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Issue 04 | An Unfortunate Event | Winter 2012


WINTER 2012, ISSUE 04 c/o Katie King 345 Eldert St. #313 Brooklyn, NY 11237 Method Press-ident Katie King Grammar Guru Sara Montague Miller Design Ninja Ashleigh A. Coyner

Method Press is a quarterly and independent publication.

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AN UNFORTUNATE EVENT

QUARTERLY

FOREWORD

PASSIONATE PLACES | Cancale, France

Katie King

Ashleigh A. Coyner

Waiting tables on the UWS Joan Estep

Words Anton Nickel

Kitemare Sumner Riel

MAIN

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SPOTLIGHT | Laura Kazdan

BOOKMARK

Katie King

Words by Nicole Faust

METHOD FEATURE Ashleigh A. Coyner Katie King Sara Montague Miller

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Meet Method Press

Ashleigh A. Coyner is a wannabe ornithologist. She gets irritated at the word seagull and can identify birds by song. She drinks her coffee with too much creamer and eats anything that contains raspberries. | www.ashinbleu.wordpress.com Katie King created method press in 2011. She is bitter cold, inside and out. But the angel on the staircase helps. Sara Montague Miller is the grammar guru who edits the magazine. She lives on the Gulf Coast with her husband and works as a full-time mental health therapist. | www.colorsnotyetinvented.blogspot.com

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FOREWORD Katie King

Fortunately, I'll be a real champ and spare you the details of the disgustingly large proportion of unfortunate events that have placed themselves in my life over the last 2-4 years especially. It is not the usual amount of roadblocks that my circle may experience in that amount of time; it has ranged from graphic to doozy unbelievable. Whoever said that your early twenties were the time of your life was obviously, high. I've spent a lot of time considering what exactly is an unfortunate event versus a fortunate event these last months of making our year-end issue. The ugly traffic delay you experience on the way to your second job seems suddenly not so rough around the edges when you see a major car crash on the way home that was tying you up, and could have been you. The total wipe out of a fill- in- the- blank event can steal the thunder of your oomph1 right out from under you, but it can turn a bit less sour when you see: i. More than you saw. ii. Maybe something you needed to learn/hear/whistle to. et cetera. I am not saying there are things out there that are just not ok. Things that are no good. There are those things, too. Death exists. But the fact is, most of the time it doesn't seem possible to be able to tell what in our life is fortunate and what is not. It seems as if only time or God or your best friend's dog can tell the difference. If our perception changes with the progression of events as they unfold, then our personal judgment on what occurs rests on a tipsy sliding scale whose blinded parsimonious criteria seems to be posed by the question, how will this benefit me most? The only conclusion I've been able to come to is that perhaps the only difference between what is good and bad in our lives may just be the power we take from them to call them as either one or the other. I had the chance to have tea with the charmingly intelligent Mara Miranda the other evening. I'm pleased to share with you her response on the subject: Herauszufindenworin sich diese beiden doch so gegensätzlichen Begriffe unterscheidenerscheint fast unmöglich. Doch was wenn wir das ganze einfach in schwarz und weißbetrachten, eine Schublade für die glücklichen Ereignisse und eine für die unglücklichen.Ist es möglich, dass dieses Schubladen-Denken uns das Leben erleichtert und unseine der vielen unbeantworteten Fragen des Lebens löst? Wennnun im tiefsten Winter die Heizung nicht mehr funktioniert und die Leitungeneinfrieren dann ist das ein unglückliches Ereignis. Was ist nun aber, wenn ichin dem Cafe in das ich mich setzte um mich aufzuwärmen, den Mann meines Lebenstreffe. Ist es dann ein unglückliches Ereignis das zu einem glücklichenEreignis geführt hat? Gibt es so etwas überhaupt? Ich binfest davon überzeugt, dass alles im Leben einen Sinn hat, auch die Dinge die imersten Moment nutzlos und nervenaufreibend erscheinen. Letztendlich sind esdoch die kleinen Dinge die uns glücklich machen und die wir viel zu schnell übersehenoder vergessen.

1thunder

of your oomph: watch out on the high seas! (n.) the overpowering and fueling juice membranes that rest beneath the underbelly of your soul saying you're gonna make it you're gonna make it i hear there is a storm outside but you you're gonna make it

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Waiting Tables on the UWS Joan Estep

Is it bad that when I'm asked about unfortunate events, the first thing that comes to mind is dating?

Perhaps this is a worn out topic, but those over -produced and over-hyped romantic comedies are not kidding when they joke about New York City being the hardest city in which to find love. The show Portlandia even made a parody rom-com in which the lead character is looking for "Mr. Write " in New York City. The catch is, she is married to a great guy already.

If only my life were that simple! I seem to meet people every single day that seem like they have potential to not be completely horrible life partners. But the catch with me is that I am too eager to jump to this conclusion and may give too many men the shadow of the doubt of not being completely horrible people. This leads me to my next rant, which stems from my job.

Newsflash to all male diners at my place of work: just because we are being paid to serve you does not mean that we, the waitressing staff, are a rolodex of low-end prostitutes. I've had the most awkward, yet entertaining advances while working. Maybe it's the sexy skort—yes, skort. As in, this lovely article of clothing.

Maybe it’s the overwhelming sense of sadness and fatigue that is emanating from our eyes? Either way, various men of the Upper West Side have found themselves fancying us in our spandex skorts.

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The length and inappropriateness level of the skort varies from person to person. On some girls, it actually doesn’t look horrifying and seems an appropriate length. On other girls, such as myself, it seems to be a hastily crafted veil to our nether regions that simultaneously highlights our lower belly pooch. I don’t understand the allure of the skort. Maybe the idea that they might possibly have a sneak-peak up our “skirt” is what is so intoxicating, but it is immediately smashed by the mini-shorts underneath the skirt (which is the only plus side of having said skort involved in our line of work.) The more embarrassing part of having to wear a skort while waiting tables is when we have to clean up before the place shuts down. I literally get down on all fours, furiously scrubbing the marble shelves in my skort, which I’m sure is another reason why the tips get better as the night wears on. Is it arousal, or sympathy tips? I don't really care. Again, nothing is revealed because of the awesomeness of the “shorts hidden under the skirt” design, but much is suggested from the patrons’ point of view.

It always happens to me when I am not sending any signals and would NEVER be interested in the gentleman in question. Once, a man gave me his business card after a brief conversation that seemed to involve my breasts more than me, even though they didn't really say much. "Call me if you want to grab lunch sometime, [Joan's boobs]." His line of work? "International Bridge Player." What are you really doing with your life, sir? And why do you have a business card that states this as your lame-ass job? You should be ashamed of yourself! Get a job. Sometimes, other tables use me as a gateway to hit on their waitresses, which also makes things awkward. Once, a waitress left to go


home for the evening but left her guests’ checks with me to give to them when they were ready. The table asked me for their check, and when they examined it, they noticed that their total was written with a large heart drawn around it, which is how this waitress always does her checks. The man called me back over and said, “Excuse me, exactly who is the heart intended for?” as his friends guffawed away.

I looked at him blankly and replied, “I don’t know. You should ask your waitress.”

I also had a table of two very demanding men trip me up with a last minute advance. They finished with their food and asked for their check. I totaled it up, brought it over to them, and as I dropped it off, the older of the two asked me, "Can you get me an extra napkin?"

"Sure thing." (I walked over, grabbed a napkin, and brought it back.) “Here you are.”

"And you have an extra pen?"

"Uh, sure. Hold on." (I walked over, grabbed a pen, and brought it back.) "Here you are."

(The man scribbled furiously as I turned to walk away.)

"And here is my number. If you ever want to go out sometime, give me a call."

Say WHAT?! No, no, no, no. No!

Both of these men in question were much too old for me. I have the rule of trying, emphasis on "trying," to stay within a decade of my age when I'm dating men who are older than me. These guys? Way too old for me. Late forties to fifties. And Father Time had definitely not taken to them well where their hair was concerned. What made it worse was that after they gave me their phone numbers, they asked if I was just starting college in New York and then looked disappointed after I told them I had graduated already. If they only knew that I took an extra long time in school when I added my dual-degree... I'm sure their mildly pedophilic fantasies would be completely shattered. Maybe I should start telling them that.

I thought of a few guidelines to possibly help the common man or woman when they want to pick up their server successfully. It does happen, believe it or not. There are a few girls I know who have gone on dates with a person they have waited on, and even a few who are in long-term relationships after being the person’s favorite waitress of all time. But the main difference between their stories and mine is the cornerstone of respect.

You must respect your server. Just like you and your friends have your jobs at honorable non-profits or reputable law firms, this is ours. And it most likely is not what we want to be doing for the rest of our lives, so try not to make it any more difficult than it already is. We have big dreams. We wouldn’t be in New York if we didn’t. Compliment us on how well we do our job. You are trying to pick us up, right? Try a little flattery. It may seem silly, but after attempting to attend to 20 plus people’s needs at a second’s notice, it’s nice to hear someone say, “Thank you. I appreciate how hard you 8 method press


are working.” Even if you are not trying to pick up your server at your local diner, compliments are always appreciated.

Don’t dominate our time. Even if your server does want to talk to you, you are most likely not the only table on the floor. Do not be offended if we have to walk away and do our job. Understand that we are on the clock and we will come back when we have time and if we want to. You must respect that choice as well.

Wait around a little bit, but not forever. You may be trying to build up the courage to ask for her number, but don’t take five hours doing it! There is nothing worse to a server than a table of customers who won’t leave. It affects other people coming in wanting tables, it makes us stay longer at the end of the night because we still have to clean up after you. It generally pisses everyone off.

Approach us after you have paid, and leave a nice tip. The most awkward part about these sorts of exchanges is that we, your waitresses, realize that if we reject you, we might get a lousy tip. This makes it feel more like a prostitute ring than a restaurant job. Please pay your bill and leave at least a 20% tip. Not 10% or 15%. This isn’t 1985. And the easiest way to calculate a decent tip is to take your bill total, move the decimal point over one digit to the left, and multiply that number by 2. For example, for a $10.00 bill, leave a $2 tip. Voilà! If you fancy your server but also respect her, compliment her, give her time to do her job, tip her well, and then ask for her number, you have a much higher chance of being successful at getting her number. But don’t expect it. You must respect her 9 method press

decision as well–the same way you respected her the rest of the time you were there. She may have a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband… or she may just not be interested in you. But you must be ready for rejection and take it with dignity. Plus, since you didn’t wait around, it won’t be awkward for either of you since you have paid and are on your way out the door. Problem solved.

In spite of living in the toughest city to do anything in, I don't see myself as trying to find love at all. I prefer to simply be open to it if the time is right. And if the person is overwhelmingly attractive it definitely helps. Until then, I will continue in my attempts to ward off advances from old men buying overpriced pastries.


UNFORTUNATE EVENT |Words Anton Nickel

WORDS

Preface: In response to the Method Press request for a piece about an unfortunate event, this particular unpublished piece from 2010 immediately came to mind. Despite the fact that the unfortunate event that inspired this essay was never fully realized in detail, the subtext is clear: The use of certain off-limits words in our society in-and-of-itself can be enough to constitute an unfortunate event. We have all witnessed this phenomenon: a public figure of some prominence says something deemed by the media machine of pseudo-philosopher elites, pretenders assigned by their corporate prowess, as unacceptable to the American public and/ or unbefitting the message of the powers that be, and said public figure loses his station as punishment for nothing more than speaking words of our English language. No actual crime is committed in these cases, yet the public “lynching” that ensues is nothing short of draconian castigation, designed to ruin the offender in a way that seizes his voice, often permanently. This course of action is most certainly unfortunate and carries serious consequences for ourselves, our society, and our humanity in its entirety. This piece focuses on words themselves and makes the case for their unfettered usage as their meanings are elastic, selfimposed, and important despite whatever connotations they carry. Ultimately, words are our tools and need to be available to us regardless of what they mean. Hiding from their potency and shunning their usage is just as harmful as hiding from certain awful truths they represent. Failure to confront those horrors and understand them completely leaves us hopelessly vulnerable to their repetition. And when an individual or a society fails to learn from their mistakes… well, that might be the most unfortunate event of all. -Anton Nickel, November 2011

I was recently involved in a heavy conversation with someone I admire. This someone is my good friend, and furthermore, a fine human being – full of optimism, with love in her heart for everyone. During our conversation, I was stunned to learn of a recent mishap in her life that arose from the use of a word. I am not going to reveal the name of the person or the specific word in question, as that may bias you into forming a judgment based on an emotional response, a judgment not founded in reason but rather in anger – anger over the word, anger over who used the word, anger over what the word represents— which is precisely why this discussion is so important.

Words are our creations.

We imagine them, conjure them, build them into a vocabulary to be used at will and shared among all of us. Sometimes, there are words that are so similar in meaning that they are often used interchangeably. Sometimes, in using words this way, we end up saying things we don’t really mean. A good example of this phenomenon of similar but subtly different words is the pair of adjectives, renowned and notorious. Too often, I hear them used in the same context, to modify a noun that is “wellknown.” For instance, you might hear, “Lance Armstrong is notorious for winning seven consecutive Le Tour de France cycling competitions.” Along the same lines, you may also hear, “Lance Armstrong is a renowned champion of bicycle racing.” While the idea conveyed is similar, the first sentence conveys a mixed message. Notorious, while meaning well-known, also carries a negative connotation. Conversely, renowned, which also means well-known, carries a positive connotation. Furthermore, it defies convention to say that Lance Armstrong is notorious for winning championships with brazen arrogance just as it defies convention to say Adolf Hitler was renowned for killing millions of innocent people with efficiency and aplomb. Using one word or the other conveys more than the raw logi10 method press


judgment associated with the subject in the sentence. The choice of word is essential to carrying the complete message. Additionally, the unconventional choice of a word can be used to incite a feeling in the reader: sometimes words are used in a certain way to intentionally startle the reader, or even just to pique their attention if the author is about to lay down some important shit. With this understanding of words, what they mean, what they represent, and when and how to use them effectively, it is of the essence of communication that we should be able to access all the words in our language to use them for a variety of reasons and in a variety of contexts, just as we should be able to recall their definitions to fully understand what is actually being said with multiple dimensions of meaning. The sentence about Hitler is twisted, yes; it’s also in poor taste, for sure; but is it any less true? It would be hard to argue against the statement, as we all know what Hitler accomplished – oh, there it is again! Accomplishment also carries a positive connotation, so it is totally unconventional to use it when talking about Hitler’s acts of genocide, unless we are doing so to make a point: these words can mean anything, depending on their context (e. g., positive words such as renown, efficiency, aplomb, and accomplishment can be used to make negative statements, just as negative words such as notorious, brazen, and arrogance can be used to make positive statements. Regardless of which way these words are being used, it is our collective cognitive interpretation, formed largely from contextual clues, our knowledge base, and personal experience that allows us to formulate an understanding of what is being said, with consistency from person to person. Without that, words are mere symbolic representations of phonetic sound patterns without any real meaning at all. For example, when an artist or an author uses words to express an ugly emotion, the words chosen may very likely be ugly as well. But what, beyond the context of the statement, are the words actually saying? I contend that they say nothing. Without the context needed to interpret what is being said with the words, the words 11 method press

themselves are read as gibberish and/or uttered as meaningless sound, much like reading a foreign language out loud. Without our minds and the knowledge contained therein, collective and individual, there is zero difference between TUNC and its anagram, GAFTOG and its anagram, ZIAN and its anagram, IKEK and its anagram, INGREG and its anagram, et cetera. Yet the anagrams represented by the preceding gibberish contain a lot of ugly meaning to a variety of people because we all agree on their meanings; furthermore, the context in which these words are typically used is aggressive and evil. Those words carry strong negative connotations because they have been invented to do so. Be that as it may, we can and should use these words and others like them to express something ugly, something challenging, something that might need to be said, something that happened to us, something that frightened us. And we must never be afraid to use them (or any other ugly word), because these words belong to us, their meanings are assigned by us, and for certain, our response to them is up to us. If we give words so much power that their mere utterance causes friendships to end, employments to terminate, violence to ensue, lives to be lost, riots to rage and burn in the streets, then where is our power to stop them? And moreover, where is our power to heal the wounds of our ugly past? How can we be blind to the reasons we communicate, the reasons we are expressing things that are controversial, the purpose of accessing our language as a way to better understand each other, our shared existence, our individual search for truth? So blind that we pretend something doesn’t exist: a word is off-limits because of what it represents, so we isolate it, forbid it, carry on without it, in denial of its existence, as if it isn’t there? How does this help us? When one set of us is so afraid to speak a word because of what it represents, the horror it symbolizes, the guilt from deeds of past and present generations while another set of us, quite separately, has seized the word and uses it to form individual and collective identity, effectively conquering it and creating empowerment through it, does it not still represent the same horror as it does for


the set of the population afraid to use it? Surely it does, but that horror (entwined with the word) is a concept, an empty idea, and merely a representation of the actual horror (or empowerment) that exists in each of us whether we use the word or not. The truth, as it seems to me, is that we are afraid to use these words because what they represent is alive within us. These words are a mere reflection of our own feelings about ourselves, each other, and our places in the world. They are a reflection of our singular human race as roughly three thirds of one whole , and ultimately, they will affect our ability or inability to reach real unity. As long as the mere utterance of these words is enough to generate such hatred to cause compatriots to disband and deep, dark, rifts to form between us, we will be standing still, staring at the shadows on the wall, locked-in-step like androids or outer-party members marching to predetermined music, in an unwavering direction, for indefinite eternity. We must seize control over ourselves and realize that we are not isolated from each other, that there will never be a world where races are separate, and embrace the fact that integration is beautiful, natural, and inevitable. We must not fall into categories that serve to keep us divided; we must not allow the status quo to remain in force. If there is ever to be the hope and change that so many of us lined up for on that first Tuesday of November 2008 , it takes more than pulling a lever once every four years. It takes daily action, it takes honest discussion, it takes enough wisdom to not get hung up on the words, but rather to see the meanings, to see the people who are speaking them, and to understand why – to see each other wide-eyed, walking in the light instead of sitting, facing the wall, with our eyes closed. Words are only shadows. See my friend for who she is, for why she said whatever was said, not for mere utterances. See her in the light, because she is beautiful and full of truth, just like all of us are, once we lift our heads from the darkness.

“it takes enough wisdom to not get hung up on the words, but rather to see the meanings…”

Anton V. Nickel, 31 August 2010, New York City 12 method press


Vegetaliene ŠBrutArt http://brutart.free.fr

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KITEMARE Sumner Riel What happened was an overreaction by the NYPD. I'll preface by saying that I appreciate their effort, enthusiasm, and the services they perform... but the NYPD almost killed me. I live in Rockaway Beach, one of my usual kiting spots. I am NOT a newbie OR a kook. I self-launched from my usual spot at 87th Street, two jetties down from the surfers. I rode for about half an hour on the outside, staying well away from the surfers, frequently tacking back to within 30 yards of the Beach, 90th jetty as my marker. On my last tack out, I jumped and held the kite too high too long and landed too far downwind of the kite. It hindenberged, crashed, and the lines became inverted. (It's a 5-line kite with no 5th line release.) Sorting out the lines to relaunch was getting sketchy, and the light winds were making the kite kind of erratic. I decided to self-rescue. Not a big deal. Nothing new. Done it before. I was maybe 100 yards off shore in directly side shore winds with a channel downwind to catch me. Nothing to worry about....UNTIL the NYPD showed up in a helicopter. I was easily reeling the kite in by the center line, wrapping the lines as I went when I noticed a helicopter was actually circling around me and getting closer. Halfway through my line lengths, the chopper started hovering within like 60ft of me, the co-pilot questioning me with a thumbs up/thumbs down hand signal. I gave a very clear thumbs up. They backed off. I continued to pull in my kite. When I got maybe fifteen feet from my kite, the chopper reappeared on

my left, landward side, even closer, blowing my kite around. They used some visual signals to question me as to whether or not they should drop into the water. I waved them off and gave them another thumbs up, while thinking they really better not get any closer with that damn chopper. I reached my kite, flipped it on its back, stowed the bar, changed my leash attachment point, lay across the kite, grabbed a wingtip, and started sailing in. No big deal...until a minute later the helicopter came down to hover like 40ft behind me, spinning the kite and me around. It flipped. I tried to keep a hold of the leading edge. At this point I probably should have ditched it, but thanks to the helicopter, the slack that I had remaining in my lines became wrapped around my neck and torso. At this point, I was trying to get the lines from around my neck while trying to keep the kite secured under one arm and frantically waving the copter away with the other. I watch in horror as the leading edge begins to point skyward in the chaotic winds from the chopper, thinking, strangulation?---no decapitation. If this powers, up I'm dead. Luckily, the wind died down, and the kite fell back on its leading edge. I worked quickly to get the lines off my neck and glanced back to see that two divers had entered the water and the chopper was pulling away. I started unwrapping my torso and freed myself just as the two divers swam up to my left and right sides and placed their hands on the leading edge of my kite, which I'd managed to get on its back. I started screaming at them to "get that f**king helicopter out of here! What are you doing?! You're going to kill me!" The diver to my right dumbfoundedly stared at 14 method press


me. I looked at the diver on my left who was taking off his mask, holding on to my leading edge and beginning to swim amongst my now inadequately furled lines. I looked back to my right and thought, what is this, a f**king pool party? I said, "Get away from my kite; you're going to get tangled in my lines, and if that chopper comes back we're all gonna die!" The guy on my left said, "We'll just cut your lines." You'll what!? NO, get out of here! I told the guy on the right, "I'm not asking for your help; get away from my kite!" To which he responded, "Some people called from the high-rise building (public housing), we're here now, we have to rescue you." The guy on the left reiterated, "Don't worry, we're going to rescue you." Are you kidding me!? From the expressions on their faces and lack of reflex, I'm guessing this is the first time they had ever done this operation. By this point, some sort of life guard had paddled out to join us on his surf board, and it officially was a pool party. Left-side diver removed his neck floatation device and placed it over my head, around my neck, and inadequately secured it around my waist so that I now had a loosefitting device covering my face, making it difficult to see and breathe. Right-side diver began dragging me backward, against my will, away from the kite. I watched as leftside diver brought my lines to the surface, cut through them with his knife, and handed the kite to the lifeguard. I shouted at him, "Do you know how to handle that?!" thinking, damn, I should have deflated it. Nothing to do now but let Team America "save the day" and proceed with their "rescue."

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When I turned back around, I caught a face full of wind, spray, and floatation device whipped up from the chopper, which was now lowering a rescue basket, which the diver proceeded to guide me into. This was about the closest I came to drowning. Once again, thanks to the NYPD helicopter. We then took a short helicopter ride and touched down on the beach to a rabble of St. Patrick's day revelers and maybe half a dozen ambulances. Some obnoxious woman started heckling me. When I finally retrieved my kite, I found a tattered mess in a pile on the beach. The NYPD, in their failure to understand a simple deflate valve, had slashed the leading edge and canopy in order to deflate the kite. When I looked for the sand anchor that I use to self-launch, I found that the rabble had seen fit to steal it. So now that you've suffered through this livid rant, I'll close by summarizing that: 1) I

was forcefully and falsely arrested against my will at sea. 2) My equipment was confiscated, destroyed, and stolen. My conclusions: detach when a helicopter bears down on your kite, don't kite around people ignorant to kiting, and like Ben Wilson says, "Keep your kite in the air." P.S. Thank you, NYPD.


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PASSIONATE PLACES | Cancale, France Ashleigh A. Coyner

"The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense his life. . . . The beautiful vagabonds, endowed with every grace, masters of all climes, and knowing no bounds -- how many human aspirations are realised in their free, holiday-lives -- and how many suggestions to the poet in their flight and song!" --John Burroughs

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We stood at this beach, elbow to elbow, fighting over the one and only pair of binoculars. Love birds our selves, just newly married, in love with birds. We had walked quite a ways and stopped at this particular spot, mesmerized by this tern. We watched it dive into the water and swoop back up with fish. We watched it for what seemed like hours and counted each fish that it caught. Amazing. Thankful.

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|But this squirrel had a name-Jane Doe| ŠChrista Blackwood

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SPOTLIGHT | The Meaty Woes Of Laura Kazdan by Katie King

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Mixed media artist, projectionist, red-head, and mix-tape fanatic, Laura Kazdan just walked into the world's biggest canyon. Yeah, that one. After successfully funding her Kickstarter project, Watusi in Vegas, Stays in Vegas-Laura has begun her season as a winter employee at the canyon's national park.

In the meantime, Kazdan will continue to create what she likes to call "performance art out of living my life like it is performance art." Strangely glorifying the plain pleasures and panicky pain that is the mental atmosphere of wayward love wrapped up in midtwenty angst, Laura uses a rare recipe of simplicity, heart aches, and colored markers to portray the brave, lonely & unfortunate. The eighties babies. You can follow Laura at http://www.sothisgirlwalksintoashortstory.tumblr.com

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A CHAOTIC VISUAL STIMULI | BLEUOISEAU PHOTOGRAPHY

Printer #1 covered in prints...inspiration board #1 above and books below.

Inspiration board #2 and top of desk...lots of my own prints and various do-dads.

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Printer #2 with new image print on top...more books and more prints scattered.

On the floor...more books, stacks of printer paper, more prints, embroidery kit.

I am a visual person. I need to have snippets of color and texture around me to create. Chaos is what my husband calls it. Believe it or not, I can concentrate in all this chaos, but usually not until late at night.—Ashleigh A. Coyner

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A RECENT METHOD Katie King

My method starts with cadence. I prefer typing to a beat and sleeping in crowded room. Having such a winds per hour life, my method is clinging to method. In songwriting, I can create only after I am drumming a beat. On the steering wheel. Or on the outside of my right thigh (I'm wearing jeans--flares... it's still the 90's right?). Cross country road trips, long phone calls hashing things out with close friends who are old friends who are my friends. And I mean hours of what-he-said-what-I-said-laugh-laughlaugh. I have some darn good friends. When I hang up the phone, I am singing out loud, camera in one hand, notepad on the steering wheel, ball point pen (it always has to be a ball point pen), scrunchie on the wrist (except for that one year when I wore it like a pixie in the summer of my 21st year), and both dogs right smack in my lap. While driving down 1-80, through salt fields and moon rising and his pain and her pain, and Arizona sunny sun turns to east coast attitude adjustment. This is the image of my current method. All at once. Multiplicity and loyalty dance. No plan. Never wear watches. Never watch porn. I like to get there. Break the heart. Wear it on my sleeve. Skip the eggs, skip the milk, and pray for those you love and hate first thing each morning.

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The three W’s: the [un] method of Sara Montague Miller

My day job requires a lot of method. There are hierarchies, certifications, appointments, time constraints, treatment plans, measurable objectives, policies, boundaries, rigid rules. Because I need balance in my life, I try to let my photography hobby remain free of these sorts of barriers. I wander around with my camera whenever and wherever I want. It is freeing. If there is a method to it at all, it boils down to this: I walk, I watch, I wonder.

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I want to call it "random," but I can't help but notice that those three verbs are alliterative and listed in alphabetical order. Maybe I am a little bit methodical after all.

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Hello there, Katie King here. I run this monster ship. Here lies an invitation to help method press live

Yesah.

Come work in Brooklyn with me. I will need you for 5 hours a week. We'll have our own office space. We can chain drink tea together & chat about art. and non-art. and methods. I will make it worth your while.

Apply method@gmail.com Subject: Your favorite Dance Move

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I am disastrously

in Love With You You.

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submit photos to http://www.flickr.com/groupsmpvault/ and writing to methodpress@gmail.com.


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Method Press//Winter Issue:04//An Unfortunate Event