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at a time/date/location TBD, I invite you to view a live one-act drive-in cinematic experience that will last no longer than 30 minutes. you will stay in your car and will be provided with an audio file that is meant to accompany the activity you view outside the windows of your car. you will also be provided with a few minor car positioning instructions that should be followed at specific times throughout the duration of the performance. think of the car and the car positioning instructions as the camera and tracking shot for living film.Â
message me if interested in participating (participants willing to pay for the experience are preferred, but non-paying participants are welcome):
512-699-8168 please reference â€œone-act drive-inâ€? in your text.
Sean Ripple - Austin, Tx
NOW RECRUITING Our mission is to advance field research, scientific exploration, resource conservation, and the ideal that it is vital to preserve the instinct to explore. We will continue to test, innovate based on findings, and look backwards at history to help us to better design and produce technical gear and apparel for the future. We wouldnt shy away from a bit of a challenge, and we dont think you would either. Join us on our journey to make things better. Looking forward to it-
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Hello, weâ€™re Life Lessons.
CIRCLE BACK →
An original love theme from the major motion picture, SHELTER IN PLACE By : Rachel McBath and Harrison Harvey
Dear you, it’s me
But after all that we’ve been through
I hope this message finds you well
Know I’m waiting here for you
And that you’ve had a great start to your day
Let’s circle back
I know it feels like the one before, but please hear me when I say
Dear you, it’s me
That working nights without you hurts like hell
Who else could it be?
I have more I must confess
Writing to say I love you
Per our last conversation I’m waiting in anticipation
Now that everything’s been pinned
I want you more than words can express
I have to ping just to check in We’re all feeling off-track
Now that everything’s been pinned
But after all that we’ve been through
I have to ping just to check in
Know I’m waiting here for you
We’re all feeling off-track
Let’s circle back
But after all that we’ve been through Know I’m waiting here for you
Let’s circle back Dear you, it’s me Reaching out to take this offline (Baby, let’s take this offline) Can’t stand to see you through this screen Long to hold your hand And help you understand How you touch me in my dream Now that everything’s been pinned I have to ping just to check in We’re all feeling off-track
W R A PS
L A R RY
MC GUI R E
“I'm Streaming Mad!”
laptop is on, it’s just looking for trouble. • Yes, Bluetooth headphones will work but don’t rely on their microphone. There can be latency and they distort easily. If you have to use it, pay close attention to the mic level in the software. (See below) • Usually just stick to using the mic on your laptop or phone and situate it near yourself. • If you have access to a usb mic or better equipment of course use it! • Set yourself up in a relatively dead space. Having less reverberation in the room for the mic to deal with is very helpful. Bedrooms, living rooms with lots of pillows...Anywhere that you can clap and it doesn’t ring out.
By Joseph Durniak
Streaming video has become ubiquitous as the safest and easiest way to stay in touch with family and fans during this pandemic. As an audio mixer and producer, the main thing that bothers me about live streamed content is the audio! We’re living in 2020. We’re supposed to have flying cars! This article will be geared toward musicians trying to live-stream content to fans, but can be used to increase the quality of all streams so grandma can hear you more clearly. You’ve probably noticed a variety of quality when it comes to video conferencing. The video part is usually ok, but the audio can seem garbled(almost watery), clipped(distorting), and/or echoing(feedback). Some of that comes down to internet speed and the tools used, but you may not have to increase your speed or buy anything new to up the audio quality of your streams.
HIGH CEILINGS AND BLANK WALLS? DON’T DO IT THERE. IT MAY SOUND GOOD TO YOU BUT WON’T TRANSLATE WELL.
HERE ARE SOME STEPS TO TRY:
• There are many streaming platforms. Luckily they all work in similar ways. You grant the software access to the camera, mic, and speaker of your laptop or phone. • [A laptop is preferable because the software option we want to change is not always available on mobile platforms.] Look for and disable the setting that says noise suppression. Sure, yes, you want this on if you are having a conference call with Stan and Karen for work, but the noise reduction has a tendency to degrade the audio and gate sound off when the signal is too low or it thinks someone else is talking. If you are playing an instrument or singing, turning this setting off will allow for a less affected/suppressed signal. • If you are performing just for others with no interaction, go ahead and turn your speakers/headphones off. That way your mic doesn’t pick up stray sound that may be coming your way or circling around to create feedback. [You might even just want to prerecord content] • If you are performing as part of an interactive show, like Luck Reunion has been producing, you’ll want to grab headphones. Everyone involved should be wearing them. Even loud headphones can cause a feedback loop if the mic picks up the audio. If the speaker on your
• Before you begin your stream, look at the moving meters in the software that show you how loud your mic is. The meter usually goes from green to yellow to red upwards.Red is bad. Go ahead and play your loudest portion or clap and adjust your mic level so it is not in the red. This will hep mitigate distortion and clipping. • If your streaming software allows the option and you are comfortable with recording techniques, you can try using audio plugins to tailor your signal before streaming it. Similarly you could use outboard gear before your interface which might solve the issue if your software doesn’t allow plugins. -
HERE ARE SOME THINGS TO TRY:
• Use a high pass filter or eq to remove everything below 80Hz • You’ll be removing low end rumble, room noise, and environmental noise. That will make your signal cleaner and require less processing to stream. USE A COMPRESSOR AND/OR LIMITER.
• This will keep your audio from clipping and also lessen the dynamic range of your performance. • With noise suppression on, quiet passages usually get cut off. If you find yourself with no option to remove noise suppression a compressor will help a lot. • If you are on the receiving end of a stream and are not currently
participating,mute your mic. It can help on both sides to lessen noise and processing. • It may seem like a pain to keep muting and un-muting yourself, but it can really help. LASTLY -
• While there shouldn’t be a big difference, sometimes certain software will just sound better. Test different versions. • While not always usable for every application. FaceTime usually is the easiest to use for better audio with little effort. • Streaming technology will probably improve as a by-product of this time when even major networks have to rely on it. • Until then, hopefully you found something in this article useful! • Stay safe and be good humans! You can hear Joseph Durniak’s music and mixes on major/ cable networks, in films, online and on the radio. When he’s not facilitating other’s projects he is working on his new project, Pretty Something.
Turn Off The Lights By: Ellee Fletcher Durniak Artwork by Jimmy Breen
March 12, 2020 “Turn out the lights. The party's over.” That was how our final statement began. How we decided to deliver the news that our “anti-festival”, Luck Reunion, would not return this year. I cried as I wrote it. Of course, Willie Nelson has a lyric for every situation. We made the announcement exactly one week before the Reunion was set to take place. It was the last of three official statements informing our fans on the state of our event. Looking back is painful: the hurricane of uncertainty and fear was, frankly, terrifying. Five days of conflicting information – of trying to make decisions that would later be made for us – seemed like an eternity. We were done for good. Here's how it went down: March 7, 2020 “We're lucked if we do, lucked if we don't” SXSW was canceled on a Friday, just under two weeks before Luck Reunion was set to take place. No one saw it coming. It was a massive blow to our music community, and left us wondering what the hell our very small business would do should we be forced to follow suit. We simply could not sustain calling off Luck. Event insurance didn't cover mandated cancellation due to contagious disease. More than 3,000 fans had purchased tickets. Rental and talent deposits had been paid. Our staff had spent the better part of 2019 helping us put this event together. March 10 “Here we go, on the road again” The day after the SXSW cancellation we learned via a local news program that the fates of the Reunion and the Austin Rodeo were to be discussed at a hearing the following Tuesday. We went to the hearing. County officials ensured us that we could go on: we'd already put in place a meticulous plan that exceeded the mandated safety protocols. County Judge Eckhardt heard us out when we expounded on the incredible challenges ahead of us should we have to postpone. We would be okay.
So we let our fans know we'd be continuing as planned. We were hitting the road again. Over the next two days, as more information came out about the virus, we became increasingly nervous. We called our partners in an attempt to come up with a plan. To lay out the realities of what canceling our biggest event – the crux of our business – would cost us. It was all or nothing. Our company, our livelihoods, and the future of our team, were all at stake. That Thursday – two days after the hearing, and seven days from the scheduled Reunion – the county requested that we join a call that afternoon. We knew. I paced outside my office, losing my shit on the phone with my partner. Come to the office. How are we going to tell our team. I returned to my desk with a tear stained face, trying to avoid eye contact with our team. My partner and I needed to share the news together. “I think I know what's up,” a staffer said. “I saw you outside. I'm so sorry.” I replied, “I need to write a statement.” – We started this around ten years ago. It originated as a party on Willie Nelson's private “Luck, TX” property outside Austin. At first it was an invite-only event for industry folk, friends, and family; showcasing musicians we truly believed in. The opportunity to discover a new act. A chance to escape the glorious crazy of SX for just a few hours. As passionate as we were about creating this platform, we had other jobs. This was our side gig. But it grew. Around year two when we started selling tickets, people were starting to pay attention to what we were doing. The word was getting out. We did something right. Luck Reunion became the flagship event that anchored yearlong live events and content under our brand umbrella. In 2019, after all these crazy years of pulling this off on the side, my partner and I left our respective jobs to work full time for Luck. We have a staff. And an office. And, crazily, clout. Looking back on the rogue backyard party we kicked off so long ago, it's hard to believe that we're here. That people really care.
Over the years we've had some significant hurdles. We thought our biggest challenge would always be the lightning storm of 2016, which forced us to evacuate or shelter 4,000 people. But I still considered it my favorite Luck Reunion. It was the best representation of our concept; the best example of the community of artists and fans that we value so deeply. Bands popped up in barns where people were sheltering. Lissie grabbed a bottle of wine and gave an emotional performance to an audience in complete darkness. Jenny Lewis and Lucius collaborated in the tiny chapel. Bill Murray was there. Willie Nelson and family took their scheduled main stage performance to our Revival Tent for an unforgettable intimate show. It was scary as hell, and special as hell. And it still happened. – Was the storm year going to be the last hurdle we cleared? On March 12, 2020 I grappled with the words to explain the devastation we felt over canceling our entire event. “Turn out the lights, the party's over” - what was once one of my favorite Willie songs was now a ringing reminder that we were through. Our business was done. On March 15, 2020 we decided we couldn't just sit around contemplating this loss; imagining what would have been happening the following Thursday – the event we'd spent a year planning.“What do you think about streaming some shit online,” my partner said. So, we rallied. We called our team on a Sunday and began planning. We began reaching out to talent. We brainstormed program names: a staffer came up with “'Til Further Notice.” Perfect. On March 19, 2020 our skeleton crew came in to my parents' recording studio, Arlyn, on a mission to replace what we'd lost. Hoping to bring together the out of work artists and fans; and raising money for local nonprofits such as SIMS and HAAM, we passed a virtual tip jar for anyone willing to contribute to the entertainment community. “'Til Further Notice” raised over $200,000 for our artists and charities. We raked in millions of viewers. But, mostly, people were happy. We were able to, within a few days' work, bring the Luck community back together. Fuck the storm. Now March 19, 2020, the Luck that never happened, is my favorite Reunion of all.
How To Be Right Even When You’re Wrong
Have you ever wondered just what the hell people are talking about these days? Been in a conversation where you know absolutely nothing? Know your education has failed you but feel the need to interject? Have you ever cursed a driver for a late arrival despite providing a wrong address? Berated an attendant for a boarding pass not printing despite being in the wrong airport? Neither have I, but if you have, I have developed a methodology to never admit failure and always be right even when you’re wrong. I call it: The R.I.L.E.Y. System .R – Reduce Clarity Being as vague as possible helps reduce clarity and create a fog of confusion. If the other party cares enough to ask for some clarification on your stance, then abort entirely. If they don’t, perfect. This means they don’t give a shit in the first place. This is where you want them. I – Invent New Perspective Fabricating another new view, preferably one the other party has never considered because so profoundly stupid, is key to proving your point. If the other party challenges your perspective, abort entirely. Though if they
seem to ponder the possibility of your new your idea existing, continue on. L – Listen Be sure to only listen to the other party’s key points, ones which you can only respond too quickly and without much thought. This will immediately let them know that you are correct. E – Evaluate Climate Grab your internal temperature gauge, fork out your whiskers and reel in the aura of the room. Neglect any weird looks or jabs. It is important to first prove to yourself you are right than to worry about others. Y – Yield the Results The most satisfying part of being right when you really know your wrong is living in a constant state of denial. Shift blame to others, make up lies, fuck it — just start name-calling. If you are good enough at it other profusely dumb people will mistake your strength for brains. Proceed to boost your results of now being seen as smart; when all along you know you are wrong. **THIS IS A WORK OF SATIRE BY RILEY BARROW
BORED, CREATIVELY STUNTED, & JOBS ON HOLD. WITHOUT ACCESS TO MY USUAL CREATIVE CATALYSTS THAT ARE THE DESIGN DISTRICT, SHOWROOMS, GALLERIES, TRAVEL, FRIENDS, RESTAURANTS ETC., I HAVE FOUND MYSELF LOOKING TO MY TIME SPENT OUTSIDE & PHOTOS I’VE TAKEN (PAST & PRESENT) HEREGO THIS SCHEME. FLINSTONE IS MY NEIGHBOR’S 600 POUND PIG.
4. 10. 3. 5. 11. 6.
12. 1. Noguchi “cloud-like” pendant, 2. Painting by Erin Donahue Tice 3. Lawson Fenning Sofa 4. lamp by Marta Bonilla, chosen for its’ organic shape & textured shade, 5. hand carved organic table by Caleb Woodard , 6. tree root coffee table by Noir, 7. sheer, “grass like”material for window treatments by Great Plains, 8. Plant motif fabric by Rogers & Goffigon (sofa pillows) 9. Cow hide by Holly Hunt (sofa pillows) 10. Armadillo & co rug 11. Lawson Fenning chair, 12. Porter Teleo wall covering in Copper
DESERT QUARANTINE: Staying Productive While Nursing a Hangover Every day, we grow closer to the mental and physical slowing that one can only describe as desert dumb—a term we have come up with to describe our inexplicable loss for words, clumsy reaction times and utter lack of wit. Nonetheless, our quarantine group of six (two brothers, two sisters and a married couple—most of whom did not know each other prior to joining the Willow House commune) has prospered in unexpected ways. Our sun and self-induced slowing of the mind and body has not stopped our productivity. ϲȐǹǃǎǴǤǎΔǎȐǤǺȚǡǎif we can do it, anyone can mindset, I will share, in the following pages, one of the projects that we have been working on and the ways in which we would improve upon it in the future. I am going to dumb things down in a way that I needed someone to do for me. Spoiler alert: The idiot-proof advice never came for me and many mistakes were made. Here’s how to avoid those same missteps when building a gabion. Quarantiner: Lauren Werner Location: Far West Texas, 6 miles from Big Bend National Park ॵeǎȐǴǤǺǛȝƵऺȚȀǃǎȓȍǎǄǤϲǄॶ
GABIONS “A lot harder than I thought” – LW What is a gabion? A gabion is a wirework, cage-like container, ǹȀȓȚȀǚȚǎǺϲǴǴǎǊΕǤȚǡȐȀǄǲȓुeǡǎΛƵȐǎǎǹȍǴȀΛǎǊǎΔǎȐΛΕǡǎȐǎǚȐȀǹ landscaping to road and dam building. Why am I building gabions? To create privacy walls. At my desert retreat, Willow House, the majority of our construction is modern and concrete, so gabions provide an earthy accent, color and texture that juxtaposes our austere architectural style. In a practical application, they provide wind protection and block unfavorable views of our parking areas, but we’ve also built a bench-sized gabion against our main, communal house for an aesthetic touch. What materials are needed to build a gabion? -4’’ x 4’’ x 8’ Wooden Posts -Concrete Mix -Gabion Sets (Instead of attempting to weld our own cages and create wire ties to hold them together, we ordered our gabion sets online and had them delivered for us to assemble. We purchased ours from a company called Gabion 1, but there are several companies to choose from. We chose the dimensions based on our needs and spaces— don’t overlook this step!) -Rocks (The color and size is up to you. We opted for red rocks that we collected on the property, but if you do not have an area to ȓǄƵΔǎǺǛǎΛȀȝȐȓǎǴǚऺΛȀȝǄƵǺǴǤǲǎǴΛϲǺǊȓȀǹǎȀǺǎǴȀǄƵǴǴΛΕǡȀǤȓƵǃǴǎȚȀ haul rocks to the location of your choice Note: the wire caging has 3’’x 3’’ openings so the rocks need to be larger than those gaps to avoid spilling out.) -Drill - 2’’ Heavy Duty Screws -Wire Cutters -Shovel
Step-by-Step Instructions: 1) @ƵΛȚǡǎǊǤϩǎȐǎǺȚǄȀǹȍȀǺǎǺȚȓȀǚȚǡǎǛƵǃǤȀǺȓȀȝȚǤǺȚǡǎƵȐǎƵ you desire to build them. After placing everything, start on your foundation holes. 2) You will need to place a post at approximate three-foot intervals ΕǤȚǡǤǺǎƵǄǡǛƵǃǤȀǺु'ȀȐǤǺȓȚƵǺǄǎऺǤǚΛȀȝǡƵΔǎƵϲΔǎআǚȀȀȚআǴȀǺǛǛƵǃǤȀǺऺ it will need two foundation posts in the center of the gabions with a three-foot gap in between the two posts. The holes for the posts need to be three feet deep if the gabion is six feet tall. If you plan to go taller than six feet tall, you might need wider basket cages and deeper holes for the foundation. 3) Mix concrete. 4)XǴƵǄǎȚǡǎΕȀȀǊǎǺȍȀȓȚȓǤǺȚȀȚǡǎǡȀǴǎȓऺϲǴǴȚǡǎǡȀǴǎȓΕǤȚǡǄȀǺǄȐǎȚǎ and let them sit overnight. 5) Once the foundation and posts are dry and stable, place your baskets around them and cut a hole in the of the top and middle ȓǡǎǎȚȓȀǚǄƵǛǤǺǛȚȀϲȚƵȐȀȝǺǊȚǡǎȍȀȓȚȓॵȓǎǎȍǡȀȚȀȓॶु 6) ȓȓǎǹǃǴǎȚǡǎϲȐȓȚǴƵΛǎȐȀǚǃƵȓǲǎȚȓȀȐȀǺǴΛǴƵΛǎȐǤǚǃȝǤǴǊǤǺǛƵǃǎǺǄǡআ height gabion. You will be sent extra wire to use for support. We drilled screws into the foundation’s wooden posts and wrapped the extra wiring to the sides of the baskets to reinforce them. It worked very well and can be seen in the following images. 7) Fill the gabion with rocks—by hand! Make sure the heaviest and largest rocks are on the bottom and that all rocks have most of their weight facing inwards towards the posts and the middle of the gabion. NOTE: If building a double-basket gabion, which is ȐǎȏȝǤȐǎǊǚȀȐǛƵǃǤȀǺȓǚǎǎȚȀȐȚƵǴǴǎȐऺǄȀǹȍǴǎȚǎȚǡǎϲȐȓȚǃƵȓǲǎȚƵǺǊƵǴǴ bottom level baskets before attempting the second layer (see photos for reference). 8) Complete the upper gabion basket (if you are building only a bench-height gabion, the process is much simpler and you are already ǊȀǺǎॶु|ȀȝǹǤǺǊǺǎǎǊƵǴƵǊǊǎȐȚȀȍǤǴǎǤǺȚǡǎϲǺƵǴǴƵΛǎȐȀǚȐȀǄǲȓु 9) Enjoy!
Cole’s Cars Sitting in my tiny NYC apartment during this COVID-19 lockdown I’ve had a lot of time to think. During times like these some people mentally transport themselves to a beach in Saint Barth (likely topless), but I always wind up in the driver’s seat of a car on a winding country road with a girl next to me (not topless). So, let me share with you two of the cars I was driving today.
2) 2012-2015 Audi R8
1) 1969 Dino 246GT (Ferrari)
In 1998 Audi purchased Lamborghini. It was nearly a decade until we started to see any real economies of scale between the two companies, but when it finally happened with the R8 it was like a snapshot of Megan Fox circa the Transformers 2007 engine scene…if you know, you know.
The one downside (or upside to some) is that under 4,000 were ever produced, and given the lineage of the moniker, these cars often trade for around $360,000. That’s a lot, but also 50% less than what the rented 600sqft studio I’m sitting in right now would go for…it makes me wonder.
What’s on the inside of her means a lot, but in reality, looks also matter. To me, the 246GT is one of the most beautifully designed cars of the all-time. The way that the roofline fades almost linearly into the curvature around the car’s hips, then comes to an angular and squared off end is, like that of Kendall Jenner’s resting bitch face trying to crack a smile. It’s perfection.
Like most Audi’s it has ‘Quattro’ all-wheel drive which gives it better grip as well as more traction on our winding road to pull out of tight turns quicker. This is the sort of thing which makes you feel like a better driver, and also gives you the confidence to safely push that little extra to impress the lady to your right.
Photo: Sports Car Bible
The Dino has a mid-engine V6 layout which makes it well suited for my tight country road. The engine layout gives it a great neutral balance and optimal rear end grip. It’s got a rad 5-speed gated manual, yet under 200 horsepower to the wheels (same as a 2020 MINI Cooper), so it’s not fast. But everyone knows it’s more fun to drive a slow car fast than a fast car slow. It’s how you use it.
This car shares a whole lot under the skin Photo: MotorTrend with the Lamborghini Gallardo and Huracan. Basically, the engine, drivetrain and a lot of what gives the car its performance characteristics are the same as a Lambo. The crazy part is that you can have a used Megan Fox (circa 2007) for under $100k. Pretty dope deal for a rare car which only ever saw 8k units sold in the US in total. To put that in perspective, Porsche sells 9,000 911’s per year.
Enzo Ferrari introduced the ‘Dino’ sub-brand in the early 1960’s which is named after his son who tragically died in 1957. There were a few Dino branded racecars, but only 3 road going models ever wore the name, and the 246GT is without question the best.
I’d opt for the 6-speed gated manual transmission versus the automatic, but that’s because I’m a real driver. In case you’re not a real driver, they also have a pretty solid 7 speed dual-clutch automatic.
First, to set the scene for this drive please imagine the Stones’ You Can’t Always Get What You Want playing. The song was released the same year as this car, plus Keith Richards owned a Dino.
For this ride, I’m listing to Jubel by Klingande, a song that plays at 125bpm. The powerband of the R8’s V10 engine - where it outputs the most power - is exactly 50 times greater at 6,250 RPMs.
Also, I’m a coupe guy but I’d actually trigger the Spyder (convertible) version of this car. Many convertibles sacrifice performance due to reduced body rigidity, but the Audi has a reinforced core (like real Megan) to allow for performance even without the top (also like Megan?). Lastly, there are two engine choices: a V8 or a V10. I’d get the V10, because it has an extra 100 horsepower and doesn’t weigh that much more, plus is direct fr om Lambo. It’ll rocket you from 0-60 in under 3.4 seconds. So, what’ll get you going quicker: the car or Megan?
OUR TEN DAILY MOODS OF THE QUARANTINE (AND EVERYDAY LIFE) By Lili Jamail and Elle Florescu
AMBITION AFFEC TAT ION HYSTERIA PROJEC T ION N EEDY AN XIOU S C OZ Y IN DIFFERENT AIML ES SN ES S C HIPPER
A COVID Song
½ the jar of bay leaves ¼ cup of: Basil leaves Italian seasoning Oregano ½ tsp of: Sleepwalk to open windows Garlic salt Garlic powder curtsy for a shadow, drags to I’m in trouble when you’re awayOnion powder richmoon lucite become me I waste time drawing triangles with Fennel 1 ¼ tsp of crushed red pepper deeplung secrets, sweep dull pencils On topcolored of that put in the hot italian sausage and make the to meatballs and throw them in on top. quietly the hunter The meatballs are wallet literally meatballs. Don’t add anything. I like to make them slightly larger I can’t find my than a golfwho ball.respects the night I can’t find my keys Cover and simmer on low heat about 30-45 min its or until the meat turnedmagnets a grayish brown. chamber of has various Then add 4 cans of crushed tomatoes and 1 can of peeled tomatoes. Use a wooden spoon or spatula to pull slightly the meat from the sides to let the sauce get underneath a little. When you’re away I wake burns Add another can of crushed tomatoes and simmer on lowup andwith aboutrug 15-20 min on andmy then start there’s a blue voice gently stirring sauce, like-you are “folding” instead of stirring, as to not break up any meatballs ankles a gray tongue at the edge of my that bed are not entirely set. and a bad tag I’ll repeat: Cook for aboutburn 2 hours onIlow/simmer my cheeks and shake I doand stir often to avoid burning bottom. Turn it off after to strangle a few hours and let it sit and cool for anbest hour not and then refrigerate overnight.
by Isom and Carl via Anna Lovecat THE SONG IS HERE
forget to eat when you’re away
ESSENTIAL OILS (lyrics)
You’re my lavender h remains: You’re my lemon rn knives.” You’re my sage This a Palo Santo phase? Or lemongrass ’n lime Always gonna stay My peppermint My lilac grace Vetiver in your embrace I’m tryna catch your vibe
the one you love
Day 2 the heart’s not what Set out for about an hour before heating on simmer for anyou hour.eat Add: I guess this is about Remainder of bay leaves When you finally come home 1 tsp Crushed Red Pepper another tomb, my mother wound I’m wearing roller skates and 2 tsp garlic powder I’d spit out my beating heart ½ tsp garlic salt (don’t confuse garlic powder screaming with garlic salt…done waschopping not good) at Gaius that, Baltar, if I knew where and for whom½ tsp onion powder ½ cup the of: top of my finger off gushing blood in the tomato sauce Basil leaves I take ambien Italian Seasoning try to type Oregano Cook for more hours and decide if you want to add more seasoning. I usually do. You will get -CY my passwords the hang of it. I have never measured out how much of each item I added so this is think of Ian pre-suicide approximate.
in collared shirts crying
You know me My rosemary, cause Love was hanging All over our clothes A tonic
You’re my juniper You’re my deep one You’re my way For reasons that I Can’t explain In coriander thyme
You know me My rosemary, oh
Hey you always say “Easy, it’ll be okay, diffuser love, one truth remains: I’ll shield those modern knives.”
Overlapping memories And broken sonnets
MY GRANDFATHER’S TOMATO SAUCE By Anna Lovecat
BAY LEAVES .12OZ JAR
1 LARGE WHITE ONION
2-3 GREEN PEPPERS
CRUSHED RED PEPPER
5 28OZ CANS CRUSHED TOMATOES
1 35OZ CAN WHOLE PEELED TOMATOES
2 PACKS HOT ITALIAN SAUSAGE
4 LBS GROUND BEEF OR GROUND CHUCK
Day 1 Cut onion and green peppers into large chunks. The larger pieces, according to Papa, help bulk up the sauce. Throw them into the pot. Put about 3 table spoons of water in and then add: ½ THE JAR OF BAY LEAVES ¼ CUP OF: BASIL LEAVES ITALIAN SEASONING OREGANO ½ TSP OF: GARLIC SALT GARLIC POWDER ONION POWDER FENNEL 1 ¼ TSP OF CRUSHED RED PEPPER
On top of that put in the hot italian sausage and make the meatballs and throw them in on top. The meatballs are literally meatballs. Don’t add anything. I like to make them slightly larger than a golf ball. Cover and simmer on low heat about 30-45 min or until the meat has turned a grayish brown. Then add 4 cans of crushed tomatoes and 1 can of peeled tomatoes. Use a woodenspoon or spatula to pull slightly the meat from the sides to let the sauce get underneath a little. Add another can of crushed tomatoes and simmer on low and about 15-20 min and then start gently stirring sauce, like you are “folding” instead of stirring, as to not break up any meatballs that are not entirely set. Cook for about 2 hours on low/ simmer and stir often to avoid burning bottom. Turn it off after a few hours and let it sit and cool for an hour and then refrigerate overnight.
Day 2 Set out for about an hour before heating on simmer for an hour. Add: REMAINDER OF BAY LEAVES 1 TSP CRUSHED RED PEPPER 2 TSP GARLIC POWDER ½ TSP GARLIC SALT
(DON’T CONFUSE GARLIC POWDER WITH GARLIC SALT…DONE THAT, WAS NOT GOOD)
½ TSP ONION POWDER ½ CUP OF: BASIL LEAVES ITALIAN SEASONING OREGANO
Cook for more hours and decide if you want to add more seasoning. I usually do. You will get the hang of it. I have never measured out how much of each item I added so this is approximate.
Images from Notes on Nostalgia By Isabella Innis
HOUSE PLANT Sophie Parker and an Elephant Ear Philodendron @wifenyc This is the spring we did not go outside. My houseplants and I sit by the window together and observe the quiet city. I’m sheltering in place - the lines of my habitat were hastily redrawn along the edges of a 4th floor Brooklyn apartment. This apartment, this “shelter” once had a permeable membrane, but now it is my most potent line of defense. Within the walls, and bedsheets, and mosaiced tiles of this place, I am invisible to the virus - this is my only defense. Camouflaged in the domestic, there is a hidden springtime; a new nature adapts, disappears, and survives, undetected by the enemy beyond the walls. cam·ou·flage
survival by hiding it from predators.” Concealed under the banal quilt of domesticity, the house plants and I have a new Isolation, sheltering in place, a shift in habitat, shelter as a defense mechanism, environment as protection against an external threat Camouflage “Context” as a tool for defense. Could an ability to adapt, even temporarily, especially temporarily, collectively save us?
noun 1. the act, means, or result of obscuring things to deceive an enemy, as by painting or screening objects so that they are lost to view in the background, 2. Many animals and plants have evolved to exhibit some form of camouflage, which is an adaptation that allows them to blend in with certain aspects of their environment. Camouflage increases an organism's chance of
The indoor plant as a concept, now think about an indoor human. Coexisting in a new nature concealed under the banal cover of domesticity. Undetected by the virus. Interior design /// interior defense
Fire Down Below By William Nixon
It was the smell. Parties like this one happen all over the world, but they do not all smell like this one. It holds similarities, sure - body odor, saliva, armpits and the dew of active inner thighs. Cigarette smoke, too, he guessed. This smell, though, was truly singular. He’d sweated halfway through four-hundred dollar slacks, which, the next morning, carried traces of the stench: hard to grasp, like all mnemonic olfaction - somewhere between the joy in mutiny, and the aftermath it risked. There was ambivalence, not nonchalance - nothing French or aloof about it whatsoever – at least on the inside. Outside didn’t matter anymore. He wished he’d studied wine. A sommelier could help him pin this signatory odor, but it would take ingenuity, and a fair bit of bravery for the cave from which it came. The task of entry had seemed no more rousing than any other gathering of its kind. The monstrosity of fashion week door-mobbers was no worse than any whose fringes he’d glumly waned upon before. This entrance was a garage door, wide enough for two lanes of cars. He’d feigned boredom, and focused on the steam of his breath. He wondered where in the 18th Arrondisement his own air would really dissipate. The security team made good on grand promises of exclusivity, and through an out-of-sight mechanism lowered the giant door shut. Désolé. A pair of Dutch twinks scurried under, nearly losing limbs and adding to the clamor overall. He resolved to walk away, multiple times before actually doing it, and went reeling down the main road nearby, on a mission to relapse from not-smoking, only to find that nearly everywhere was closed, and the only two stores open sold Reds and nothing else. He was old enough to know that all he had to do was come back later. What lay behind the garage door was essentially an indoor street. Surrounded by concrete and a fairly low ceiling, it snaked steeply in descent, edging at
near-right angles to the left every hundred feet or so. At the second sharp turn was the ticket desk. The coat check was not until the fifth or so, where the music, the smell, and the breadth of shirtless crowd faded in to cautiously reveal itself. It was another two stretches of the path to the dance floor – a concrete cave that must have once been a place for parking cars. The sound was a heavy, unfamiliar twist on a space he once knew well. He couldn’t remember who’d used the phrase first, but he labeled the genre Some Scumbags from Kiev. Amidst this sweat-soaked zoo were a smattering of models, neo-fuccbois, embittered creative directors, shy horny nerds, Hungarian girls who seemed to have the get-together’s only cigarettes, some idiot he’d fucked in Tokyo, and a fair share of shadow figures in between. He spoke fervently with a bartender about New Orleans, even though he’d only been once. He received a curling smirk from a lanky leopard who’d walked the runway that this party purported to commemorate – a dare, drenched in gasoline. There eventually was a boy from Yekaterinburg, who wouldn’t take his t-shirt off. They had a nice conversation. The boy from Yekaterinburg was a few years younger. He told the boy from Yekaterinburg that people think he’s twenty-one sometimes, and the boy from Yekaterinburg said “You look good, but not that good.” He’d been roped into this exchange – introduced – by a wily, dark-haired Parisian whose forearms bore a veiny string of ring tattoos. This boy was only talking to him once he’d slid off his wool turtleneck. He regretted not wearing a wife-beater underneath, even though he’d never owned one. It was immediate, the effect: attention right away; he was reminded of his worth. He remembered that he’d smelled this smell in Berlin, at the same kinds of parties and places, now a whole two years before. He’d written it in a secret story, that was found and read by his thenboyfriend, accidentally, in an accident that was quite possibly on purpose, whom, upon reading months later, stabbed him in the face fifty times and broke up with him. The Parisian pulled him into conversation, running fingers along his upper body’s skin, complimenting his arms, gaslighting his scrawny musculature, dragging him somewhere hitherto disbelieved.
He figured if he kept moving he wouldn’t have to touch the stove. Wading through a nearly pitch-black, makeshift bathroom, he was careful not to trip over any in-progress sex or blowjobs. After peeing, and venturing back out, there again was the leopard-like creature, meeting his glance, raising his brows like a furnace grate. The smell, he’d come to realize, was the revolt it incited – rebellion, not revulsion. By now, he was habituated to it: notes of danger, flesh, rage, drawn haphazardly and peppered with rouge up until its border. It simmered on this limit, between revolt for revolt’s sake, and whatever comes after. And this was where he lived – doused in the apology in which he’d been doused, as far back as he knew, on the other side of the ocean. Such stuff, such smells, made him wistful - made him sad in a city that goads and cheers him on with sweetly stolid vagaries and messy little secrets. It never failed to seem to boom with poise and musicality. The coffee’d worn off. His legs and feet were numbly sore. He hadn’t seen enough per se, but it was time to go. He’d forgot the names of the two rabbits – the Parisian and the one from Yekaterinburg – immediately. He forgets most names these days because he’s overwhelmed with how much he needs to think about himself, his future, his rupturing youth and his plans. He has bad listening skills. No one listens to him either. He forgot these names right away, and later thanked whatever God he disbelieved in. His slacks stopped stinking with a saunter down the blustery block. The one from Yekaterinburg had asked him if he knew where Yekaterinburg was, and in the cave’s low light, he’d said yes immediately. It wasn’t until the next day, sheepishly inspecting his arms in the mirror, that he remembered Yekaterinburg was where the Bolsheviks shot the last of the Romanovs.
LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF THIS. IT’S DIFFICULT TO TRANSLATE THEIR EXPERIENCE TO THE PAGE, BUT THIS IS WHERE IT STARTS. FOR THEM.
EXT. CUL-DE-SAC – NIGHT
Cloudless but somehow moonless. We’re street level on this cul-de-sac in Beachwood Canyon, Los Angeles, facing a parking structure with three single-car garages. The garage on the left houses a rusting Porsche. The middle, a Volvo with a Prius parked askew behind it, jutting out into the circle just enough to piss off the neighbors. The right, a broken refrigerator and an Audi when its owners are home, but tonight they’re not.
An imposing set of stairs just right of the structure leads up the slope of a smallish hill. Landscaping is overgrown foliage and bramble punctuated by citrus trees and mulch mounds, tended to by “the guys”, a nameless group of workers whose skill set ranges from yard work to not-to-code-but-livable electrical, deployed at the drop of a hat by the specter of a landlord. We ascend, passing two units, one on either side of the stairs, that stand with precarious footing on the midpoint of the hill. One final flight of stairs later, we reach the unit whose numbers match those painted on the middle parking slot.
They don’t pick up the blankets before dragging their feet to their respective rooms attached to the living area. They’re out of view now. We hear doors close. One of them locks. A faint glow from the tv remains. It doesn’t catch on anything, so we know that we’re alone now. We linger, and then the door opens without a sound.
I’m attempting to align your perspective with the intruder’s here. While I don’t think I’ll keep you with the intruder for the duration of the sequence, the POV functions both as an entry point into the story and to create an ominous tone. You, the reader, are a voyeur, just like the intruder. The slow, borderline indulgent pacing and attention to detail should exacerbate this feeling. You’re watching them, Rachel and Alex, who are at this point unassuming and trying to sleep. This is three weeks after the shelter-in-place order went into effect, days before they will adopt a cat. You might not see it just by watching them watch shit television, but given that you’re also quarantined, you can surmise that they’ve long passed the proverbial wit’s end. Days lack structure, time warps and loops back onto itself. You couldn’t know yet that they haven’t been sleeping, that they’ve woken up at 3AM for the past four nights. But the intruder knows. The intruder knows because the intruder is the one doing it.
We cross the modest patio a few feet to arrive at the threshold. Through the windowed front door flanked by a cheap, arguably pointless bamboo shade, we see that overhead bulbs are off in the living room, but a white-blue glow from a tv lights the faces of two women in their late 20s: RACHEL, brunette, resents her proximity to 30, and ALEX, strawberry blonde with vestiges of bleach and blue, embraces hers. They lie in clumps on opposite ends of what appears to be a couch. Depending on the positioning of their bodies and angle of their heads, Rachel and Alex are either engulfed by or emerge from total darkness as they watch, the light or absence of it twisting what we see of their facial expressions. We wait here, listening to the louder bits of muffled conversation. Laughter. Something about how it’s total bullshit, that they should’ve fucking allocated some of that big ass budget towards better, at the very least passable wigs for the fucking leads. Jesus. Minutes pass, then an hour. They rise from the couch, blankets pool at their ankles.
INT. APARTMENT/ ALEX’S ROOM
It’s the witching hour. Lights off but a beacon from an iPhone flashlight shakes as it traces the perimeter. We follow the light, catching sight of loose printer paper, pens, a pink dumbbell, and damp towels—permanent fixtures on her wood floor. White walls. We pan up from the lit spot on the floor to see Alex sitting upright in bed, attention rapt. Her bed is shoved in the corner, at the intersection of two perpendicular windows with shades drawn. She stares across the room. Following her gaze and the iPhone light, we fixate on the closed door.
We hear a creak in the floorboard coming from the living room. The noise drones on longer than it should, sounding more like a human groan. Louder now.
The light on the door flickers because Alex can’t keep her hand steady. We think we see movement in the gap between door and floor but can’t be sure.
The groan stops. We hear a whimper.
Alex squints, craning her neck and straining her vision. She shuts off the flashlight and clutches the phone in her hand, drawing her knees to her chest under the covers. She holds her free hand over her nose and mouth as she waits for another movement. Silence. CUT TO:
INT. APARTMENT/RACHEL’S ROOM
It’s 3:36 AM, but she already knows that because it’s the time she wakes up every night now. Her mom told her on FaceTime a few days ago that she thinks it’s a sign of good luck, waking up at the same time every night, but Rachel told her it was about circadian rhythms, a frequent Google search of hers. But tonight it’s different -- Rachel had been keeping herself awake in order to reset the primordial internal cycle, had just drifted off to Chinatown, probably entertaining a sordid dream about septuagenarian Jack Nicholson, when --
A rush of air into her ear.
No...as much as she’d want that to be true, Jack Nicholson is probably miles from here, his breaths being funnelled into a CPAP machine, not Rachel McBath’s ear canal.
Or at least that’s what her diary says.
She listens, hearing Alex’s door open, her melatonin-heavy footsteps tread into the bathroom, and waits for her to flush the toilet, signaling her routine, her return, which would allow Rachel to relax back into the solitude that sleep sanctions.
She waits for that flush…
A groan...inhuman, guttural...where is that coming from? Maybe Alex fell asleep in front of PornHub again….no, that doesn’t sound like the usual noise from “MAN GIVES GIRLFRIEND TO DEBT COLLECTOR DP CREAMPIE”...it’s not Polish... or even Czech…
I can tell you its source. It’s the sound of thousands of years of impotent rage, the helpless yelp of a neutered cohort, relegated to the sidelines by those who decided that walls would be of some sort of helpful blockade to collecting what’s rightfully theirs. How arrogant and dim must they be if they think that they’re safe behind a plate of glass? The same mechanism that’s allowed me to keep track of them, but yet they believe that it will somehow invert its properties, prevent a violation when it’s an invitation at the end of the day.
Talk about misplaced trust. But you can always trust me to be there. I’m watching. Waiting. Playing.
But still...she definitely felt something. INT. APARTMENT/RACHEL’S ROOM
Rachel sits up, trying to adjust her senses to the near perfect dark. Rachel has perfect vision...and perfect hearing....her medical records are nearly spotless and she keeps them close to her to prove to herself that her experiences aren’t rooted in the physical realm.
We’re hovering over Rachel now, just inches from her face. Out from underneath our POV, we see a hand with index finger pointed and gingerly outlining her eyebrows, bridge of nose, lip corners. Earlobes. We inch closer and hear a drawn-out inhale and ragged exhale. Not hers. We retreat as she starts, are out the door and into the living room before hearing that she’s thrown off the covers to sit up.
INT. APARTMENT/LIVING ROOM
We’re backed up against the front door, facing Rachel’s still-dark bedroom and Alex’s locked door. We hear a moan, a low bellow. It’s primal but satiated for now. Then silence. We’re static, invisible as Alex twists the paltry lock from behind her barricade, pushes open the door, and walks with, candidly, not enough trepidation, into the bathroom. We turn to face the entryway. The front door opens, and we exit as we hear the toilet flush.
EXT. PATIO – CONTINUOUS
We veer left on the patio to find a small alley behind the building, water heaters for their unit and the one below affixed to the wall. We track along the alley way until we see a corner. Cigarette butts, water bottles, and candy corn litter the floor. Latex gloves. A surgical mask. We may or may not clock the blinking videocamera propped up by a tripod. We approach this corner and turn to face the unit wall. We sink down. We are home now.
It’s a work in progress. At this point it’s largely research and development, arcing out the third act and figuring out the ending. Experimenting with how much more they can take. But they’re always home now. I have all the time in the world.
THE INTRUDER LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Where We Go When There’s Nowhere to Go By Allison Baughman for The Unprecedented Times
There’s a popular saying circulating the masses during this time of quarantine that makes my insides cringe and my brain shut off, and that is “use this time of solitude for creativity; write that book, work on that screenplay, paint that picture!” It’s an unwelcome pressure to ‘make the best’ of a situation we didn’t ask for. I think, personally, if you can get up and make it far enough in the day without having a complete and utter breakdown thinking about everything that’s actually happening, it’s good enough. However, I challenged myself in the first two weeks of quarantine to try to tap into the creative juices and make the best of being inside. I enrolled and completed a Dartmouth course, I finished a project for our downstairs TV room I’ve been meaning to complete, I’m making sure I talk not only to all members of my family daily, but also checking in on friends I haven’t had time to reach out to in a while. I’ve gotten sad, cried, wiped my tears and pushed myself through insane workouts, I’ve gone on runs, I’ve meditated, cried some more. I’ve written a pre-emptive obituary for everyone close to me and even went as far as choosing the outfits I think they should be buried in. I started to surround myself with the news and twitter which ended in a complete mental collapse which caused such awful catastrophic thoughts it took everything in me to pull away. Virtual therapy wasn’t enough, and I found myself with constant stomach aches and randomly crying while trying to fall asleep thinking of all the people dying, all the families losing loved ones, and thoughts of what would happen if anyone in my family happened to get this bizarre disease. There are only so many times you can say, “well this is the reality, get used to it and do something about it” to yourself before your health starts deteriorating and your period comes so late you think you went through a trauma. Then you remember you are going through a trauma, and so is everyone in the world. This is, in a way, a war; we’re losing people in unexpected numbers, people are fighting on the front lines and sacrificing themselves to save others, and we’re in desperate need for materials. There is, physically, nothing we can do to help except to stay inside so we don’t infect others. So how do you pull yourself out of this dark hole?
For me, escapism is the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities, especially by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy. I sat down and I thought about all the times in my life I found true unwavering happiness, and I tapped into them. Yes, this may or may not have included downloading the 1992 computer game King’s Quest VI and watching movies like The Neverending Story and The Importance of Being Earnest, but it also resulted in me spending hours upon hours online finding new music. My form of escapism is music. Hearing a song and closing your eyes and picturing imagery that takes you away from reality is one of the most beautifully powerful things your mind can do. It’s been a while since I allowed myself to fully invest time in only finding new music; it’s usually at work and answering emails, on the subway, or listening to something someone sent me. But taking the time to scout out and sift through a heap of music is one of the simplest pleasures that have the greatest effect. All it takes to start this is hearing one song that fucks up your insides. Then it’s game over. All you have to do is take the time and allow yourself to go there. Fortunately for us, we’ve got nothing but time. I invite you to re-fall in love with something you once loved; painting, singing, playing piano, meditating, reading, getting your finances in order, studying for a test you may never take, binge-watching an HBO series in one sitting, baking, cooking, drinking; hell, I don’t know do you but what I do know is this: we’re in a time of crisis and pain and it’s not going anywhere soon. It’s a dark reality but it’s a reality. We finally have space to do something we LIKE to do, not do something we feel that we HAVE to do. Choose your escape, close your eyes, and go there.
THE PLAYLIST ON THE NEXT PAGE IS A COLLECTION OF OLD AND NEW; HARD AND SOFT, UPBEAT AND DOWNTEMPO. I HOPE THIS MAKES YOU FEEL SOMETHING OTHER THAN FEAR.
SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE.
SCREENS DON’T CAPTURE REALITY
Undermind is a New York City-based music label who provides inspirational experiences driven by a strong message and inclusive atmosphere.
SCREENS DON’T CAPTURE REALITY With each event, Undermind pushes its audience to ask deeper questions about themselves and the world around them.
Written by Marco Fabrizio (@worksbymarco) Collaborations Include - Stefan Bell (Gratuit), Dylan Duzey, LstNght, @erikhasan, @fatmargins, @Jess2Siick and Talia Fabrizio
An Essay by Marco Fabrizio
As we gaze at our phone screens trying to connect with the outside world during this lockdown, we suddenly crave the feelings that real experiences bring. We long for that unmistakable energy that’s felt when we experience something truly special, in the moment. In the past, we turned to our screens to capture these moments, but as we’re seeing now, experiences can’t be felt through the screen. A screenshot, a photo, not even a video can create that palpable vibration the body feels when music fills the room. Technology can never duplicate the intensity and connection we share with everyone at an event, regardless of our differences. When society eventually eases back into normalcy, let’s appreciate the moments so we can truly see and hear the world around us, so we can tangibly sense and connect to what is happening in our surroundings. Quiet the urge to capture moments on your screens, maybe even turn your phones off for a night out; There is nothing more powerful, vibrant, or impactful than the world we live in - its beauty will be missed if we don’t pay attention. Our mission of living in the moment holds relevance in our upcoming event series dubbed “Screens Don’t Capture Reality”, where we pay homage to the classic 'warehouse party’ before phones and screens lit up a room. We want to encourage our attendees to truly question how technology affects their experiences and presence in the world. Always remember, screens don’t capture reality, living in the moment does.
Hovering, Not Crashing
Saturday April 11
Thursday, April 9
We drive up to our lake house in North Georgia. At a red light we’re stopped next to a Chick-Fil-A and I witness the busiest, most efficient drive-through operation.
Julia Buchmiller th
Lili calls and asks if I would submit something for the zine she’s making. I don’t tell her that I’m lying on the heated floor of my parent’s bathroom, and that I feel like I’m hovering over insanity but haven’t crashed quite yet. Now I’m painfully aware of my privilege and my functionality levels – both high. While this is less comforting than I’d hoped it would be, it does make me get up and agree to write something. -Friday, April 10
The polite employees in their little windbreakers and masks scurry from car to car with tablets, taking payments and running out food. Smiling while giving sweeping directions with their arms. They’re managing to quickly funnel three lines of vehicles into one clean exit. I am so deeply jealous of their purpose. 5:30pm
2:50pm My dad comes rushing in from the front hall to my office, which up until two weeks ago was his office. I’ve just finished reading an email informing me I’ve lost another consulting job. He has something behind his back and looks annoyingly confident. He reveals his gift to me: a box of shoes. It takes me a few seconds to realize they’re not fun shoes, but clip-ons in my size for his Peloton bike. I try to force a smile but instead burst out crying, which must have been horrifying.
I’m reading an article about intubation and I don’t think I’ve blinked in about 4 minutes. I’ve been involved with a few sociopaths, so I understand this break-youdown-to-build-you-up game that the media is trying to play with us right now. The thing is, I’m not sure I have the same stomach for a sociopathic approach to dictating life as we know it that I do for no-strings sex. I would normally balk at sentimentality in the news, but I don’t like the taste of fear in my tap water either. I can’t tell if this is personal growth or not.
Avoiding eye contact, my dad closes the box and tells me he knows this is tough as he pats my head. He backs out to retrieve a tissue for me but doesn’t return.
I wonder how long I’ll be here.
I’m not getting on that fucking bike.
Easter Sunday. I wake up to a text from my dad saying he’s made me some tea and he’s about to go on a run if I’d like to come.
Sunday April 12
I open my bedroom door to see a trail of Ferrero Rochers leading to a twentydollar bill. I genuinely can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or not. --
I’ve been eyeing these antique wooden clogs that my mother’s interior designer no doubt spent a small fortune on all morning. They used to be on the floor but now they sit in a glass case, perched on top of a stack of first editions no one has ever touched.
Monday April 13
I’ve had the clogs on all day. I’m pretty sure I’ve ruined our floors. I also tore the binding off Doctor Zhivago when I tried to open it with one hand because I was holding a cocktail in the other and dropped it.
Unsolicited (but with great fanfare!) my father uses poker chips to explain the stock market to me while I’m sitting at the kitchen counter trying to work. He’s demonstrating how I should “diversify my investments” with blue poker chips and tells me in complete seriousness that I shouldn’t “try to beat the market, not now, not ever”.
I’ll get away with the book, but I’m fucked for the floors. --
I don’t have the heart to tell him I have exactly $423 plus the $20 gave me yesterday to diversify right now and was planning on asking him for money at dinner.
Thursday, April 16
I’m sitting on the porch, staring at spider webs and giving the bare minimum on a conference call. About 30 minutes into the call I start thinking about the possibility that we are about to enter into a world of two kinds of people, the Immunes and the Non- Immunes, and they will have two very different standards of living.
Tuesday April 14
6:55pm My parents leave to go back to Atlanta, and I start a kitchen fire about an hour later in an attempt to pour a bottle of cold white wine into a pan of piping hot oil when the recipe calls for low heat and a splash. Symbolism not-withstanding, all I can think about when I see the flames jump up is having to all be stuck together again if I burn this house down. -Wednesday April 15
While I should be thinking of so many other things, all I can think about is how my inferiority complex will fare in this new dystopia. I wonder if we’ll all have to carry papers or badges, and if there will be Immune parties that I’m not invited to.
CONTRIBUTORS Riley Barrow
Olivia Vander Tuig,
Sofie Parker (WIFE)
Olivia Vander Tuig
Brittani Lepley Life Lessons (Oscar Cuevas, Lili Jamail, Andrew Jilka,