Psychic Rainy Nights by Phil Stoneman

(kind of )

An Introduction

It’s

a pleasure to welcome you into the first ever9 edition of Psychic Rainy Nights, a bilingual random content zineZ published in Bogota, Colombia. The random content idea is based around the fact that I’ve got no intention of making money from this, and only the slimmest of hopes that anyone will actually read it at all; this means that I am entirely free to print whatever I want, and have my fingers crossed that it will end up being interesting in some way. idea of Psychic Rainy Nights comes from Curvature, a zine which I used to print in MPCtimes. Time now having passed, lessons having been learnt, and scars having healedV, it was time for something new. For that reason, I present you with Psychic Rainy Nights.

The

philstoneman@gmail.com cover / portada : Lifes by / por ~Kasperionis (deviantart.com)

9 Z And probably also the last ever.

Mejor dicho, es un zine bilingüe con contenido en inglés y en español. Pero la introducción solo viene en inglés. MPC: My Pre-Colombian. V Or being in the process thereof.

Content

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Contenidos

Como Bestias ilustración / illustration Kevin Simón Mancera

Canto al Lucero cuento / short story María Fernanda Bernal Ortíz

No Somos Islas ilustración / illustration Isabel Corredor

Jazz n’ Bogotá comment / comentario Ernest White II

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Sin Título poema / poem Tizziana Russo

Three albums from the ‘70s that rock my world music review / reseña musical Cam Curtis

Mi Abuela comentario / comment Pablo Estrada

La Verdad cuento / short story Alfredo Romero

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Identidad ilustración / illustration Jineth Cruz

Beams fotografía / photography David Beltrán Undercurrent Whispers poem / poema Violeta Rocha

Grand Theft Auto III comment / comentario Phil Stoneman

Playlist screenshot / captura de pantalla Phil Stoneman

More poem / poema Ana María Pineda

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Alright, there’s probably not too much novelty in reviewing a game that was released over ten years ago, but there are extenuating circumstances. There honestly are. And, whilst I’m being apologetic, I’d also like to say that although I do play a fair amount of computer games, I’m no expert. But GTA3 has always been a bit special to me, partly due to the fact that it’s one of the few games I’ve played that really does create its own world (for better or for worse). It also features Kyle McLachlan doing one of the voicess. I was also, of course, playing mostly so I could do research in order to write this article. And I think I can say that the hours upon hours that I spend researching the game were well spent. So, I bought GTA3 a couple of years ago. I’d played it before, but don’t remember having read the instruction booklet, so I set to exploring it and especially the part about the various gangs of Liberty City. Everything’s based around these vestiges of tribal loyalty in LC, and the booklet offers various descriptions of the various gangs – the Mafia being elegant, proud of their family honour, the Yakuza being meticulous and bonded to their years of tradition, etc. And then there are the Colombians, whose characteristics are that they are “inhuman s

Who was, of course, Special Agent Dale Cooper in Twin Peaks. Not to mention being Jeffrey in Blue Velvet. The respect in which I used to hold him was somewhat damaged by his appearance in Showgirls, by which I mean that it ravaged the whole thing. Not that his voice-overs in GTA3 really help. They are, in fact, mundane beyond description.

Pixelated slaughter and untrustworthy”<,0'w. Not much trace of redeeming features there. If you are unaware of the game, the basic idea is to complete missions for the various gang bosses. These could be to simply chauffeur someone (who may or may not be a key murder witness) from place to place, or pick up some unmarked packages. Or kill a cop. You don’t have to be too much of a moralistic traditionalist to say that killing, even more so of some anonymous bloke in a blue uniform, is wrong; according to the game, however, it’s all part of the fun. And as unsavoury as it might be, it is fun. It’s not something I’d do in real life – and the same goes for recuperating my health points through an encounter with a lady of the nightr - but it’s all part of the surreal experience of the game and taking on the persona of this criminal antihero. The idea of a good computer game is to take you out of your daily life and immerse you in a w

At this point, I’d like to remind you that I bought my copy of GTA3 in one of the Panamericana bookshops in the centre of Bogotá. I’m translating from the Spanish-language booklet, without which the people here who buy the game may not be able to understand exactly how their countrymen are being classified. Which is to say that they are classified exactly as they’ve been in countless Hollywood films of recent years – as really shifty Mexicans. They appear in the game with Crocodile Dundee-style hats, complete with snake/crocodile teeth in the hatband… And just as much as it was too much effort for the designers to actually put them in sombreros volteados, neither could they be bothered to put some vallenato on their car stereos. Strangely enough, the Colombians are the only gang in the whole game that you never actually work with, only against. They are the ever-present threat to your all-American quest to conquer all that lies before you. It does, however, have to be said that the one detail that the programmers did get right about the Colombians, whether by chance or not, is the size of their cars. Which are, just like the ones filling the streets of Bogotá, the biggest fuel guzzling monsters (complete with tinted windscreens) you can imagine. r A typical Colombian. Or, for that matter, then disposing of her and Apparently. taking back my money.

Racial checklists completely different world – there would be little appeal to a game where you do the same things you do in your actual life – and so, when you take it as part of this out of body experience, it makes sense. I am aware that there are people who do the same heinous acts as are represented in the game, and also that these people clearly existed long before such games were conceived of. But for them, it wouldn’t be much of an adventure to do these things again in the context of a computer game – they’d probably prefer a game based around being an office temp where they can explore exotic pursuits such as printing and filing documents.f f

I have however digressed once again. The thing is that national stereotypes as we see of the Colombians in GTA3 is so permissive that it’s easy to not even think about it. When I played GTA3 years ago, I never thought about the way that Colombians were being portrayed in it, in the same way that we generally don’t pick up on the representation of other cultures without having some direct with them. All the same, these influences add up in the absence of our realisation of the situation, until we have these very clear, very unconscious prejudices about so much around us. And the end result of these very clear, and by this point, very conscious predudices is evident in the Colombian context. There are few people I’ve met here that haven’t asked me about whether I was scared to come here, given Colombia’s reputation in the outside world. However, even taking into account the awful way in which Colombia has been portrayed by other countries t,, one has to wonder when the majority of Colombian films - not to mention internal news broadcasts - show very graphic depictions of armed conflict and drug deals. This is the harsh reality for some of the Colombian population, but there is very little media representation of the joy of living here that many experience. “Colombia”, as a product, contains violence to be distributed around the world. On the other hand, “England”, as a product, contains risible but entertaining perspectives of a country of kings and queens, of Hugh Grant and the exclusive, perpetually sparkling suburbs of London which ignore the experience of life in other parts of the city, and much more the country. England has reaped the benefits of its international image, attracting millions of tourists who want to experience this world for themselves. Colombia, on the other hand, is in a feedback loop of images of violence which it finds itself hard to distance itself from.

Amongst which, as well as GTA3 , there’s Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Romancing the Stone and Behind Enemy Lines, just to mention a few films. None of which were filmed here, of course.

Random playlisting

Although whether youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be convinced to listen to them after seeing them here is quite another thing. 9

Canto al Lucero Por María Fernanda Bernal Ortiz Justo aquí, bañada de ingenuidad y deslumbrada por un par de obleas recibo la fatídica noticia. Corro al baño a vomitar, odio mi rostro. Profundo dolor. Espumas que se van… 4 pm, ensayo en la flauta para la presentación a los papitos, me observas, sonríes. Corrección. Abrazo a mi madre, vuelvo a vomitar. Inmóvil me observa con cara de estúpido, y aquí viene la misma pregunta que podría hacer cualquier sujeto con el mismo rostro. Lárguese.

- Siéntese derecha, arrime el plato, no me deje nada.

Días antes, arrodillada junto a su cama, me acaricia con ternura, pero me ordena con asco que deje de temer, que me declare loca. Sentimiento de dolor. Mi corazón lo siente, Ay! Que horrible sentimiento, quisiera mejor, morir… en vano canto, carcajeo, recuerdo. Con un acelerador en el corazón, verifico los resultados de admisión. Hijo de puta! $500. Marcela te estaba buscando para que subieras. Otra hija.

Un besito atorado en la garganta y una palmada seca en la espalda acompañan una noche fría, miedo. Media botella de aguardiente, un paquete de maní, un diamante en un diente. Sales envuelta en una bolsa de basura sobre una bandeja de aluminio. Te odio. Mi corazón arde, duele, fastidia. Una lagartija bajo mi almohada. - No grite, no le hace nada. Gordo, sáquela. Ahora me siento sola, hambrienta, atestada de parásitos en el estómago… Y me estoy desesperando pero te sigo esperando ya no seas así… frecuentes escalofríos, lágrimas. Desesperanza. Soy yo. Estampa del Lucero, caminante en la bruma, contenedor de maniquíes. Dispuesta a la vida, al futuro. Justo aquí, bañada de ingenuidad, deslumbrada por un par de besos, recuerdo ese instante. Bajo a la cocina a fumar, odio mi cuerpo. Espero mi turno con paciencia.

Joanie : In the Spotlight by *edaoust (deviantart.com) 11

Sin título (1 escena)

Por Tizziana Russo

Espejo: ¿ Por qué te escondes detrás de esa sonrisa fingida? ¿ Por qué no te rasgas el vestido y te desnudas de una buena vez? ¿ A que le tienes miedo? Mujer: Me he visto en ti tantas veces. Escondiéndome entre tantas máscaras que ya he olvidado mi rostro. He visto mi ropa caer pero no he podido ver mi reflejo desnudo. He visto un vaho de sombra empañándote. He visto mi vida corriendo en círculos... Espejo: ¿ Por qué has huido tantas veces de tu reflejo en el cristal? ¿Por qué te has cansado de seguir buscando tu verdadero rostro? ¿ Por qué has cargado tanto peso en tu vientre y luego das a luz tantas desesperanzas? Mujer: Ayer miré por la ventana y pensé en el futuro... Soñé con la felicidad y me volqué hacia ella. Afuera pensé, Rompiendo los barrotes seré libre... Pero el peso del vientre siguió creciendo, Y la risa se volvió una mueca en el destiempo. He estado huyendo a un palacio de reflejos fríos. Espejo: ¿ Qué quieres ver ahora? Ya no esta la ventana. Ni el barrote que obstruía la puerta de salida. Mujer: Quiero ver el jardín. Ese que florece ahora... Espejo: ¿ Y que te lo impide? Mujer: Lo inconcluso... Las interrogaciones... el miedo a ser...

Espejo: ¿ Y? Mujer: Esa manía de querer siempre arreglar las cosas, Y no ver por fin lo que es... Espejo: ¿ Por qué? ¿ Te parece insípido tu paisaje? Mujer: Sí!!! Creo tener siempre suficiente tiempo para arreglarlo. Espejo: Y te preocupa ahora ver que lo que pensabas no es mas que una de tus tantas máscaras, Que tu sonrisa mas profunda no es mas que una mueca insípida, Que hoy el reloj empieza a empujarte? Mujer: El reloj... Espejo: Las horas que se esfuman... Mujer: Estoy aquí ahora. Quiero verme... y lanzarme al observarme en tu vacío. Desnuda, Abierta como una flor que destila. Espejo: Estoy aquí vacío esperándote para llenarme de tu rostro y bailar en tu vientre. Aquí te recibo. Únicamente desborda el corazón. Mujer: Nazco en ti... en tu transparencia. Aquí ya no hay máscaras, Tampoco luz tenue que opaca. Estoy en ti me fundo. Espejo: Somos...

Jazz n’ Bogotáby Ernest White II Cities have their own soundtracks, their own musical accompaniment to match the to-and-fro of the inhabitants, the whizzing of vehicles, the changing of seasons—wet, dry, hot, or cold. Bogotá is a jazz city. Jazz and house and hard rock, but mostly jazz. Though a Latin American capital, Bogotá isn’t tropical like São Paulo, which is jazz and house and samba and bossa. It’s also not like New York, which is jazz and house and meringue and hip-hop. During the day, Bogotá is uptempo, vibrant like Dizz on the horn. And it’s cool, melancholy torch songs at night. The permanent chill in the air, the musk of a leather jacket, the bittersweet creaminess of a cup of hot chocolate, and the uneasy rhythms of bobbing umbrellas all manifestations of a percussive, urban riff. In Bogotá, none of the houses have heat — only blankets and layers of blue and grey settle over the people. Yet the city isn’t as raw as the blues. There’s a polish, a sheen to the sorrow here. A refinement of suffering that requires it to be done in quiet, muted tones. In blue notes, rather than the blues. Still, the soul of the city is a mélange of styles and rhythms and melodies from all corners of the country — the conga bebop from both coasts, the lilting gypsy jazz from north of the capital, the acid infusion from Medellín. And as traffic courses through a grid high in the Andes, the city swings with the improvised precision of eight million jazz musicians. Eight million layers. Eight million expressions of life.

Candelaria - Bogotรก by xAphazelx (deviantart.com) 17

Three albums from the ‘70s that rock my world by Cam Curtis Tom Waits – Nighthawks At The Diner Listening to this album is like sitting right there at a table next to the bandstand sometime in ’75, slightly boozed up and buzzing in an intimate late-night club gig with the master storyteller waxing poetical over the swinging jazz ‘n bluessoaked sounds of a slick quartet. You can almost catch a whiff of Waits’ whisky-and-ashtray breath as he croons out his jivespeakin’ hipster verse, his portraits of thoroughly smashed loners on after-hours city street rambles; landscapes of the banal, utterly human goings-on in a sleepy backwater county; smoky interiors of bars and cheap diners in the wee small hours; the doleful bales of a resigned loser in romantic affairs. His rendition of a supernatural trucking tale takes a brief turn down an abandoned country highway. The songs sparkle with wit, their rarefied glimpses of some kind of American soul told with a grin as the sax player squeezes out riffs and the tinkling of the ivories. Oh yes. Milton Nascimento – Clube da Esquina A Brazilian classic from the early 70’s. It´s one of these albums that has moments of such overwhelming beauty that I have to confess to the occasional saltwater welling in the eyes, accompanied maybe by a little light sobbing. No mean feat considering I don’t understand most of the lyrics and I’m a reasonably tough-skinned bastard. Nascimento just has this kind of delicate, melancholy, plaintive quality to his voice. And then there’s the arrangements, full of dramatic, dynamic range, infused with samba and bossa nova, the cheesy funkrock-pop of tropicalia, the almost baroque 18

strings. In the hands of lesser artists it could be a disaster, but for me Nascimento and collaborators have approached perfection, whatever that is. King Tubby – At The Controls (Compilation) Yes - a compilation, but let’s not get too fussy. I remember clearly the first the time I heard the heavy heavy dub sounds of King Tubby. It was a revelation. Ah yes, ‘twas a warm spring day in that fine city of Melbourne, back in ancient times when people bought strange mirror-like discs known as ‘CDs’; I was playing in a ska band around that time, which had led me to seek out more Jamaican sounds. I had wandered, as was my wont, into a local record store and started a-sifting through the selection. This album caught my eye because of the intriguingly crappy home-photo cover with some guy wearing a cardboard crown. Dusting off the inevitable dandruff from the store’s headphones, I slipped them on and pressed play. In the words of another, unrelated King, I felt the Earth move under my feet, I felt the sky tumbling down, I felt my heart etc. It was like I´d been thrown free-falling into some kind of remixed space-reggae echo chamber in the middle of an apocalyptic earthquake. Exaggeration? Well…the first track on this brilliant compilation is an absolute killer, and the rest follow suit. I had in fact fallen truly, madly and deeply in love. The thunderous bass and drums come crashing out of the intro, the diabolical mixer man sending the last snippet of vocal line through a slow-dying repeating effect. Suddenly the snare drum explodes in a cave off to the side and the guitar enters the picture only be shoved through the repeating echo effect and disappear again. Full of thick black roots reggae groove, sweet and nasty as molasses. Here was King Tubby, the original mad scientist dub creator, the original remixer in his little homemade studio in Kingston at the dawn of the 70’s, twisting knobs and moving faders and rocking a musical revolution. In the prophetic opening line of the first track: ‘You can kill the King, but you can´t kill the King’s riddim.’ Amen. 19

«MI ABUELA»

Por Pablo Estrada

Debe haber una generación que seguramente recordará una canción de 1989 que habría de ser una referencia recurrente al principio de la década siguiente. Se trata de «Mi abuela» de Wilfred y La Ganga. Wilfred Morales, procedente de la televisión, estaría al frente del proyecto de enorme éxito en su momento, componiendo y cantando la canción nacida como una parodia de «La Escuela» de Ruben DJ, un consagrado rapero de mediados de los 80 en Puerto Rico, donde se había afincado el nuevo estilo musical que provenía del norte de América –donde tuvo origen–, y quien fue precursor del movimiento en el Caribe. Wilfred realizó dos discos y aunque llegó a rozar alguna notoriedad con «La Baticueva» –cara B del maxi-single de su éxito, editado en disco de vinilo, tema paródico que sugería la homosexualidad de Batman–, fue «Mi abuela» el tema que coronó las listas, se usó en la publicidad de Mayonesa Hellman’s, llegó a ser la primera canción de rap en español en alcanzar popularidad a nivel internacional y cuya letra sería repetida por los jóvenes de la época, los que conseguían descifrar esa especie de jerga salpicada de spanglish. El sencillo fue promocionado con un video-clip de precaria manufactura que recordaba de alguna manera «Parents Just Don’t Understand» (1988) de DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince del álbum He’s The DJ, I’m The Rapper con Will Smith justo antes del programa de televisión «El Príncipe del rap», aunque ya con el mote French Prince… Otros que trazaron el camino del rap en Latinoamérica fueron el ecuatoriano Gerardo con «Rico Suave», canción que sampleaba «Give It Up or Turnit a Loose» de James Brown y Qué Pasa de Venezuela con «Mami yo te quiero». Otro artista similar fue Mellow Man Ace –afrocubano residente en Estados Unidos– con «Mentirosa» (1989), tema en spanglish cuya música se basaba en «No One To Depend On de Santana, así como «U Can’t Touch This» de MC Hammer en «Super Freak» de Rick James y «Ice Ice Baby» de Vanilla Ice en «Under Pressure» de Queen con David Bowie. La banda mexicana Molotov realizó una versión de esta canción (en la que supuestamente también versionan «The Magnificent Seven» de The Clash y «Bust a Move» de Young MC) en su álbum de cóvers Con todo respeto de 2005.

La Verdad

Por Alfredo Romero

Herida permanezco en el pabellón de un hospital. Me acompaña una mujer que me produce repulsión y envidia. Enviadas al mismo cuarto hemos sabido procurarnos temas de conversación para gastar las horas tenues y largas. Cuando no estoy escuchándola devano las horas en reflexiones pseudos-intelectuales. Con frecuencia me cuenta sobre el bello color del sol ese día, otros; se alarga en descripciones de niños, aguas y aves. Trata de obsequiarme su felicidad, que para mi es insulsa y lo único que realmente me provoca es desaparecerla, y así yo; que también merezco un poco de misericordia y aire fresco, puedo por fin deleitarme observando el mundo que se ve a través del cristal de la ventana. Si, esta es una idea que se ha venido incubando en mi cabeza; como no desear, al menos, un contacto con el mundo exterior, una extensión de mi vista que de alguna manera remediara mis piernas inútiles y muertas. Ayer vi como reía observando – según me contó en la tarde mientras la enfermera lavaba mis llagas purulentas- una llovizna repentina que hizo correr a todo el mundo. Maldita y voraz! Pensaba yo, y a mi que me tocó en suerte esta blanca y pálida pared, un muro de mierda que no me obsequia sino mutismo y odio. Ah! Eso es, desaparecer su hipócrita bondad, sus descripciones provocadoras y su mirada compasiva; hmmm, si lo único que uno necesita es arriesgarse, si señor!, solo a unas pocas personas no es dado este privilegio… Pulsión diría un freudiano, esta capacidad de ir mas allá ……de atreverse…… Ah! Pero que pienso? No digo nada más, silencio! Pues si. Las dos estamos hace mucho tiempo acá y no me arrepentiría de nada de eso estoy segura. Llegamos cada una abandonadas y desahuciadas. Al principio era tan vil que no 22

exhibía la alegría. Poder ver, algo de lo que estaba afuera. Sólo de unos meses para acá se ha empeñado en mortificarme con su falaz empresa de hacer la idea de mi muerte, según ella: más sensible, bah! que idea tan ridícula!…………… Dice que a través de la ventana ve cosas bellas y que de algún modo le da fuerzas para seguir luchando y querer vivir,………… Ja!..... arraigarse a este mundo delirante, eternamente imperfecto; Dios no ha creado nada que aborrezca tanto como este mundo pues desde el día en que lo creo no ha vuelto a mirarlo. Nunca recordaré el nombre de este sabio amigo Chino. Pero si del rumano cuyas palabras se han enquistado en mi cabeza. Y mientras tanto yo sigo acá, envidiando su suerte y sus sabanas que se entibian con los rayos que el sol le obsequia. Esta noche es el día. La sofocaré mientras duerme, despacio, inyectándole largo sufrimiento y suplicio. Aquí, es donde comienza mi deliro de asesina. La sofoqué lentamente mientras observaba sus ojos ambarinos que suplicaban piedad; y lo que vi no fue una ventana; vi un muro, pálido y hermético semejante al mío. Nunca hubo pájaros, aves ni lloviznas; el sol también era la medida de su piedad. Tan solo una idea. Nadie puede saber la constricción de mi alma. FIN.

Hospital Waiting Room by ~christybindas (deviantart.com)

UNDERCURRENT WHISPERS by Violeta Rocha

I have been rocked to sleep by Neptune’s watery arms Swaying me gently in mists of confusion In dreams In illusions Of the possible The romantic longing of attaining The common divine rapture Again I find myself saying “If only for a brief time…” But there’s intruding noise That troubles my heart when I hear When I listen To the whispers of the undercurrents Of my soul The icy stingy fear Of rejection Of abandonment Still I let Neptune’s mists cloud my mind Flood my heart And so it wanders and wonders My soul floating envisioning bliss In foreign landscapes Near the mountains, near the water’s song And the warm sunshine of his love Surrounds me But I wake up! Reality wakes me up The undercurrent whispers: “Miss, time is passing by There is nothing concrete 26

You’re just a friend A diversion Someone to talk to He doesn’t want your jewel You soul” I cannot hush it I feel pangs in my chest My soul aches A little Just a little I cannot let the flame die Everyone is wounded I cannot cure them all But they come to me I got to send them away To nurse my own wounds I am sorry Is distance my enemy here? No It is lack Lack of love Will he love me Enough to rescue me? I don’t know My heart should not wait But my soul desires to be with him Neptune’s visions turn into nightmares The undercurrent’s whispers are a raging torment now The sea engulfs me The waves hit me I surrender to this May the salt of the sea purify my being.

by Ana MarĂa Pineda 28