, a third time. An amazing then happened. Eric gave Rebecca the gun. She smiled, and looked at i nestled in her hand. Then another amazing thing happened. Rebecca shot Eric dead. “No,” shouted Dan. Rebecca smiled at him “Where are we going to bury the body?” she said. “The tennis club is kind of full lately.”

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David Clarke www.storm.ca/~dclarke is an Ottawa writer whose work has appeared in magazines in Canada, the U.S. and the U.K.

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$I NU3ERBANESCU

jesusbunnypress: Sam


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1ts3


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test copy

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Cristian S. Aluas


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Aylmer was the only real city in the Outaouais. Beautiful, friendly and welcoming. It had well layed-out economical, residential and industrial sectors. Most importantly, it was harmoniously nestled in lush forests. When drivers saw these forests on route 148, they knew they were in Aylmer. Now that it was forced into merging with Gatineau on January 1, 2001, it is no longer our city, but Mayor Yves Ducharme‛s city. Consequently, he jumped on the opportunity to develop houses on the abundance of forests in Aylmer since Hull‛s and Gatineau‛s had run out or were not well enough located to become profitable. He turned a blind eye to the housing contractors‛ violations of environmental laws because he was so hell-bent on obtaining growth rates that would exceed those of Ottawa.

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This is Aylmer‛s struggle. The struggle between housing development and preserving nature. People need houses. They want their own piece of land they can call their own and do as they wish with it. They want to create their own life on their own property and feel like they belong.


However, Aylmer is slowly losing its charm as houses quickly replace our diminishing forests in the heart of the city. Soon we‛ll have to go farther up north to find the peace and serenity trees bring us. Development will still follow us there.

It‛s important to find an equilibrium between how much forest we should grant to contractors and how much should be kept to preserve the peaceful image Aylmer once had. Otherwise, we‛ll get swallowed in a sea of steel, concrete and mechanical grinding sounds.

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I wish there could be better solutions. Not everyone wants to live in condominiums or appartments forever. They can‛t provide what houses can. It also seems unlikely that cities built in immense structures like utopias in Sim City will ever happen because they can‛t reproduce the effect of actually living in the forest in your own house.

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We can find some comfort in knowing that no matter how much we try to cut it down or poison it, Nature will always prevail in the long term. Unfortunately, that can only happen once human activity has decreased or ceased because humans always find new and destructive ways to control it.

I guess I‛m just angry. Angry because I can‛t accept that building houses for people who need them involves replacing the forests myself and many other Aylmer citizens cherish so dearly. Angry because our elected officials aren‛t representing our outrage that Aylmer is under the attacks of our mayor‛s greed. Angry because killing Aylmer is only a short-term solution to finance Mr Ducharme‛s city. Angry. Because like with the majority of politicians, it‛s just in a race to show off his accomplishments to get reelected next time and long-term solutions, like closely monitoring and controlling development and strictly enforcing laws, would take too much time and money.

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Photography is less of an art and more of a medium to share my vision of reality. I try to give different perspectives of things most persons take for granted or rarely notice. My fields of photographic interests include nature, urbanism and night time. In nature, I focus on clouds and insects. Urbanism is a study of architectural geometry and night time photography offers a different approach to light and movement. I try to keep my pictures simple and natural. I rarely ever set up or prepare a portrait. I just seize opportunities. My goal is to exhibit the unseen, the forgotten or the unnoticed and immortalize it in a picture for everyone to appreciate.

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GE E Q


anarchyinspace

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I am an astronaut drifting in my mind. gee-q


jonas

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theastronot

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schizophrenia life

thecosmonot

GE E Q


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*EF F+ISK O


oil, closeup from 2’x3’ canvas, 2003.

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oil, 18”x20” canvas, 2002-2003.


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acrylic, 16”x20” canvas, 1997.

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oil, 16”x20” canvas, 2002.

oil, 16”x20” canvas, 2002.


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oil, 18”x20” canvas, 2003.

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,ORENZO0ETRANTONI

jesusbunnypress: Sam


Bolas

ComUdie 23-05-02

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Palloncini 20-06-02


Poison 09-04-02

Pub 8-05-02

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Professore 29-05-02

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Tv

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Ventilateur 17-06-02

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-ADONNA,I MOGES$ARREN,A2OSE


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Madonna: “Control” 5’x5’


Darren: “flying trojan horse hellicopter room” 30x30

Madonna: “holy fuck” 60x60

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Darren: s “ ister” 9x12

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Madonna: e “ go” V inyl record

Darren: d “ riving” 9x12


Madonna: c “ an i take your order” V inyl record

Madonna: “first kiss” V inyl record

Madonna: “Innoculation” V inyl record

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Darren: “Dream World” 80x60


Madonna & Darren: “Untitled #1” 24x36

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Darren: “landscape tape” 9x12

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Madonna: “Reverb”


Darren: s “ pit” 30 x 60

Madonna: w “ anted” V inyl record

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Madonna & Darren: “Untitled #2” 30 x 48

-ADONNA,I MOGES$ARREN,A2OSE


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-EAGHAN-ULLALY


Some say our bodies are mere vessels in this journey that we call life, but our faces are what we present to the world. I am fascinated by faces and the stories they tell. I have always been a people watcher...the fly on the wall...intrigued by the intimate complexities of each face as an individual. In my work, I try to fuse the raw organic truth of self with the inner paradox, the seemingly simple yet perpetually complex nature of individuals. T his is the didactic universal perspective that I try to convey through my art. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Zen teaches nothing; it merely enables us to wake up and become aware It does not teach, it points.â&#x20AC;? -D.T. Suzuki

me

self portrait

Bruce Springsteen

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sincere

strength

untitled


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.ATHAN-EDEMA


(tarmack--) a black lurch forward; violence behind, a thrust hand

and in the peals of laugh/ thunder the sky blinks

placing us here and halting, exact. the dream over we rub our eyes; some clap. smacked to earth fears unfasten and fall by sides: weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d locked our spirits up-right, optimists, all, with knuckles white and our bulging veins of hope-our reward for good behavior: calm and familiarity. a taxi to taxi to taxi and wing-bobble, red; hearts at the end always jostling and loose, loud; allowed to remember first names, then things. the door cracks and we slither out licking a thicker, lower air, the night awry, wet and streaming; outside:

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a sadder 4 years find me

white--

empty, unsealed; as clear as here. as clear as the day i left, indifferent.


2am a bus thru the sub urban maze (just) the driver

and you

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intimacy

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i saw you and thought---no, but actually, i-sometimes---explain it differently. what i really wanted to say is how---you won’t; i can’t. i’m sorry. i see the rest of me at my feet dragging behind; my tongue, umbilical. eyes, fingers, heart: find me. find me, i lo-you. when we touch my hands tremble. no no, it’s nothing, really; no, really. it’s just it’s just you and i, alone.

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you and i, alone.

.ATHAN-EDEMA


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.ATHANIEL'-O ORE


THIS POEM IS CATULLUS For Jon Paul Fiorentino (w) here to begin? We dictate an auction, where the object is stiff, hard and presented ready, knowing his fate. Are we in the crowd bidding or on the stage pushing? I graffiti the parking lot in verbs, cranial xrays, statue DNA and testimonials from living scholars, false molars. A subconscious reconstruction of the unsuspecting: I’ve got 1000 socks. I didn’t order the arrowhead dental floss mint chipped teeth decadence. I didn’t order the harpoon tart tea set underpants or nursemouth soother shark in wolves clotting decoder ring as the rust plunged a stomach

memorable anchor deep in the pit of my cranky

Morbid pebbles Woke up and repeated the chorus I bit the sulfur I tongued the coma Corduroy increases along the banister, curious in its snakeskinism or snakism amidst sweet fortress, a tender runt of fish, hookerstreak in window advertisements no, mannequins looted in Pompeii, plastered threaded on the clothesline. Was I around for Pompeii’s great ejaculation? Technically no, nor was I around for astute English adoration, emulation / mistranslation, but here I am, dirty, still no richer. Fuckers.

Little is known the hemisphere is quoting you…

Gaius Valerius Catullus whose name stands not lower than third on the role of Roman poets was born at Verona 84 BC the son of a wealthy Veronese gentlemen and friend of Julius Caesar. Moved tranquil from Verona to Rome about 62 B.C. among his friends and contemporaries were C. Licinius Calvus & M. Caelius Rufus, the later of whom became rival and enemy.

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(Enemy in the physical, corporeal sense due to purposefully and artful placement and manipulation, Rufus and Lesbia arched a liaison, deceptive uncontroceptive lunging. Rufus appropriated


sperm in non-grammatical ransacking of sentimental party dress.) At twenty-two Catullus met Clodia (Lesbia) a married woman of power. His unhappiness was completed by the death of his brother in Asia. Quarreled and made friends with Cicero and enjoyed the best society in all senses of Rome. Utrum os an culum olfacerum Aemilio There are three and only three, independent witnesses to the full text, all derived from a lost archetype (probably late 12th century) known to have been at Verona in the early 1400â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s and hence conventionally referred to as V: A society predicated on moments of attractive performance can only collapse. Vanity spat back into its finely lubricated fabricated frivolity. its as its & ass astonish & as sits anâ&#x20AC;Ś Like the performance it aims to describe evanescent and unstable, scolded approaches the life of passion art & sensual poison massage become in this case virtually inextricable. Never physical space vacuumed up into selfish necessity a professed non-desire to verbalize hostility or actuality when all that is needed is honest recruitment of normalcy of which I am incapable. Now some centurial update randomly fertilized through their philosophical impact, this is Catullus, the objective collective biographyâ&#x20AC;Ś By the early 20th C. Catullus had become a full-blown Romantic, in both Symons and Yeats we find him a passionate lover scornful of the limits of bourgeois society.

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After about 1930 Catullus began to speak, in many voices, American and Australian as well as English, and to take on a variety of characteristics from the austere (Lucas) to the jokey (Copley) Since around 1960 he has become increasingly and sometimes defiantly explicit in his language and hostile in his invective more devoted to his brother and correspondingly more cynical about Lesbia in both his variety and his emotion, a Catullus of our time.


Lesbia says sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather marry me than anyone, though Jupiter himself came asking or so she says, but what one tells their lover in desire should be written out on air & running water install sprinkler systems, heart apoplectic in paying bills forced jewelry down pipes plumber cracks his jaw on her sink.

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within

You are nothing, I think, that cannot be invented through heightened masturbatory detachment the prolific con of creativity.


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0AOLA"AUER


acrylic on canvas

multi media on canvas

multi media on canvas

Artist Statement

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PaOla began painting at a very early age, and attended a variety of art schools, developing skills in painting and costume and fashion design. Both in the arts and in design, she has been developing her own unique style. Her art is inspired by history and life in general. Also a fasination with childhood. T he selection of paintings in this publication is themed around faries, stretching over a period of 9 years. She paints everything from fantasy, classical landscape, to abstract art. She lives and works as an artist in her hometown of Ottawa, Canada.


multi media on paper

multi media on wood

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pixie silk painted open back top

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ink on paper multi media on paper

fashion show at the Mockingbird Bistro, Toronto 2002

silk costume inspired by 1930â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s patern, modelled in 2002

interpretated period costume with cape

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1840â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s plaid crinoline skirt with matching bodice and pleated collar

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0ETR-AUR


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petr maur AI toy


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petr maur FLYDANCE

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petr maur GENESIS nuclear

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3HAYNAKRISHNASAMY


The Tiny Mighty Warrior The Tiny Mighty Warrior could have been named a great many other things. His propensity for knocking things about as he powerfully swung his sword could have labeled him the Mighty Clumsy Warrior. His tendency to become lost in thoughts of the badness of bad and goodness of good could have had him called the Mighty Pensive Warrior. His tendency to snore through the waking call could have titled him the Mighty Sleepy Warrior. However, his most obvious trait of standing almost two heads shorter than any of the other warriors in the court had him generally known as the Tiny Mighty Warrior, though any would avow that his might far outgrew his height, and he was known throughout the land as the strongest warrior of them all. The Tiny Mighty Warrior was not like the other warriors. He felt strongly that to be an honourable fighter one must thoroughly understand the cause of the battle, and deeply believe the enemy to be evil. Thus he spent many an afternoon contemplating the nature of goodness, to the utter confusion of the other warriors, who sat about drinking ale and comparing the size of their biceps. “Come, Carl, mine are twice the size of yours. Admit to it!” would be the cry of one. “My, you do flatter yourself, George, for it is clear that mine are the larger, and it is you who must do the admitting,” the other would reply. So it would go for two-thirds of an hour until the Tiny Mighty Warrior would be called upon to settle the dispute. “What does it matter?” would be his reply when approached by the two parties, both equally assured of having been gravely wronged by the other’s insistence on the largerness of his bicep. “Why do you waste your time on such petty arguments when there are true wrongs being done all across the land? Maidens are carried off, villages plundered, children forced to go without electronic playthings. Do you not think of that?” he asked, gesturing wildly with his massive arm and accidentally knocking a tray of ginger beers out of the hands of a young girl. “I am sure such happenings are constantly in the dim recesses of their minds, Sir,” said a Fairly Witty Maiden who had been standing nearby. Smiling sweetly at the shame-faced warriors, she took gentle hold of the unpredictable arm and steered the Tiny Mighty Warrior away from the more breakable of obstacles. “Do not let them trouble you, my friend,” said the maiden, for she and the Tiny Mighty Warrior were indeed great comrades and were often seen about the court deep in conversation. “They are but silly men.” “Oh, it is not they that vex me so,” said the Tiny Mighty Warrior, rubbing at his eye with an enormous knuckle until the Fairy Witty Maiden was forced to pull his hand away and place a rubber ball into it’s palm to keep it occupied. “It is the state of the world,” the warrior went on. “It is the corruption of good. It is the lack of the honest and true.” In his agitation, the Tiny Mighty Warrior idly tossed the rubber ball at the castle wall, off of which it rebounded with such force that it flew across the courtyard and through the royal window, rolling with pronounced determination into the royal playroom where the young prince gleefully took it up and began to play with it. The Fairly Witty Maiden subtly turned the Tiny Mighty Warrior’s back on the spectacle in order to avoid suspicion at having been the cause of the royal mother’s royal rage.

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“When will I have the chance to do some good in this land?” the warrior went on unawares, shoving his hand into the pocket of his pantaloons, which sagged for he’d forgotten to put on his belt. “When will I be able to fight these great evils, instead of waging wars over the price of bread, conquering cities at the whim of a King who hardly notices the jewels we place in his coffers. I tire of these baseless battles.”


“Soon enough, I am sure, my good Sir,” said the maiden. “I promise you the truly bloody wars will come your way one day, if you will only learn to match your socks.” (The Tiny Mighty Warrior might also have been called the Mighty Matchless Warrior, on account of his inability to wear two socks of the same colour together. “What does it matter?” he would say.) “Come, let us dine,” the Fairly Witty Maiden went on. “I’m near starved. Though you must keep close by my side, for I spy that wretched Lord Groomlin lurking by the door.” At the mention of the Lord’s name, the Tiny Mighty Warrior snapped instantly from his melancholy mood. “Certainly, I will protect you,” he announced with a great deal of intent gravity. Putting his arm about the maiden’s shoulders he made sure to keep the odious Lord between himself and she, though in the process he might have, without meaning to, squeezed the Fairly Witty Maiden a tad tighter than she would have liked (a sort of thing she would overlook in an instant, for they were, as I mentioned, great friends). As they passed Lord Groomlin by the door, he grinned in a meaningful way at the Fairly Witty Maiden who conveniently ignored him, and the Tiny Mighty Warrior made sure to accidentally tread with his full weight on the Lord’s daintily shined shoes. * The Tiny Mighty Warrior did not have to wait long for his much-desired meaningful quest. For, just the next day, the Fairly Witty Maiden, his dear friend, found herself in some danger of her own. Accosted by the heinous Lord Groomlin, to whom her absent-minded father had possibly promised her hand, the Fairly Witty Maiden had been forced to abandon all of her beloved sarcasm in favour of the more useful blunt truth in order to make her opinions known: No, she was not delighted by his Lordship’s newly purchased velveteen jacket. No, she would not be thrilled to have him purchase one for herself. No, she would not like nothing better than to take a turn with him in his coach. And no, NO, she would not be faint with giddiness were he to ask her to be his wife, which he proceeded quite conceitedly to do. At this cue, the Fairly Witty Maiden, bravely propelled herself passed the ridiculous man, down through the hallway, out the front door of her own home, and directly into a waiting carriage she had ordered in advance on the chance that just such an event might take place. “Drive, Sir!” she commanded (for she had been practicing her most commanding voice in the privacy of her own room for a fortnight). And though the carriage driver did heed her order, he was not quite quick enough, for before the horses had taken one step, the loathsome Lord had his hand on the handle of the door. “Yes, please do,” the Lord addressed the driver (who was overcome with alarm at the sudden change, having been advised beforehand that he would be conducting the maiden away from an evil suitor under vigorous pursuit, not conducting that suitor himself). “Conduct us to Egotentimeshighly Manor,” he said, and then seating himself by the maiden’s side, added, “my private quarters await us.” The Fairly Witty Maiden found herself, for the first time, quite without wit. As her beloved home fell behind them, she eyed the Lord with distaste until she was sure he was entirely distracted by the sight of his own reflection in the windowpane. Then she casually cast her embroidered hankerchief onto the road, in the hopes that one diminutive warrior might find it.

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* The Tiny Mighty Warrior, though not blessed with height, had easily the strength of twenty men in each of his humongous arms. His thighs were immensely strong as well, and thick as the trunks of trees. Children often followed him about, begging to test their strength against his, boasting that they could beat the mightiest warrior of them all. This the warrior allowed, holding back the power of his great muscles, and trying determinedly not to step on their little toes, as he let himself be tackled to the ground.

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“Why do you do this?” another warrior asked as the boys ran off, cheering their newest winner. “You could easily have taken him. He wasn’t but ten years old.” “Yes,” said the Tiny Mighty Warrior as he got to his feet and found that he’d been lying on another little boy, who he unceremoniously dusted off and sent on his way, only slightly squashed. “Yes, I could have beaten him. But to what end, Frederick? It does him much more good to beat the likes of me, than for I to beat the likes of him, a mere boy.” “Methinks you are distracted too much,” the warrior answered. “You are missing certain company, and it rattles your focus.” “Please, speak plainly,” the Tiny Mighty Warrior replied, cracking the joints in his fingers against a rock which moments later fell to dust. “Your maiden friend has been kidnapped, have you not heard?” Frederick said. “She’s been carried off by that foppish Lord Groomlin.” Moments later, the Tiny Mighty Warrior had flown off at full speed to the aid of the Fairly Witty Maiden. Naturally he had no idea in which direction to fly, but fly he did, mostly in circles, his fist held out before him and the words, “I will save you, my lady!” perpetually on his lips. After causing much destruction to the neighboring farms in his haste, he finally tripped on his own shoe buckles and was brought to a sudden halt. It then occurred to him that he might need to find out more about the circumstances of this nasty business before he flew off. Yes, he would need to go to the scene of the crime. “To the Manorhouse!” he cried, getting to his feet. Then he ran off, still without buckling his shoes, his fist once again held out before him, which was quite handy as it cleared minor obstacles such as branches, fences and cows out of his way. The Fairly Witty Maiden’s father wasn’t a great deal of help, as he seemed reluctant to agree that his daughter was missing at all. “Have you checked in the garden?” he asked several times, as the Tiny Mighty Warrior attempted to bring the seriousness of the situation to his attention. “She’s quite often with that body builder fellow, you know, the short one, with the muscles.” “I don’t know him,” the Tiny Mighty Warrior said. “But if he’s been about, then perhaps he’s mixed up in the business as well.” “He isn’t of noble blood, though he does have quite a pleasing face. It’s in the jowls I believe.” “Sir, I must beg you to address this issue with more attention,” the Tiny Mighty Warrior said, only barely suppressing his urge to pick the skinny man up by his shirttails and shake him thoroughly. “Can you bring to mind anyplace where Lord Groomlin might have taken her?” “Ah, Lord Groomlin!” the old man said with a smile. “Nice sort of chap, quite rich. Has that wonderful mansion in the mountains. Edgarhighmost something or other. Quite difficult to get to. Treacherous heights. Then of course there are those horrid roads the carriages always get caught up in. Most distressing.” The Tiny Mighty Warrior was off again, nearly a quarter of an hour before the old man noticed his departure. *

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The Tiny Mighty Warrior was determined as he had never been before. Here was the moment he had so long been waiting for. Finally he was faced with a worthy task. In his excitement and determination to save the maiden quickly and expertly, he ran around for quite some time, making an excellent

3HAYNA+ RISHNASAMY


display of his strength and stamina, before again realizing that he had not exactly decided upon a direction. Sitting against a tree to catch his breath, the warrior finally decided to buckle his shoes, but finding one buckle broken, he took up a piece of cloth from the path and stuffed it in at the heel. As he sat, he thought of all the mountains he knew. There were not many. In fact, there was but one: The Perilous Mountain of Lopinham. Looking up, the Tiny Mighty Warrior could just barely see its peaks above the trees (you’ll recall he is quite small in stature.) At its highest peak, the warrior spied a dark and mysterious castle. “Edingo something or other!” the Tiny Mighty Warrior cried, pointing at his destination. “Lord help you if you’ve hurt her, Groomlin, for I’ll break you right in two!” Then, for the third time, the Tiny Mighty Warrior flew off to the aid of the Fairly Witty Maiden, as behind him the tree on which he had been leaning fell with a crash to the ground. * The name of the mountain did not lie, the way was indeed Perilous. Many times the warrior was forced to pull himself over sheer cliff faces with not but the tips of his fingers. Once he had to swing across a gorge on a vine (which he had to admit was quite a lot of fun, or at least until the vine snapped under his enormous weight), then another time he was forced to drag himself out of the depths of a gorge full of wild dogs. But through it all the Tiny Mighty Warrior kept his mind fixed on his goal: To save the Fairly Witty Maiden and win her kiss (had that last part been there all along, or had he added it on himself? “What does it matter?”) Eventually, the snowy peaks rose up before the warrior. Though he was not dressed for cold, he plowed directly through the drifts, his hands held in front on him, clearing a path. Soon his fingers were frozen solid, but still he kept on, thinking only of the maiden, his friend, his love (was this a new thought? “How can I wonder on that when her safety hangs in the balance?”). After a great while of such plowing, her came upon a winding path on which he supposed he could have been traveling all along, though he did not give this much thought. For up ahead there was a carriage on the path, and he could hear voices. “You dare insult my honour?” said a man in outrage. “If your honour lies solely in your hair then I would insult it gladly any day of the week,” came the reply of a familiar female voice. “Well, I’ll not share a carriage with such impudence. Stay here to rot if it suits you, but I shall proceed to my estate on foot. Good day to you!” As the Tiny Mighty Warrior watched, the despicable man hopped into the snowbank and began to trudge up the road to his own gate. Stealing up behind him, the Tiny Mighty Warrior grabbed the dreadful Lord by the collar and dragged him back to the carriage. There he stuck his head in through the window and regarded the Fairly Witty Maiden (His Love!) sitting sedately. “Oh!” she cried. “I’d quite given up on you.” “I’ve come to rescue you, my lady,” he said. “How nice of you. Please, go ahead.” The Tiny Mighty Warrior held up the struggling Lord. “Shall I kill him?”

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“Oh, him,” the maiden said. “I thought I’d gotten rid of him. Did you bring him back? Please do away with him, he’s not the concern.”

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Eager to do whatever would please the Fairly Witty Maiden, the Tiny Mighty Warrior threw Lord Groomlin over his shoulder and asked how else he might come to her aid. “It’s these useless roads. What with all the snow, the wheels are quite caught. Good Lord Groomlin had it in his head that I should push, but when I suggested we take a go at it together he became quite agitated about his blessed curls, and it simply escalated out of control. It’s amazing he wanted to marry at all. He’s clearly too much in love with himself to ever give his heart to another.” “I shall put it right,” said the Tiny Mighty Warrior, though just then he was overcome with a wave of dizziness and nearly fell. “Goodness!” cried the maiden, opening the carriage door to him. “Whatever have you done to yourself?” With great difficulty, she pulled the great warrior onto the seat next to her. He layed his head back. “I’ve come to save you,” he said, taking her hands. “You foolish man! You’ve frozen your hands right through! And have you had nothing to eat this day, for you’re pale as snow.” “How could I think of eating when my love was in danger?” the Tiny Mighty Warrior mumbled, resting his head on her shoulder. The Fairly Witty Maiden smiled. “Did you find my hankerchief?” “Hankerchief?” the warrior asked. “I do not…I have not...” “Rest now,” the Fairly Witty Maiden said soothingly. “It does not matter. You’ve had your noble quest. You’ve saved the maiden. Now rest.” The warrior closed his eyes.

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Leaning forward to take off the warrior’s shoes so that she might warm his toes, the maiden spied the mismatched socks, the broken buckle, the snow covered soles, and at the heel, the crisp white edge of her own embroidered hankercheif. Shaking her head with an affectionate laugh, she turned back to the great fighter and gave him a kiss on each of his pleasing jowls.

3HAYNA+ RISHNASAMY


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9OMAR! UGUSTO


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