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I SynergyZi neVI

W anderLust


Contents

Cover Art (“Lost at Sea) & Title Page (“Hummingbird Migration”) by Michael K. Ross Introduction

Editors

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Daniel Williams-Baumgart Gabriel Goldberg Jonah Gropper Valerie Chavez Michael Warren Grant Liza Murphy Martin de Gruijter Jonathan I. Hirsch Rickey Lee Bauman

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Mural by Ryder Cooley Photo by Stephanie Rigsby Daniel Williams-Baumgart Michaelangelo Created by Marc Seestaedt Story by Rickey Lee Bauman Michael K. Ross Sonya Genel Jim Rhea Winston Clark Rickey Lee Bauman Brodie Sullivan

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The Writings: Tickling Down the Spine… Fascination Until this Body Falls Lifer Unfolding of the Heart Notes from Panama Mister Pantoffel Untitled Torch

The Pictures: Netherworlds Travelling Clown Brazil New Dawn LIFESTRIPs: Vita Contemplativa Nomad Wanderer Unfolding Abandon Yew Forest Yardhat

Artist Bios Credits

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40 44


Introduction In this seventh edition of SynergyZine, we seek to explore the myriad ways in which Wanderlust plays out across our lives. From the physical/geographical sense that takes us to far off cities and country-sides, to the psychological sense of Wanderlust that urges us to journey through the shadowed portions of mind. We seek to explore all the sensational ways this lust manifests itself and motivates the soul towards movement. It is the Great Preoccupation which brings fresh experience, strange odors, exotic locales and foreign stimuli. From whence doth this Wanderlust stem? The word almost impels us to slip into antiquated modes of speech. Yet, the word itself has a late development. Not coming into use until the industrial revolution,Wanderlust was a reaction by artists to the new confinements of a mechanized social order. The Romantic Artist (as she was later known) made the first attempts to describe a feeling (or lust) that had been lost to humanity. Like childhood memories, their reflections were throwbacks onto the “purer� days of their ancestors. Whether this meant imagining the scavenging tribes of old Europe, who moved from place to place, following migrating herds or reenacting the quests and dilemmas of the knights errant. Whatever the case, they sought to express a feeling that can inhabit the mind and body like a spirit-host, spurring us to action, to movement, to experience and, sometimes, to ruin. Many brilliant minds from Twain to Miller have spoken of Wanderlust with witticisms that emphasize the necessity of travel with an open and questing mind. Meanwhile, painters such as Kasper David Friedrich, who provide images of star-lit, open horizons, forewarn us of the ominous mystery of the beyond. Today, however, we want to emphasize that the spirit of this theme


extends past these traditional treatments of traveling. It also represents an embracing of the moment; to shed fear and reluctance like a snake it's skin; to emerge from the cocoon and take flight into the unknown with lust for life and adventure guiding one’s way. Through the act of wandering we receive not only fresh cultural perspectives and an influx of new ideas, but also greater awareness of ourselves. To be at the whim of the world and its peoples represents the life of the wanderluster; its a state of near surrender to the fates in which “Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky …” - Cesare Pavese. To abandon the comfort of predictable life and reassuring routines is to truly inhabit one’s self, to strip away the detritus that binds us to our stations and to rove, freely, in our own skin – this is the goal of Wanderlust. * Throughout this edition our artists give us examples of how they interact with the theme of Wanderlust. M. Ross’ “Lost at Sea,” for instance, depicts a tumultuous scene of travel upon the stormy ocean; at the bow, a woman clutches her child to her bosom, her face to the horizon, the sole hope of their expedition’s future in her arms. We sense in these people’s faces a sort of Wanderlust born of necessity, the sort of impetus for fresh horizons or a land to call one’s own. Wanderlust can be borne of many things, however, as in V. Chavez’s “Lifer”. This piece gives us a sense of stagnation through a situation that has reached the end of its life – in this case, while * Recently, this sort of lifestyle has been deemed, by some stretch of rationale, illegal in San Francisco. A law known as “sit/lie” was passed, prohibiting people from sitting or lying on public sidewalks for any amount of time. It is, of course, the traveler, who has no home, that is most likely to rest their weary bones and stretch their hands out for spare change on the sidewalks.


wanderlust isn’t explicitly mentioned, it is hinted at as a necessary remedy to the narrator’s ills. In G. Goldberg’s “Fascination” we see a quite different take on wanderlust – we hear an artist imploring their readers to take up the banner of adventure and to see, once again, as a child does, fascinated with the many-facets of existence, of perspective. The same sort of child-like fascination with life can be seen in M. de Gruijter’s piece, which depicts the final act of wanderlust, through the eyes of a couple at the end of their days. Perhaps a life of wanderlust isn’t for everyone, though it inhabits each person’s development at different phases. For some, however, it is an entire way of living, those who have submitted their being to it, as in D.W-Baumgart’s “Tickling Down the Spine of Contininents”, in which he describes a clown who is known for

“Singing to the Tenderloin / of the inborn riches, so few remember/ Blowing rubber flowers / for the minted riches, so few forget” To fully inhabit the spirit of wanderlust exemplifies one of two extremes - the other, escapism, is shown in L. Murphy’s “Notes from Panama”. Within the piece, the narrator describes a wild night through the streets of Panama, conjuring up the image of wild abandon. Meanwhile, as a vague preoccupation to distract us, Wanderlust is seen in J. Gropper’s “Until this Body Falls”. The final lines of the piece show the narrator running wildly through a forest without inhibition, until he slows for a moment:

“And when I stop sadness and anxiety exhilaration flood tidal waves / And thought returns to ask / ‘Can you forget so easily?’” Nay, one cannot forget so easily, and through this we are exposed to the shadow-side of wanderlust – the restless, pacing and ungrounded sense of the word that if unchecked, leads to ruin.


Wanderlust at its core is a romantic notion. It represents an open and questing heart that sheds light on the aforementioned darkness. Within MWGrant’s poem “Unfolding of the Heart”, three encounters with different muses are narrated, each with their own key to the heart’s unfolding; each with illuminating wisdom to aid the journeyer. Likewise, this openness to life and love are demonstrated in J. Hirsch’s untitled piece,

“there is a yearning for eternal motion/ we mustn't neglect / and though the heart may tire/ may it be tender” It takes extraordinary determination and valor to inhabit life’s wandering path. RLBauman’s “Torch” seeks to cast light on this path for fellow travellers who know all too well the fearsome and often adverse conditions that emerge from this unknown. And it is with this illuminating spirit that we dedicate our latest edition of SynergyZine. Through urban forest and dusky dale, SynZine Editors


Tickling Down the Spine of Continents by Daniel Williams-Baumgart I know a traveling clown bouncing down Broadway tipping his red hat to the fetid smells, cold shoulders, the sour and the smiling faces Singing to the Tenderloin of the inborn riches, so few remember Blowing rubber flowers for the minted riches, so few forget “Hey there clown, why are you so happy?” Because none of it matters “Well clown, where’s your makeup?” Our faces make the best masks “Ok, clown, blow me a balloon” Of course… if you ask nicely spoiled fucking American. the traveling clown stays up late wakes up late never asks for a dime, never asks for anything takes what he wants gives what he takes and when I come roaring where’s my fucking sock!? he laughs promises never to take it again takes it again


promises never to promise again They couldn’t believe he was my roommate. They couldn’t believe he had a room. “You mean this wild, spiting, cussing, half mad, fuck it- full mad, whirly durly nutcase eats, and sleeps, and shits, and moans, and breathes, and pays rent just like the rest of us?” of course “But look at him, he’s screaming, he’s laughing, and crying, and dancing. Look at him! He’s right there humping the damn sidewalk! His pants are down! All exposed, right here in public!... no, no he’s not like the rest of us. of course and so, of course, he’s told to move it along So he holds his breath and floats atop the Himalayas hums his exhalation in a silent Nepalese monastery waking up the wet dreaming monks Gently tossed down the mountainside he jumps in the Holy Filth of the Ganges His nose emerges curiously searching the air for some good thing and when the ashes of the dead plug it up he dives And leaps out of the ancient sewers of Istanbul


he blows his proboscis and is flung ten thousand miles Into the baths under the volcanoes of Kirishima the local eyes squirm with excitement as his earthly crud corrupts the earthly spring So with shining white skin he jumps in the salty swarthy sea and rides the Kuroshio Current Back on the shifting shores of the Western Continent he bakes potatoes for the brutal and the benevolent knowing that we all die this must indeed be a waltz for every soul and he cries in convulsive laughter I hope you loved it while you were here


Fascination by Gabriel Goldberg

Of the sights of a child; wonder-lust, struck silence, empathy's facade; a blank canvas littered in the stains of severance. Fade out and focus, looking in from the other side. Faceless endeavors; still, between bars, fluid, only a simple step through the currents to touch the statuesque, organic obligations; life abridged between vacant walls, eyes ajar. Action is the answer to intention, I am on the outside looking in, a hero within the absurd; take The step! take The step forward!! A perspective theory, third person, lost in the eye of the storm of a new start, all hidden in the reflection of a child's first step. For if This is a dream then everyone is in it, everyone is a part of This dream.


Until this Body Falls by Jonah Gropper

Somewhere in Florida my niece cries or sleeps, awakens in mortal terror or absolute love giggles and spits up mom’s milk and never cares. And I am here in Indochina California where The most beautiful girl from all of Croatia asks ME, “What are you searching for?” Is she laughing at me? Her eyes are very beautiful they flash with soft love. I must appear sad and that is ok, I’m sincere and sad and I tell her, “I am searching for love. I am searching for money. I’m searching for a master, I want to learn the Kora from Youssufi Diabete, I want to become his disciple.” I ask her what she’s searching for And she says “nothing.” … My niece has heaven and hell, Cries and laughs, Breathes 2 days old and 2 nights, Her eyes sparkle always with life no matterWith my friends I write long ovations for the few scattered moments we flash alive even for just a second…


The Croatian girl is too beautiful for me to try to kiss, I want to fall in love with her instead. She changes her answer. “That is not true what I said… All my life I am searching.” In the red wood forest yesterday, I stripped off my shirt and ran wild among the trees Sprinted so fast that I could make no mistakes Too healthy to fall my feet already know how to be light, I jump ten feet tall and I don’t ever come back down. I look at a flower, smell. It’s yellow, the budding leafs a million. The scent is sweet, unique. I look at the tree, the leaves, there are more trees. I run pant, my feet shoot out for each nook, Very fast expert at the ground my wrists dart limp And I don’t think about all of this I pant Look at the flower, the tree, the leaves, And more trees. And when I stop sadness and anxiety exhilaration flood tidal waves And thought returns to ask “Can you forget so easily?”


Lifer by Valerie Chavez

Reservoir—your belly— the only one holding substance in a body full of receptacles. Brimmed with half a dozen shortcuts to warmth and resignation, taking cue from the sun who has had enough of these days and has decided to cut out early. There might be others: sharing ashtrays and postwar delusions, leaking noontime drinks from their skin, like piles of bar rags balanced on barstools, too sodden to nuture any spark, choking in oxygen without sound. Yet you sit, a mind turned to cinders, a flimsy tongue, your eyes begging to be sucked from their sockets. Until finally, your ears perk to the two coarse words that wring you out, so getting home isn't so heavy— but once again, the only familiar bodies are lining the blocks in their lit up industrial outfits, still refusing to speak.


Unfolding of the Heart by Michael Warren Grant

Teetering through a teeming village of radical hearts set aflame, The warming song of community Humming through my veins, Healing having led me, Brought me here today, To learn from tribesfolk to unfold another page. But as always, out of sync, A feral retreat. Crowds like ants, the thick press and blaring backbeats Driving me like wolf from civilization away, And as night falls, the pains of altitude bring me down to rest in a valley of doubt and wonderment. Supine in the dark, I debate whether to venture on or to perish. Pulling the stilts from my trembling legs, I stride onward in the quest to unfold the heart shaped banner So long I’ve carried incomplete.


With eyes aghast, on the alkaline outskirts I shudder past, and catch a glint of azure peeking out from sunken sockets, And she, seeing the blank banner beneath my arm, from her satchel pulls thread and spindle and begins weaving Ayurvedic symbols Of life, love and healing into its folds. What she shares is of the utmost import. And thick lips, too. And feeling for the first No need to escape I ate of her intersections; heart and mind. For her, a poem: We double took each other And then took each other by the heart, mind, elbow‌ She was deep & wise & pained & i could have loved her, given time. could have given her time, given love. Aesthetic razor tamed still, my cool flame burned like an oil slicked river &


in the dark desert we wandered & her amathyst eyes blacklit illumined the invisible night. Through umbral passageways we strolled extolling such virtue in the eldest sense of the world. I couldn't penetrate those depths, but tremors still rippled through her conduit & the buzz was enough to rattle up my spine setting the first to the seventh in line. then we said goodbye. And with watery words we wove a garment Fitted for four, a cloak of stars, ripped from the low hanging heavens, (black velvet robes bedecked w/ diamond points of light).


Her medicine was potent, but gentle. It had led me to her, and when the sun arose to meet Our lofty gaze, we tried to sleep but restless We kissed and parted ways. In this bright new day, Remnants of affection caked my heart As the sand did my skin. I ventured off alone again, my banner Now a garment grafted Upon my limbs. Peaking her head out from within a sandstorm another lovely apparition coos to me like narcissus at river’s edge and fighting the urge to hide my newly woven banner I submit to synchronicity And wanderlust And staring into her Face, I recognize my own reflection‌ Goldie, with cinnamon skin & exquisitely crafted limbs, and like the third daughter a joyous appreciation for life, And coffee.


Dressing her in pleated affections, she wore the garb well, and reciprocated. And when the surface of the lake rose above The low hanging heavens, Breakthrough‌ And we glittered beautifully together, exploring the abstracts of attraction with poses and doting that left us pliable and feeling well received we groped about the desert lavishly, then parted with a longing kiss still unfulfilled, but unfurled was the banner as if with current jolted. Separate now even from my skin, Gently it flew above In the calm nocturnal winds. And intending to lock eyes with Azure once again I happened upon an old friend With a soft spot for me and one nipple hanging out. Pulling her upon the dancefloor we pressed together in technorchestral swell, and with sweat upon sweat upon sweat upon the undulating dance-floor, In flames we found ourselves leaping round like lunatic shaman in a circular summoning of Salamander and Ephreet.


And without much pomp Nor brass cavalcade of sound I was hallowed out And sluiced in a deluge Of fiery geysers and seeping streams And as she pulsed beneath me Purification Another past banished, Another dense packet of data Wiped clean from her spine, And mine. And the banner fell from its spire, dissolved into the fecundate earth And arose again as a red chrysanthemum. No longer a quest, but a living monument To the unfolding of my heart In all its parts.


Mister Pantoffel and a serious case of alzheimers by Martijn de Gruijter

She used to caress his hair, make him sandwiches with turkey liver and mayonnaise, and bring him warm tea on cold mornings. For two days now, however, she’s been sitting quietly, staring into oblivion, occasionally walking to the kitchen, only to return with a bowl of water and the peel of an apple. Deep within himself, slowly fading away into the sofa, Pantoffel mumbles stories off about what used to be, clinging to the vestige that once contained his wife. Outside the rain falls like a silver curtain. The sky murmurs German fables. The green leaves of the chestnut-tree sparkle in the dull light of a dark day. Mister Pantoffel gets up and walks circles around the couch a few times. A flash of lightning comes down from heaven and touches the meadows. An immense drum roll of thunder follows, making the windows shake. Mister Pantoffel knows that time will not bring anything back to his wife, never again. Time has departed from her, has taken everything away for the very last time and is not planning on returning. His wife is elsewhere now, only her hollow shell lingers, confused in the realms of its reality. He stumbles into the corridor and wearily studies the two yellow raincoats which hang on polished hooks. The rubber boots under the staircase seem to speak to him, allowing him glimpses of what had been. He returns to the living room with both the raincoats and the boots under his arms and gets down to his knees. His wife is still staring into space as he dresses her up.


He now starts dressing himself up, dancing to the sound of the rain as it strokes the glass windows. With the last strength of his old body, mister Pantoffel helps his wife up from the couch and gives her a kiss. He looks around the house for the very last time, takes in the soft memories, listens to the last ticks and tocks of the old clock and opens the outside door. A fierce wind blows in their faces, carrying enough water to soak them upon their first step. Mister Pantoffel breathes in the scents of autumn. He entangles his arm with hers and sets himself against the elements, gazing upon his familiar house one last time from over his shoulder. And then they walk together, crossing the meadows they know so well, leaving the forest in which they had learned and loved far behind. As the dark sets in, they join a road which contains no memories belonging to them. They are silent, save for his wife’s occasional murmur. The rain drips from their hair to their wrinkled faces. The smell of farmland reminds mister Pantoffel of a sweet past. Every step they make on this new, dark road, only dimly lit by the odd streetlight, starts to take from mister Pantoffel a memory. A picture, so to speak, long contained in the dusty drawers of his old mind. Colorful pictures, dark pictures, one by one they whirl out and, like autumn leaves, descend on that same street which had moments ago bared none. Mister Pantoffel could feel himself emptying, minute by minute, losing the luggage that separated him from his wife to the cobbled streets of the unknown. They walk and walk...


Around sunrise they are cold and wet as a mountain creek and tired as the moon having blown out its silvery night candle. In the wet grass under the shelter of an old oak tree, they lay down with their heads touching like youthful lovers in a field of flowers. A last tear trickles down the wrinkled cheek of the old man as he faces the eyes of his departed wife. It is no tear of sadness, it is a tear of wonder. From the far distance he hears the deep vibration of an early morning engine approaching. Children are driving their bicycles to school, old people are wheeling their chairs out, unsure whether to face Mecca or Rome. He knows now, that it is right. There will be no deceased in white coats. No houses of many flowers for no color could replace the magic of this moment. Now that all that once was real and theirs is crumbling, something new has opened up in order to bare it all, and yet, bare none at all. A road, a path so empty and strange, full of mystery; it has always been. But rarely seen. A road on which we live, a road on which we die‌ And as the last breath leaves the body of the man and woman who become one while they sleep, the oak tree shudders its wet leaves and whispers its timeless words to an early autumn morning.


Untitled by Jonathan Hirsch

When we have built saddles into our sides to measure the weight of our years equitably, I will fill them with the memory of you. When gravity bends our lust into a softer, sleepier shape, I will walk beside you across the imaginary lakes of the desert until the thirst becomes our future. When you say to me, "Friend, someday my heart will grow heavy with the seas of salt I ladle into my veins, and season with booze and seasons of overuse and in that syrupy soup I will wade until the light fades in the west"


I will say that the blazing rhythm in your chest knows this too. Inside the mind of the muscles there is a yearning for eternal motion we mustn't neglect, and though the heart may tire may it be tender may we breathe out lastly clutching our chest may the knell ring only for the living as the last swell comes squealing down the veined highways; a midnight train of our own making.


Torch by Rickey Lee Bauman

With urgency create! Speak and spark light to inspire meanings to move vines that tangle wooden walls. Not mere words but incantations, which radiate warmth and have the magnitude of the sun. Mourn not the darkness that gathers in the halls. Mourn not fickle will. The elusive shots in the yard for money or fame. A lifetime seldom fills one hundred years. So dawdle on a placid sea or race in a torrent gale. But do not spur blind luck but learn from it and keep afloat.


Fear not In the earth lies the germ and the seed to recreate whatever we fear. The consistency: conditions fly with the seasons. So find rightful mind and bow with forehead pressed deep to the sand to the dissolution of fear in the brilliance of understanding. Hesitate not. Force not a sparrow to squawk or find in a needy hand a chirping thing gone, a living beauty dead. Introduce not another. See it through, one design, one measure in time. And know when to end.


And Endure. Take heart When these words come undone and all that's left is where you begun: Confused, Frail, Misunderstood. Find these not enemies but mad, unpredictable allies who shine as they laugh and accompany the tawny stars above . Carry at all times on this darkened journey the fiery torch of truth. Service no other. It is the Voice of Life and when all else perishes it alone remains.


Artist Mini-Bios and Contact Michael K. Ross Wanderlust on the one hand, and the search for rootedness and connection on the other, are recurring themes in my work. I moved between Norway, Finland, and the US as a kid, and I still need a good and rugged expedition now and then to set things right. It's natural: birds in the sky make their way up and down the continent twice a year, just like the hummingbirds flying on the title page of this edition. People were once nomadic and some still are, like the Taureg trader I chatted up on a bumpy ride between Burkina Faso and Mali, and who graces a page in the middle (“Nomad”). "Lost at Sea" is again about travel, this time about misadventure and near-catastrophe. More of my paintings are at michaelrossart.com; get in touch at michaelrossart@gmail.com or on facebook.

Daniel Williams-Baumgart … was born, raised, and currently resides in Los Angeles, however he makes frequent and sometimes extended appearances in San Francisco. He has shown illustrations in both cities. daniel_wb@att.net flickr.com/photos/danielwb

Michael Warren Grant …is a third generation Californian and tall-tale-teller. As editor-in-chief of SynergyZine magazine, it is his goal to showcase the immense talent San Francisco has to offer, while bringing together the diverse groups of artists and patrons that make this a city to leave your heart in. His piece, “Unfolding of the Heart”, describes a particularly touching 24 hours within the deep deserts of Nevada. As usual, nothing will ever be the same. editor@synergyzine.com

Jonathan I Hirsch …. is a singer and songwriter in the San Francisco chamber folk band Passenger & Pilot. He hosts the quarterly event Tenderloin Reading Series and edits its occasional publication TENDER-LOIN. He is also contributing writer to Asterisk Magazine. He lives in the Tenderloin.


Rickey Lee Bauman Born in Santa Rosa, California Rickey knows best the call of vineyards, coastal oaks and redwoods. Like many Euro-Americans, he grew up there, didn't settle there, and sometimes, when auspices are right, visits there. In fact, Vita Contemplativa takes place on one such visit. An animal in his environment so to speak. He now lives in San Francisco. Not so far away. His poem, Calypso, while written there, takes place in Berlin, another place he's lived. He says about this: "Sometimes when writin' ye' got to get as far away from 'here' as possible." When asked if he has wanderlust, he answers (like many a peasant), “Naturally! though not right now— well... I have this job...and with the hight cost of living an' all...”

Valerie Chavez … is a member of the SynergyZine Collective and co-host of the monthly reading series Bitchez Brew. She gladly accepts invitations to open-bar parties, love notes & spam at giveittoval@gmail.com

Gabriel Goldberg "I am honored to have been called an artist, a poet, a musician, a sound healer, a composer, a dreamer, a believer, a lover and a friend. But in the end i can only truly find myself in Your eyes, here and now, and within the wanderlust such reflection brings. For if we are to sing solemn songs, why not sing them in the company of others. After all, we are here beside each other to remind and to inspire; for i believe this is not the dawn of an ever dying day, but rather the shadow of a cloud's as it caresses those who can't see the light in her cracks. Ask and you shall be asked, and you shall warrant an answer. Such is life, such is my/our journey through naming the absurd."

Michaelangelo … was born in The Netherlands to a dawn of the imagination, but slept late, waking around the fall of man. Luckily he had a keen recollection of his dreams regarding a fall reversal. He is the author of a number of works, including a seance fiction collection and a number of inner-children's stories. He is also a painter, photo-and videographer and the (co-) founder and vocalist of the astral orchestral bardic rock band Morph Dwarf and the psychosomantric mirage band TheaTerRa. www.snailconvention.com


Sonya Genel Born in Russia and raised in Boston, Sonya hails from the east coast with wanderlust in the heart. After art school, she drove west, learned to climb mountains in the Wyoming, and eventually ended up in San Francisco where she now lives pursuing her elusive purpose in life. Making frequent escapes to places with rivers & trees, she spends most of her free time drawing the strange things that she sees in her head, doing or teaching yoga, and of course dancing. http://www.sonyagenel.com http://www.sonyayoga.com

Stephanie Rigsby After having received her first camera at the age of ten, Stephanie Rigsby has been caught red-handed with a camera in hand, ever since. While the bulk of her experience has involved analog cameras she additionally works in alternative process and digital photography. Her further foundation within the visual arts have assumed the form of painting, collage, and graphic design. Stephanie is also a vicarious automatic poet. For more of Stephanie Rigsby's work, please visit her art blog: colochrome.blogspot.com. For collaboration or to commission projects, send an email to: chromatic.marionette@gmail.com.

Liza Murphy ‌ is glad to be back from Panama sans STDs (thanks to the prudish prostitute). Next stop is Nepal to reconnect with the Tulku, then to India to find the Guru, and finally to China to say Fuck You, Free Tibet. She is available on steep commission or for free. Please direct all enquiries to icanandiwill@gmail.com.

Brodie Sullivan Belgian born Brodie (vj FWIK) works from his downtown San Frisky studio/gallery where fellow madcap artists & lore-masters gather daily in simple ceremony. A published children's tale author, animator & songwriter, Brodie insists the inclusion of natural magic as a key element in the study of pre-history, global community and language. The piece 'Yardhat' is an homage to peaceful tribes who decorate themselves into their natural environments as a gesture of empathetic & bright living. humdoodle@gmail


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Wanderlust, Seventh Edition of SynergyZine