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Group Zine:March To May 1 2013

w o d n i W

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Intimations on our Travels into the Future


How it really was Back in the day, we were poor but somehow my mom always managed to get by every month .We didn‟t have very much money or food and clothes but we did have each other as a family and plenty of love and grandpa which is my mom‟s dad. I remember in the Fall we‟d be inside hibernating because all of the rain. In the winter we would go outside the hotel or motel to play in the snow. And in the spring we would be outside playing with our friends. We didn‟t always know if we would have a place to sleep at night. I miss the middle school days hanging out with all my friends. I miss the summer time. I love it when it‟s warm. I don‟t miss the nights where we would have to sleep in a motel or the hotels that we would stay in because my mom was barely getting by, and I „am glad I don‟t have to do that shit any more. When I think of how it was, I feel good because I know my mom would keep us safe. We would always have food in are bellies.


Day and the life of Anthony At 7 am I‟m just waking up, looking around, rubbing my

eye‟s then everything starts putting its self together. I

put on my clothes for the day. And 8 am rolls around, I‟m

out the door and walking around doing my morning walk before work. Then 9 am rolls around and I‟ am getting my cup of tea or snack then I start walking up the hill to work,

then 10 am rolls around I‟m sitting in work writing or typing up things on the computer. Then 11 am rolls around

then I go on my break and go on another walk and then 12 am rolls around and I‟ am still working finishing up the

rest of what I have to do. Then 1 pm comes around and I‟m

usually out hanging out with buddies having a good time relaxing bullshitting about our day.


Stories in rounds Our time machine drops us off twenty years from now and we find ourselves face to face with a soldier who tells us to grab a gun.

“Why? What‟s going on?” I ask him.

“The Siamese overlord is sending his troops this way. We haven‟t got much time!”

“Siamese overlord?” we ask.

“Ten years ago, a genetic scientist was working on giving

cats the ability to think and act like humans. The result was a massive overthrow of genetically mutated cats.” “What of the Birmans?” we ask. “The Burmese?”

“No. The sacred cats of Burma, the Birmans!” “…That‟s confusing.”

“We know but that‟s how the breed names work.”

“I‟m not talking about that shit!” snaps the soldier. “Just

shoot the cats.”

We grab our guns and start taking shots at the cats. They‟re jumping at the other soldiers using their claws to scratch their eyes out.

The ground starts to shake, something big is coming. We see it. A giant black cat. Eyes the color of hell and claws the

size of the space needle‟s tip. This giant cat was using it‟s sandpaper like tongue to completely lick the soldier‟s skin off.


We watch the soldier in front of us get his face licked off like a band- aid—leaving his skull bare, his eyes wide and jaws still moving, “Get the cat nip!”

We retrieve bags of green smelling bean bags and start tossing them into the wet bloody maw about to lick us clean.

The great black cat‟s eyes cross and it rolls over, paws padding at the air. We keep tossing the catnip bean bags at it. When we run out, we start walking up the hill. But the great cat‟s purring becomes so loud it causes an avalanche!

We run from the boulders straight into a herd of humans

chanting “praise to the furball feline fatty” (the overlord of the genetically modified cats). We quickly drop on all fours and chanted in unison, blending in until we finally slow down enough to be far behind them. “Freaks,” We stood up and sighed.

“This is also bullshit. Oh, well. At least cats are easy to please.”

And not a single fuck was given that day.


You hate analyzing your psyche. You hate others analyzing it. You seem afraid to tell others of plans for the

Ana

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future, or maybe of criticism of your dreams. But youâ€&#x;re fine for now. You ought to settle now, everything seems to be in the clear for now. Think of summers of listening to the Beatles by that clear river.

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Think of how void of stupidity that river of your grandfatherâ€&#x;s is. Think of how your mom taught you the pride found in selfmaking your own life. Of being able capitalism.

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to kick the ass of what is

a void it creates. But you are fixing that wound the way you know to the state it must be. Reveal that system to be imaginary as it really is.

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to make us buy things to fill

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A system designed


Brian’s Days Present day: 7 am: Wake up, faze back to sleep.

8 am: Wake up properly because you have work today. 9 am: Go to work.

10 am: Sort of mope, write something.

11 am: Take break, eat something, get back to work. Eat something during work. 12 pm: Write something, consider plasma donation. 1 pm: Go home after talking to case managers.

2 pm: Eat veggie chips from Trader Joeâ€&#x;s. Think about future. 3 pm: Attempt calls to relevant individuals. 4 pm: Evaluate medical and health concerns.

5 pm: Check dinner- related foodstuffs inventory. Get food if necessary.

6 pm: Eat dinner. Be lightly amused at opening a can with a broken can opener. 7- 10/11 pm: Lament the materialism in society and the language they use to belittle those who do not conform.


Untitled I want bubblegum popping blowing as big as my face bigger air balloon sized ball I need sharp waves spitting canoe competitively crawling down the wooden paddle to soggy hands gripping pull the splash sideways— I need direction from within whose calling head spins I fear slanted gazes the interrupting instructor‟s voice I fear what guides a dream the visitors of my head on their own team I hope for snake charmer magic destiny control, no stagnance dancing continuous confidence seamless inspiration of Now I love my sister‟s charisma— outgoing the stigmas I love my brother‟s three cheers for each a sandy beach in my life.


Day in the life of Ashley 12:00 am: The start of my 1 day suspension from Cedarhouse. Watching It‟s Always Sunny in Philadelphia on a couch with my boyfriend Gavin at his place. 1:00 am: Fell asleep.

7:43 am: Woke up to the sound of Gavin checking the time on the computer. It was

7:43 am. We talked about the dreams we had just woke up from. I had been folding

and holding up towels for Gavin and his friends as they sat around claiming which were theirs… Gavin dreamt he was interviewing a little kid about the murder of his parents.

8:45 am: Left for my job at the Zine project.

9:30 am: Arrived at Zine. Produced a piece about my Grandfather‟s alcoholism and my naive attempt to dissuade him from it with a birthday wish. Listened to alt- J Pandora station during indy work,. I wrote more about The Bathtub Mermaid.

12:25 pm: Left UDYC to go to Aladdin‟s for a gyro. Enjoyed the music most. 1:25: I can‟t remember the rest of the day. I probably danced, wrote, sung while I was walking places. I checked facebook frequently, most likely. I spent the night at my boyfriend‟s. and we probably watched more It‟s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. My life is so interesting.


Stories in Rounds Our time machine drops us off 5 years from now and we enter a city of complete

chaos. Building‟s are burning. The smell is thick in the air. We can hear the sound of sirens in the background. Then, we hear a distinct moaning. I see a figure slowly,

stumbling forward, hand out- stretched, left leg dragging. We call out “Hello. What has happened?”

The moaning grows louder as the figure gets closer and closer and closer. The moan

is pathetic and sad. We want to comfort it with a hand, a cold pack, a kind word— until we see its eyes. They‟re a murky yellow and on the jaws there‟s fresh blood. The zombie suddenly lurches forward and bites off one of our arms. “Run!” the rest of us shout.

We run into an old building with a dom on it—the dome is smashed. Inside amid the

rubble, there‟s a man at a podium saying to an audience of none, “I want cake. I want it now! With every fiber of my vaccinated being, I want nothing but decadent, chocolate strawberry cake, filled with fudge.” The man

is interrupted by a gigantic cake crushing him out of nowhere. We all

stare as a figure from the ceiling comes floating down, a smug look on his face and an important looking device like a remote control in his hand. He pointed at us, accusingly.

“You‟re not from around here! How did you find us?”

“How did you find a large cake like that?” Ashley shouts. “That‟s irrelevant!” the man says.

“So is how we got here. We‟re here, though and I want to know why all of these futures are bad. What the hell, people?”

“But was porn banded from the internet?” Brian interrupts. “No,” said the mysterious figure. “Okay.”

“How can you only care about that?”

“It makes our other story all the more accurate.” “Oh…”

The zombies outside hear all the shouting and they bang their bloody fingers on the door.

“They‟re coming!”

We heave the huge cake against the door but the zombies claw through. They are

covered in chocolate and strawberry filling. Then they stop. They start taking little bites of the cake and find that they like it better than brains. Everyone lives happily ever after.

The end.


Things We’re Telling Ourselves Food. Smells good, whatever it is. Fuck that guy.

Things‟ll be fine. Don‟t worry.

Strength is drawn from within.

Meditate there when nothing else wins. Smoke. Need relief. Am I going crazy?

Coffee smell is a happy home smell. Be kind and patient with yourself. Why did I post that.

Money.Its everything. I gotta go get more cuz I ran out. Mo money, mo problems. Am I making sense.

There are guys who understand. Somewhere. Why is she so damn curious.

I‟maspend half this paycheck on booze. Stop complaining. I‟m too high.

Why is this person better than me?

The only health problem is your liver And its fixable with a diet change. This is going to take forever!

Should I give him the benefit of the doubt. Should I smoke him out? Is he real? Where does my voice come from?

Should I smoke a cigarette? Is it beer thirty? Game on. She‟s an oogle. Damn she‟s fine.

Why do people ignore me when I try to explain I‟m an ascetic.

I can do what I want.

I‟m gonna be what I want to be.

Don‟t worry about it. You‟re still young. It will be okay. Keep on truckin, just keep it on. Hard work scares me.

I‟ve made it this far, I must be doing something right.


Future Worries Tornadoes may come and take me up in the air, into outer space. Zombie Apocalypse—I’m not too worried but I am waiting Every bodies going to change into a crack addict. Nuclear bombs from North Korea being dropped in the U.S I think China will get sick of North Korea someday. Will there be a completely police run state in ‘Merica the police are doing house to house searches the patriot act—it’s all the beginning.They’re doing it to innocent people,whole neighborhoods, not just bombers and terrorists. I think the world will become total chaos—people are going to start Murdering each other over guns and violence and drugs, etc… It’s already happening. I’m worried that they’ll keep cutting g48wells out of freight trains. Oil companies not dying down—because they really need to at this point. They’re using their money to keep other power sources. Tied out down.Worry we’ll keep working around ethanol—its still food. What’s wrong with algae? Will NASA ever be a thing anymore?Will we ever walk on Mars. The draft?More war? No social security benefits. Future generations getting dumber and dumber— this one’s on drugs. Abortion rights going away..


Time for a rant.

Life, you cruel, sick bastard. I fucking hate you with an undying fire that burns with brazen brilliance, but I’m grateful for you. You’ve made me a passionate person. I can love with my whole heart and I can hurt for and with people, but you’ve also made me aggressively passionate. My temper is quick. I can be happy one second, and be beating your face in the next. It’s like a broken jack-in-the-box. You hear the music, you’re on edge about the “scary clown” popping out, you think you know when it will happen, but it surprises you at random times and it scares the hell out of you. Eventually, you stop turning the handle. You leave it alone for awhile and try to forget it exists. It beckons to you, and you forget for a second why you stopped, but it happens again and you’re quickly reminded. The stress and anxiety from its instability and its….brokenness…compels you to put it away or get rid of it completely, and you never play with it again. Life, you gave me a love and understanding for children. Children bring me joy and laughter. Sadly, these childbearing hips can bare no children. You cruel, sick bastard! You took two of my children from me! I’m coming to terms with that, though, but still…I fucking hate you. You have given me beauty, yet the inability to see it. You’ve given me the ability to love, yet I’m unable to love the right people. You’ve given me an abundance of friends, but I am forever lonely. You’ve given me a knowledge of things and a willingness to learn, but the inability to focus on learning and applying my knowledge. I’m thankful for my gifts, but I curse you for their uselessness. Fuck you. Maybe it’s not all bad. I push through. There are ways to relax myself sometimes, but I slip up every once in awhile. My friends’ children call me “Auntie” and I love them like my own. Others recognize my beauty and, every once in awhile, I catch a glimpse of it. At least I have emotions, and my knowledge comes in handy when I need it most. They’re not completely useless. Just mostly useless. Thank you.


Stories in Rounds Our time machine jettisons us all the way to year 3001 where we meet a child. The child asks us, “Aren‟t you a little under dressed?”

She‟s wearing a giant coat made of

polyethylene but she‟s standing in a desert that‟s at least 80 degrees. “No. Aren‟t you hot?” we ask.

“I am of satisfactory temperature relative to the intensity of the sun.”

We learn from her that due to pollution and fumes from aerosol cans

devouring the ozone layer, that the sun has become so strong, a half

hour out in it would take all the sunscreen lotion in the world to stay protected from skin cancer.

The windows are tinted so that you can just barely see out of them.

“I always thought global warming was bullshit. This kind of sucks,” we say, sweat starting to drip from our noses.

“It‟s normal to me,” the girl says. “Come with me. I can take you to a safe place.”

The “safe place” as described by the girl is actually underground.

Fortunately none of us are claustrophobic. We learn humanity, although driven underground has learned how to survive. The overpowering

sunlight provides a mole of energy to the solar panels that span

miles of the above terrain. What vegetation is salvaged can be pre -

served in specially guarded biodomes, but humans at this point have more fungal diets. Like shrooms.

We lost touch with mother nature so everyone has monthly shroom parties to get back to our green world that we once had. There are all kinds of drugs down here. Stuff grown in biodomes or stuff that is

made illegally in crack houses. The murder rate is low down here. And the crime rate low too.


But as you can imagine, not much gets done. The biodomes and the

solar panels are maintained by a select group of individuals who

monitor, repair them and make decisions for a whole year. The only

catch is that they have to be sober. After their year long term is up, they can go back to doing crack and other things and another

group turns sober and does the monitoring, the repairing, the cal -

culating and the administering of food and yes drugs, to the ple bian throngs of citizens nodding off and tripping.

“But who chooses the member of the next group of controllers? Who monitors whether the controllers are staying sober or not?” “I do,” the little girl replies. “Who are you?” we ask.

“I am the pure consciousness.” “You mean, you‟re God?” we ask.

The little girl shrugs and offers us a plate of purple mushrooms.


Why is thinking about the Future so hard

Group March-May 2013 We just don't know.

We're so used to living day by day and just

surviving, we don't know how to think that far ahead. I think some of us have internalized

the fact that reality is unpredictable.

We've wanted things to happen in the past and people have told us it wouldn't work.

People do grow up and think about their dream job

and it happens. I want to be a fireman, I want to be a rapper and they grow up and be it.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be homeless. I had my sites set high.

From my family's standards,

I should have kids, be married,, have gone to college already. My dad wanted me to be a teacher, but I wanted psychology

and then I dropped out all together and then he stopped talking to me for a while. My dad just wants me to be happy. And I'm happy

with friends, music, sunshine, and beer. Who knows what the future will bring though. More green? And green backs.

The future might be me quitting my job.

The future might be me trying to stay making money- in a legit job.

I would love an under the table job. Maybe a paying job to get by

but the rest can come from something awesome- like super- secret hobby sort of stuff.


The future will bring problems

definitely somewhere down the road. Or your dream home.

In the woods, in the middle of nowhere, turrets with chickens and a capybara—or just a home. When you've been told you weren't worth much

your whole life, its hard to realize your potential. I don't let stuff get to me, I just do me. I know what I want to do. I'm getting my housing, getting a job. Maybe three jobs. Just have a positive attitude.

I'm afraid of getting anywhere because from the way I present and my mood,

people assume I use my disability as a scapegoat: “Why don't you learn how to drive?

Just because you're autistic doesn't mean you can't drive.” But I don't want to drive based on principle.

Thinking about the future is made easier because the zombie apocalypse is coming and I can just say fuck everything. I don't really have anything going anyway. Fuck everything except the essentials:

machetes and back packs and crossbows. Sometimes the things you want, you know are things you can never have. Like mental stability. A family.

Closer relationships with my current family. Sometimes you have to fight for what you want.

Sometimes you express it, sometimes people warp it. And sometimes you just have to kick someones ass until they get it. Hella.

I want to go to school and pursue dance and writing.


Will we be able to take the courses we want

or keep getting pushed to pick something easier? Sometimes I feel like I'm just going to ride freight trains forever

and I'm going to come back and everyone is going to be college educated and I won't be able to get a job.

and then I remember that working sucks and I don't want to get a job anyway.

You got to get up everyday and look presentable

and you got to work and then do it over and over again. My friends do the whole day drunk thing. Not that I'm missing out anything.

They get all shaking and I don't want that. From the beginning of 2012,

all the way to the beginning of 2013, I had a day drunk everyday.

I was shaking and not eating because if I ate, I'd puke it up. Now I can think and get stuff done for my future. Compared to our past and present, the future is like a ghost

a butterfly—because we can blossom out

a rhinoceros beetle- - a grub that becomes stronger with time. The future is like an old dog with really bad hips.

The same as past and present.

My future is just fine—loving life.

The future is like dirty bus windows—hard to see out of.


W H ER E I A M Far away from the dusty trinkets

holiday crafts kept up year round, clusters of dust with too many stories to care about

My wind- up lantern shares a similarity with that smoky house

whose light shines less often than fades into almost darkness, crouching

as if surviving the blue hour were a competitive sport and bursts of unrefined light

were timeouts, brief leg stretching. The horizon‟s intervention

A gray cloud dividing a sad green and a sadder blue, hovers closer to that house than to where I am.

Easy to pretend I didn‟t see the indecent emotion and zip my flap tent door eyes to it. But from where I am

I am engulfed by rich culture

the sounds of drums beating and voices united in singing syllables This wordless inspiration, a thriving tradition‟s heartbeat thrumming pulse from the center of the earth, Reaching me in my camp as I try to rest but cannot

with its resilience whispering in my ear and reminding me of my own, quieter tick also persisting on

usually as insignificant as the clouds and colors in the distant sky.


Stories in Rounds Our time machine repels us all the way back to year 1 where a

friendly velociraptor opens its mouth and says “Errraaahhr!” in a most unwelcoming tone of screech. It drives its terrifying three toed claws at us, all trying to cram back into the time machine. That‟s when the velociraptor pecks at it with its mighty beak and chirps.

“He just wants to play!” Brian says and grabs a stick. “Maybe he can

play fetch! Come here velociraptor. Want the stick? Want the stick? Go get it!”

He throws the stick. The velociraptor pushes him over with a headbutt. “Oh, god! Its like when Xena knocked my baby tooth out when I was six and ate it!”

Sure enough, one of the teeth from Brian‟s mutant mouth is lying on the ground thanks to the rambunctious raptor who is apparently harmless now.

Other than pushing over dumbasses at least.

The velociraptor starts to get mad. We aren‟t able to throw the stick as far as he wants. He starts pecking at our arms and legs.. Pecking

with his mouth, wide enough to see his soul. We run back into the time

machine to go back home but the angry raptor hits the machine and we are off, traveling through time headed who knows where. Then we stop

and open up the time machine door and see a large gathering of zombies at a tea party.

“Why hello there!” a zombie calls to us. “Would you like some tea?” We are exhausted so we say “We‟d be much obliged.”

We sit down. A zombie ensemble is playing Vivaldi. The biscuits smell delish but when we go for strawberry jam, we see it is made of blood!

We eat it anyway, feeling famished after the incident with the ve lociraptor. As we eat the blood on our toasted English muffins, we realize

our tea bags are used tampons.

Our epidermises begin rotting and

our tea etiquette becomes impeccable..


Through a Bus Window Dusty  

Through meditative poems and wacky, sometimes profound, group writes, March-May 2013 interns ponder possible futures for themselves. Impaire...

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