The Polymath Review #1

Polymath

Review Journal

Volume 1 Issue 1 June 2016 US $4.99 CAN $5.99

Professional development, fiction, poetry, reviews, and art.

Polymath Review Journal Volume l Issue I

“Interdisipline” Vraeyda Literary A Subsidiary of Vraeyda Media www.vraeydamedia.ca Editor in Chief: Liz Ratajczak Ratel Litereary Editor: Rhet Czak Layout and Art: Marissa Wagner Contributors: Camille Goodison, Kevin Hogan, Richard King Perkins II, Liz Ratajczak Ratel, Phil Temple Photo/Art Contributors: Sapha Burnell, Unsplash.com ISSN: 2371-3100 Publication Date June 2016 @Vraeyda @Macromicrocosm polymathjournal.tumblr.com www.vraeydamedia.ca/polymath Submissions of Fiction, Non-Fiction, Poetry, Art & Photography welcome. www.vraeydamedia.ca/submissions Advertising, Inquiries on sales, Live Events or the Ad Swap Program, please contact ambassador@vraeydamedia.ca.

All rights reserved. Copyright ©2016 9131 207B Street, Langley, BC V1M 2P5

@vraeyda

polymathjournal.tumblr.com

Polymath Review Journal

1

From the Editor

Interdiscipline

@Vraeyda

2 at the Earth’s core

Richard King Perkins II

3 play’s list Play @playslist

5 The business of social media

Liz Ratajczak Ratel

@Vraeyda

6 Reviews

Liz Ratajczak Ratel and Kevin Hogan

9 levinson’s cat

Phil Temples

12 Untitled

13 White Night in June

Camille Goodison

CamilleGoodison.tumblr.com

16 Professor Interview

Camille Goodison

CamilleGoodison.tumblr.com

20 Greave

Sapha Burnell

@Usurper Kings

21 An October State of Mind

22

23

Richard King Perkins II

Tree of life Sapha Burnell

@UsurperKings

top 10 creative bag essentials Liz and Marissa

@Vraeyda

Roads of development are twisted affairs linking fore and back into a riotous heap of warrens, dens and editing. Development and its’ sister change are twins of the same mother, constant companions and sometimes quarrelsome siblings.

The nips and tucks of the sisters interplay with our editorial panel’s goal of highlighting and expanding creative culture & the profession of being a creator.

Joined in our team and our contributors are true inter disciplinarians who understand the necessity for teaching creators about business, professionalism & alternative views on the medium and act of producing culture. This first edition of The Polymath Review is part cultural review, with reviews of Standing Wave’s Ink on Silk concert, poetry collections small things left behind by Ella Zeltserman, My Rìastrad by Kevin Hogan & Usurper Kings by Sapha Burnell. The Polymath Review is part professional development journal, with articles on the business, and techniques of being an artist, writer, musician or creative person. We have an article by Play of Play’s List, a Top Ten for the Professional Artist and an interview with Dr. Camille Goodison, an English Literature scholar and author of the upcoming Chance Wanderer & Other Tales of Hunger. The Polymath Review is highlighting works of speculative fiction by Phil Temples & Camille Goodison, poetry by Richard King Perkins II & art by Sapha Burnell and an anonymous artist. Breathe deep, read this journal in small bits or one long read over a cup of your favourite potion. Enjoy the act of nurturing your creative and professional sides. I hope you join us for many issues to come.

We are open for materials to review, and for submissions of articles based around professional development of the creator, the business of culture, and speculative fiction, poetry and art. We would love to see our creators expand through this new journal.

Sincerely, Liz Ratajczak Ratel

Letter from the Editor

Built around the heady creative waters of the Pacific West Coast, the Polymath Review Journal is the one magazine I’ve been waiting to write an editorial for.

1

At the Earth’s Core Richard King Perkins II

“Inside the earth is all wires and cords and smoke and rocks and only people who are brave will go into the tunnels”Sage Lily Perkins, age 4.

Like Pellucidar, the rocks and smoke are well known to me.

A bit of vulcanism tossing forth a little sulphuric gas may have even been the true destroyer of our thunderous predecessors and allowed our rat-ancestors some room to grow.

Subways and sewers and mineshafts could explain away all those tunnels but it’s more satisfying to think of which god or alien race designed those deeper hollow pathways as a means of travel or species distribution. It smacks of scientific pulpery to be told of piggybacked elephants steaming across the ocean and creatures sailing by fortunate log or indiscriminate wind not just to arrive, but to arrive successfully in a new world.

But I am most puzzled by the cords and wires. Not the ones buried for my television and electricity and not even the ones lying across the floor of the ocean. I envision a complex ball of twine suspended at the earth’s core, the hub of a mysterious network that connects all things in the outer world with each other but it is bedtime and I’m being asked for a story.

I relate the myth of Orpheus, pleased with its high-minded concepts of love and loss and quest all taking place in an underworld.

But it’s not really a child-friendly fable and I’m told as much.

A new story is demanded. I return to more familiar adventures where we speak of heaven or Jupiter or Care-a-lot which is actually a lot like heaven if you substitute virtuous colorful teddy bears for redeemed souls.

As the tale of how Tear Bear became Cheer Bear concludes, I’m given a double thumbs-up.

She pulls me close and whispers in a confiding voice that she’s not brave enough for those tunnel kinds of stories.

So the fictional account of the man who finds a telegraph wire in the Sahara desert receiving signals from 500 miles below the planet’s surface must be snipped because it’s safer looking beyond than within for most people.

Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll tell her the story of how future beings will place advertising signs across the face of Jupiter or how someday we’ll all live together in heaven because Jesus died on the cross for us and we’ll be floating and laughing and that everyone will be at least as happy as the Care Bears seem to be.

2

Play’s List: It’s A Strange World play @playslist Today’s title is brought to you by the most imaginative graphic novel series of the last 10 years: Planetary.

instant energy and fulfillment. And that is a recipe for an exciting life.

Wikipedia can tell you all about the books themselves, what we are concerned about here is the spirit of the books: this world is amazing and will never stop surprising you if you let it.

The technical term for these types of people is “Polymaths”.

A polymath is a person who’s expertise spans a vast array of subjects. Benjamin Franklin was a polymath. So was Leonardo da Vinci. You could make a case that Zdeno Chara of the Boston Bruins is as well. Not only is Chara a monster defensemen, but he speaks about 4 languages and is a certified financial planner.

Is your current hobby teaching you anything? (Do you have a current hobby...?) What are your friends’ hobbies? They know things... have you asked them to teach you?

These modern, technological days bring efficiency, speed and knowledge, while seemly diluting curiosity, patience and wisdom. People joke about not needing to remember anything as Google will be able to fill them in if they so need. The human condition has become less about the bed of knowledge and more about the expanse of the technological revolution.

This brings us back to the Planetary books. The protagonists referred to themselves as Archeologists. They built lives for themselves searching out secrets. Secrets are the best. Nothing spikes my curiosity like being faced with a fact or a story that I do not know, and then want to know. You want to pass the time? Next time you are drifting through an afternoon, turn yourself into a Private Eye of secrets. Discover something.

Take a social situation and reverse- engineer the math that drove your friend’s decisions.

“Why did she do what she did?” Next time you looking at the T.V., start looking at the T.V. How does it actually work?

Now yes, this can sound kind of dull, but... it shouldn’t.

There are mysteries everywhere, and hence there are no excuses for not living a fulfilled life.

Not only do you stretch your mind (ironically that was the superpower of the main villain in Planetary) but the social paths you can open up for yourself by being curious and interacting with people are untapped and infinite. Hell, I once started dating a waitress simply by asking her to explain how the bellini machine worked. The point is, curiosity creates

There are 6.8 billion people on this planet, and any one of them, whether it be the President or a homeless man, has tucked away in their brain one fact that you don’t know.

Let’s discover these things. Let’s become experts on obscure facts.

Leonardo Da Vinci combined art and science. He is a fundamental example of the artist as a rational creature.

My next goal is to become proficient in the history of medieval Albanian castles. Why? Because I thought saying “I am an expert in the history of medieval Albanian castles” sounded funny. Humour’s as good a reason as any. But I’m doing it, and damn is it fun (and beats watching reruns 5 nights a week).

Detective, archeologist, expert, hobbyist. Consider yourself what you will.

“It’s a strange world out there... Let’s keep it that way”.

3

Artisan crochet Crafted in Canada find me on Facebook @ Teez Topperz

The Business of Social Media: FRequency Fritz: How Many Times is Enough?

By Liz Ratajczak Ratel Authors, musicians, artists & playwrights commit a sort of social suicide nowadays, if they’re not on some form of social media. The best part of social media networking is the cost: it’s vastly free, but for your time. As professionals, we have to learn to monetize our time. As media specialists, we at Vraeyda Media get questions from our clients who are later adopters to the fine art of social media promotions. The biggest question folk seem to have is one of frequency:

If I start using social media for my art/business, will I have time for anything else?

Posting Up To Once Per Day on your Facebook/Pinterest/ Twitter/LinkedIn Business Page is Fine.

Business owners seem to fear it, the long hours in front of a glowing computer screen tap-tap-tapping on their keyboard to follow this, share that, build a social media platform whatever that is, and send out a solid fan campaign, when they should be working on something else. For those of us who have been on social media for years (I’ve been on Facebook since 2005, when it was only available to university/college students), we’ve seen a tidal shift from the massive impact of early adoption to the drowning of late adoption voices.

Can’t commit to once per day? A study out of Locowise concluded that Facebook Pages which posted once per week reached double the amount of their users, than Pages which posted 10 times or more per day. The numbers were still below 15% of followers, which can be attributed to posting time of day, or more probably, the lack of paying Facebook to Promote their posts. We’ll talk more about post promotions and paid adverts online in another article.

Posting Too Much Creates Apathy. Posting Too Little Creates Ignorance of Your Brand.

The thing is, I’ve seen many a solid company descend to the bowels of self-flagellating redundancy by posting dozens of time per day with hard sell pleas to buy, buy, add, share, their latest product or service. I’ve seen more businesses fall under a carpet of infrequent and neglectful posting and losing fans & customers with their silence. It could be that the silence on social media meant fantastic new things for the business, but when nobody knows about it, how do they gain? We’re not alone in thinking businesses can go too far. So how far should we go?

Facebook 1 - 10 / week Twitter 5 - 8 / day LinkedIN 5 / week Pinterest 1 - 10 / week Although most of social media costs nothing but time, that time is money. In any social media campaign, a balance has to be struck between effectiveness and efficiency. In today’s business world, every company or entity needs at least one form of social media outlet. Choosing which outlet is right for your business is coming up in another segment of our series.

Oh, and if you don’t have time to handle a social media campaign, might I suggest talking to the experts at Vraeyda Media about building you a campaign?

5

Poetry Review

by Liz Ratajczak Ratel small things left behind Ella Zeltserman University of Alberta Press; $19.95 small things left behind by Ella Zeltserman is a poetry collection to be kept sacred for generations to come.

Encapsulating a macabre moment in history, Zeltserman’s work makes the emotional connection we in North America invariably do not understand.

I met Ella in a suite of the Winnipeg Radisson in May of 2015. The Writer’s Union of Canada and League of Canadian Poets Conference and AGMs had concluded and the wealth of Canada’s literary community hovered between the ballroom, downtown Winnipeg or the room parties popping up. A friend had convinced me not to head back early and I’m glad he did. While holding my plastic cup of Niagara Falls Cab Merlot, I felt Ella’s diminutive fingers wrap around my hand.

“Poets are prophets” she said. Her grasp on the poetic traditions of her soviet heritage slid between the fingers of her modern, masterful free verse. Her poetry is stark, open and and plunged into the wild folds of a heart once ruled by fear. small things left behind follows her journey out of Iron Curtain Russia into the flatlands of Canada’s prairieland.

It is an immigrant’s terror of propaganda and release. It is hearty with the struggle of family preserved in pieces catalogued and redacted by KGB. “All of a sudden she runs to this big, tall Austrian guard blond hair, blue eyes, leather jacket and a submachine gun…

My heart freezes, I am unable to cry…

I see he smiles, picks her up and tosses her in the air.

She laughs, both of them laugh…

The submachine gun dangles, hits his

6

knees.

More laughter, more tosses.

Everybody - speechless as we watch a whole pack of lies tumbling down in big chunks of iron.”

Excerpts from August 5th 1979 pp.20-21 Zeltserman Our duty as writers is to bring clarity and humanity to the written word. Zeltserman’s conservation of vocabulary creates a tableau to be grappled with as a moment of quintessential human experience.

Growing up in the privilege of Canada’s freedom and bounty, I had no connection to the fear and despair of the Iron Curtain, of my immigrant grandparents who fled post-war Germany and the USSR. Zeltserman connects us to the frantic panic of pugilistic political bullies and the instability of the refugee praying for a country to call their new promised land. small things left behind strikes at security, at comfort, at peace of mind and comes to own them with the precious swaddling cloth of the redeemed. A thoughtful uncompromising work, Zeltserman’s poetry has a right to blossom in every deep thinking collection. It is a powerful work of poetry and a call to action in opening our arms to those families worldwide who have yet to discover a life abundant without fear.

Clear of purpose and imaginatively executed, small things left behind is a star of contemporary Canadian poetry.

Concert Review

by Liz Ratajczak Ratel Standing Wave: Ink on Silk Performance Date: October 18th Ink on Silk was the first concert of contemporary chamber music ensemble Standing Wave’s 20152016 Season. Standing Wave is a phenomenal ensemble. If you’re searching for a pristine cultured evening with brilliantly executed music, this is it. Their ability to steep into the sound and reveal the composer’s inner creative vision is profound. If a night of avant-garde contemporary chamber music is what you yearn for in Vancouver, you can fare no better than Standing Wave.

Dr. Vincent Ho began the evening with an explanation into the night’s repertoire. A sliding scale of West to East music, Ink on Silk inspected varying layers of context.

The first piece, Guilty Pleasures

by Jared Miller is young. Perhaps that is the best explanation of the work. Although melodious and well constructed, I searched for a pause in the constant barrage of sound. Given no time to breathe, I fell prey to the precocious pep of the busy-minded, chaotic tension of our current cultural state. A vigorous irish whiskey too young to sip alone, but a well placed opener to the concert.

Second of the evening was Lei Liang’s Aural Hypothesis. Despotic in approach and bound in the inspiration of calligraphy, it was a modern, eloquent unsettling body-shaking sound that to a hearty lover of the Baroque sounded of a black mess.

The use of contemporary sound and lines made the piece a brow furrowing

rebuke of traditional tonal and baroque sensibilities. It is Acme Dynamite for the polite music aficionado used to Handel, Mozart, Mahler and Chopin.

A Gin-heavy cocktail swarming with the Juniper-twinged jumper cables of refreshing new music.

Melodies of a Flute, by Bright Sheng was a charming, subtle musical story based on the poetry of Song Dynasty female poet Li Qing Zhao. As familiar with Li as I am, hearing Sheng’s take was refreshing and glorious. Hidden under layers of pleasant phrases and palatable, descriptive emotional journeys, Sheng’s music pleased me without the rush of the preceding pieces. Ending in a rushed and painful orgasm across the atmosphere of China’s Song Dynasty.

For the uninitiated a farcical, abrupt, beautiful act of startling boat races and egrets flying past. An unravelling.

A bouquet-forward clean-tasting and stimulating Viognier.

The fourth endeavour was an ode to the Tam Tam by Dr. Vincent Ho. I sat astonished at the amount of sounds the U of Calgary’s new Professor could produce with a single fluctuating piece of metal. He started with short sketches based on Chinese characters. Each sketch clearly indicated their inspiration, yet Love left a creeping, rushed dysphonia in my ribcage. His second sketch was based on the paintings of Peng Ma, and led us through a phantasmagoric fantasia travelling in strange, pleasant orbits.

The piece was technically brilliant, nuanced and masterfully performed. I felt the anticipation of losing oneself in the reverberant echo of the planetary spheres reminiscent of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and Holst’s Planets. A smokeheavy Meritage bursting on the finish with warm notes of blackberry and plum.

To finish off the night, Stephen Hartke’s Meanwhile was played. There’s an idealism of eastern sound in Hartke’s work I found lively without the chaos of earlier pieces. A fantastic, mystic and atoning longing draped in puncturing, new wave sound. A brisk espresso martini to finish off the night with gusto.

Poetry Review

by Liz Ratajczak Ratel My Ríastrad Kevin Hogan Antrim House Books: $16.00 My Ríastrad by Kevin Hogan humbled me. From the moment I received Kevin’s solicitation in my inbox (one of many), I held the hope in my hand that this was a poet who had gone a special, traditional route. I was right. Courtesy was his foretaste, and once I received the paper package carrying his poetry collection, I popped it open to reveal a crisp onesheet, handwritten thank you note and My Ríastrad preserved in crisp brown paper. I opened it, tossed the paper to my cat who marvelled at his new toy and I cracked open the spine.

My Ríastrad is a rare treat in a reviewer’s world. Far from the selfpublished, scantly edited eBook written by a first or second timer, My Ríastrad is an event. I felt the need to dress up for it, to make tea properly in my dainty teapot and put classical music on to guide me through the Irish American’s lines and dashes. I wasn’t wrong. A perfect book of poetry is a harder mistress than a perfect dinner with one’s in-laws. It is as preposterous and unforgiving. Each of the poems laid sweetly by Antrim House was a re-education in what a published work should be and contain. We have gotten lethargic and bloated in our new age of vanity press and eBook distribution and forgotten the event of the well crafted written word. My Ríastrad, by its simple and compelling existence

has ignited the pyre of excellence in my rarely impressed world. It is the sort of book I wish I had found and published before Antrim House got its hands on it, the manuscript of an editor’s dream. It connected me to the Ancestor I had who, though Scottish, fell in love with a woman of Irish-Catholic descent and ran from the family castle to Canada in its pioneering infancy to be legally and blissfully wed. I felt a rebuke and an uncomfortable ecstasy in the furrows and dips of Kevin’s poetry, a hazardous frequency tapped into only by those who need most to feel and be felt by the written word. Hogan is a triumphant poet peddling the ragged ends of his experiences by lining their aims with gold. His use of meter, the pulsing rhythms and strong-eyed pursuance of the modern man’s voice makes My Ríastrad a rare perfect score and a poetry collection to give to everyone, regardless of creed, colour, sexuality or religious deference. If you wonder what the future of the writer’s craft looks like, it is this: an excellence which cannot take place with a single person in front of their computer screen. My only hope after closing My Ríastrad’s final page is that I will publish such a collection deeply felt and wonderfully executed in my own editing future.

7

Poetry Review

by Kevin hogan Usurper Kings Sapha Burnell Vraeyda Literary; $17.97 Sapha Burnell’s first collection of poetry, Usurper Kings, is a splendid riot of expression.

From her amazingly visceral opening of Let There Be Light to her final haunting echo in the book’s Epilogue, Burnell’s voice jumps off the page, much like a microphone-wielding circus MC standing center ring. And though you might not catch all that’s going on at first read, you’re made deeply aware that Burnell’s motions and movements are all carefully aimed at studying what it means to be feminine, regardless of one’s gender.

And just as the original, or ancient, circus was a place to proudly display one’s physical prowess, Burnell puts on a creative tour du force for her readers through five acts and an Epilogue that combine to make a work of jaw-droppingly beautiful discovery.

In absolute control, yet with abundant playfulness, Burnell writes: Play on, the song, my sweet, my sweet In electric infamy play on!

Embroil the hip and the wave functions In a battle no stopwatch can measure…

—Excerpt from L’ Hymne Electrique Readers can expect plenty of surprises on this journey, including Burnell’s use of prose interspersed throughout the work for extra in-depth views into what anchors the collection overall. In a moment of near perfect summation at the close of Act IV, Burnell shares with her readers the meaning of Polyvoxamory, or the love of many voices.

Though by no means the only poems worth mentioning, Fortunately for this work, and hopefully many more to come, Images From an Online Chat Room, Mary Magdalene, and L’ Burnell’s passion for voices and the messages they carry rings Hymne Electrique are three examples of the timeless quality through crystal clear, regardless of the chaos from whence of the topics explored and the language chosen to complete those voices came. those explorations.

In conclusion, let it be said: “Hats… and crowns… off to Usurper Kings!”

A keen eye on your prose is the difference between a publication and a mistake(.)

Services starting at $0.04 a word vraeydamedia.ca/editing-services

8

Levinson’s Cat Phil Temples “The probable is what usually happens.” --Aristotle

“What is this contraption you’ve been laboring on, Myles?”

Tilton Armstrong, the Karl Eisel Distinguished Chair of Physics, posed the question to the department’s most junior faculty member, Myles Levinson, shortly after three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.

Levinson was focused intently on securing a mechanical arm to one side of a large plastic container. So focused, in fact, he failed to hear Dr. Armstrong’s arrival. Levinson quickly hid his embarrassment and came up with a cockamamie cover story: “Oh! Hi, professor. It’s a . . . it’s a physics party trick for this weekend. Several of my colleagues and I are entertaining the young ladies, and I was drafted to come up with a demonstration and . . . well, it has to do with gravity and . . . “ “I see. Very interesting.” Armstrong looked anything but interested but he seemed to believe Levinson’s story. At least, Levinson hoped so, because he had no idea what dribble he would have peddled next to the elderly gentleman.

“You know, Myles, instead of party tricks you might want to focus more time and attention on producing original scholarly work. You realize, don’t you, you have only so many years to prove yourself to the tenure committee. I would hate to see someone of your talent fall by the wayside.” He continued, “Already, Jacobs and Chen have published three and four papers, respectively. You have . . . how many, now?”

“Uh, one, sir.” Embarrassed, he added, “as ‘third author.’”

“Third author. Right. Good day, Dr. Levinson.” Armstrong shot him a distasteful look before turning and walking out of the room.

Levinson sighed.

The truth be told, Levinson had been in a rut now for almost six months. His original area of interest that earned him his doctorate, Multiple Symmetric Hyperbolic Systems and Nonlinear Solutions to Einstein Equations, seemed at first an ideal area in which to continue his scholarly work. But recently, some

of his original collaborators had moved on to other areas, leaving him feeling isolated and insignificant. Armstrong was right: if he didn’t get his act together and develop some promising new work, or at least, switch to a new field he would be thrown to the wolves.

The senior faculty comprising the department’s Promotion and Tenure Committee were known to be heartless bastards, having devoured several candidates in recent years.

It’s true, he thought. They eat their young!

The object of Levinson’s fascination had to do with a famous illustration of the principle in quantum theory of superposition.

Erwin Schrödinger proposed it back in 1935. The superposition theory went something like this: A cat is enclosed in a box with a radioactive source and a poison that will be released when the source unpredictably emits radiation. Now, the cat—according to quantum mechanics—is considered to be simultaneously both dead and alive until the box is opened and the cat observed.

No one actually believed that Schrödinger went to the trouble of constructing such a box with a test animal, a radioactive source, and poison. It was merely a thought exercise he concocted to explain superposition. But Levinson was fascinated with the idea.

Why not? It would be grand!

A part of Levinson knew he was simply procrastinating, pushing out of his mind the unpleasant reality of his current predicament.

It was merely a coping mechanism.

But it would be fun!

Levinson would become a contestant in the famous Ig Nobel Prizes of Improbable Research, held annually at Harvard University. He had nearly all of the components he needed. A month earlier, Levinson had obtained a radioactive isotope. Last week, an undergraduate student in the electrical engineering department constructed for him a logic circuit that would produce a signal upon detection of a certain number of beta particles. The signal, in turn, would trigger a firing pin, causing hydrochloric

9

acid to be mixed with a tiny amount of potassium cyanide--the latter, courtesy of the chemistry department.

All he needed now was a cat. * * * “But professor, you sure this is legal? I no want to get fired.”

It was no secret that a ferial cat had taken up residence by the dumpster behind the building. The evening janitor, Jesus Castillo, fed the cat regularly and thus had developed a rapport with the animal. It approached him without reservation.

Levinson assured Jesus he needed the cat for a simple experiment. He explained the university’s protocols made it very difficult for Levinson to acquire a feline through their animal research labs. And besides, he didn’t have time to go to an animal pound and adopt a cat.

Sure, Levinson admitted, they would be “bending the rules” a bit.

Jesus’ glance shifted between Levinson’s face and what he had in his hand: a considerable amount of money.

“The cat, he . . . he no get hurt?”

“He’ll be fine, Jesus. I swear.”

“Okay. I get you the cat.”

Jesus took the wad of twenty-dollar bills from Levinson and pocketed it. “Muchas gracias, Professor. Tonight, around six o’clock.” *

*

*

Jesus was true to his word. He delivered the stray feline to Levinson’s lab shortly after six p.m. After being reassured again by Levinson that no harm would befall the cat, Jesus departed to perform his evening cleaning duties.

Levinson looked at the box, and then he looked at the cat.

“Well, my furry friend, you and I are about to become famous.”

With gloved hands, Levinson reached into the small cage, pulled out the animal and placed it in his experimental box. He secured the lid, and then he started a timer. The cat protested vigorously at first, but stopped struggling once the lid was shut.

Levinson was tempted to go across the hallway and recruit one of the post-docs, Chen Wu, to come and bear witness to the groundbreaking experiment.

Surely he’s not an animal lover, thought Levinson. Don’t they eat dogs and cats in his native China?

No. It was best that Levinson be the sole witness. He didn’t want this getting back to Armstrong. Besides, in keeping with the spirit of the experiment, only a single observer should be involved. Otherwise, who knew what theoretical holes might be poked in the experimental design if two observers were present?

“Ha!” Levinson was chuckling to himself as he conjured up this odd thought.

The cat will be both alive and dead up until the moment I open the lid. But of course, when I open it, I’ll observe a dead cat. All of its nine lives will have been extinguished. Al fine.

Das ende. The end.

For a while nothing happened. The cat was moving around periodically, no doubt exploring its confined environment.

And Levinson could hear the Geiger counter emit a muffled,

10

but audible clicking sound as it periodically registered beta decay from the radiation source. Then, at T plus 3 minutes, 23 seconds, Levinson heard a louder click followed by a cracking noise.

Yes! The hydrochloric acid must be mixing with the potassium cyanide.

Levinson heard a low, muffled cry from the inside the box, followed by considerable banging and commotion. It was, no doubt, the animal thrashing about in its death throes. After approximately 30 seconds had elapsed, the movement stopped.

Careful!

One must not make any rash scientific conclusions. At this moment, thought Levinson, the cat might exist in both a live and dead state, per Schrödinger’s hypothesis. It was time for an observer to enter the equation.

Very carefully, Levinson cracked open the lid of the container. The first thing he noticed was a strong scent of almonds—a tale-tell sign of cyanide. The post-doc at the chemistry department assured him that, at that volume, the gas would not be lethal, and that it would dissipate rapidly in a non-enclosed space. Still, Levinson wasn’t about to take any deep breaths just yet.

As he further opened the lid, Levinson was in for a shock.

What the --!

The cat, very much alive, jumped at the slight opening. He clawed his way out of the container and jumped down on to the lab bench. For a brief moment, Levinson was convinced that he spied a dead cat lying inside the box! But then it was gone.

Have I become so entangled in this little charade that I’m losing my mind?

Levinson stood there, catching his breath. He glanced at the cat. The cat stared back at him calmly. Then, the cat shifted its glance and looked down onto the floor.

What’s he looking at? . . .

Levinson followed the cat’s gaze downward. At first, he couldn’t fathom what he was seeing. Next to him, Levinson saw a dead body lying face down on the floor!

The thing that initially caught Levinson’s attention was the color of the back of the neck and hands. They were a dark cherry-red. He was told that cyanide poisoning would do that.

It halted cellular respiration by inhibiting an enzyme in the mitochondria called cytochrome c oxidase.

As he was thinking these things, it slowly dawned on Levinson that the body looked awfully familiar. Levinson reached down and turned the corpse over.

It was he! It was Levinson’s doppelganger.

“Meow.”

The cat smiled.

MMC Warrior Edition coming June 2016 Vraeydamedia/ macromicrocosm

Myer, Myer, Pants on Fire Bits, Specks,Crumbs, Flecks

Untitled Digital Media 12

White Night in June Camille Goodison camillegoodison.tumblr.com Five of the women could easily have been models for one of those oversized Soviet Realist portraits you now occasionally see on ironic t-shirts worn around town. You know the type: coarse, amber-coloured hair, styled in a neat modish bob; apple cheeks; firm mouth; sharp eyes looking, gravely, to the beyond.

With a pale moon out and the night so deep, it was hard to see the exact contents of the food and drink being consumed so vigorously. Nothing but rapidly-moving fingers, hands and mouths, and fully lit lunar faces despite the dark. The ladies, mothers and grandmothers all, passed pieces of this and that, back and forth, working their hands to their furious mouths. They chatted fantastically on and on in their still-fluid Ruskie. Amazingly, each woman knew when it was her turn to play Greek chorus, or pick up and run relay on a tale, or start the story cycle anew. It was at this point, somewhere past midnight, and past the mid-way point of their meal that one of them remembered this story: “As a young woman living in Moscow, I worked at a Why not? I’m very curious, right? The next day, after work restaurant near the U.S. embassy. One Monday after noon, an I put on my new boots and walk to the train station. I get off at American marine came in. Some stares, he was a black fellow, the last stop like he suggested. I see the dock in the distance and but nothing too serious, you know. He walked up to the counter, the factory next to it. sat down, and waited for me to take his order.”

‘Hello,’ said the watchman just before I got to the factory “Is that restaurant still there, Olesia?” asked the gates. I told him about the marine who sent me. younger of the black-haired sisters, rubbing her nose before ‘I see,’ said the watchman. ‘And do you have the slowly applying what appeared to be the last coat of jam to a fat password?’ He was like a housewife fiddling with the radio dial. heel of bread snug in her palm.

Curious in his own way, yeah, but not too worried. ‘I don’t,’ “I couldn’t say for sure where now. You see me here like was my reply. ‘What does it start with? What letter?’ you sitting on this bench in Brooklyn.”

‘I can’t tell you that now can I?’ he said.

“We just wanted to know how long ago,” said another of ‘Just the first letter,’ I insisted. the women.

‘Hmm…all right. The letter P.’ “A few years before I came here.”

‘How many letters in the word?’ I said.

“Twenty years ago?”

‘I’ve told you enough. People. You give an inch…’

“About, yes. So he ordered this way,” continued Olesia, ‘Just one more clue.’ “‘Cabbage soup, cabbage soup. Every day, cabbage soup’.

‘I may as well give you the answer.’

‘Well, there’re other things too,’ I said. ‘Care to try my ‘Okay, what’s it about?’ mother’s bean pie? It’s from her circus days.’

‘I can’t tell you.’

He said, ‘I’ll stick with the soup.’ So I brought out his ‘Well, then it’s Pi,’ I said and imagine my surprise when soup. He takes a sip then says, ‘Pajahlsta.’ he stepped aside and let me in.

‘You mean spaciba,’ I said. I figure, for a foreigner, you ‘Was that it, really?’ I asked him. know, it’s not too difficult confusing please and thank you.

I wanted to know, and he nodded before continuing his ‘Nyet,’ he said, and for a second time, ‘Pajahlsta.’ pacing and then said over his shoulder, ‘Maybe you could tell me Please..I leaned in. what they’re doing back there, eh.’”

‘It’s time for me to go back,’ he said.

“So,” said the older of the black-haired sisters, “you ‘Where to?’ I asked, but he being an American I figured just guessed?” he meant the States.

“It’s what came to mind. As a young woman my mother ‘I met my father, we had our meeting, and I see no more was part of this group, Pi, and she talked about them all reason to hang around,’ he explained. the time. She told the most fantastic stories of traveling ‘All right, so what do want from me?’ I asked him. and performing for audiences all over the world, which was ‘Take the train to K_____. Go to the factory at the end remarkable in itself. It even sounded like for a time she worked of the dock. Speak to the watchman and he’ll tell you the rest,’ as a spy... so, the letter P? What else could I have said?” he said.

“I see,” replied the older sister.

13

“Well, inside was just a regular looking factory, yeah, only empty. I walked towards an off-section, maybe the lunchroom, with a long metal bench and chairs. But it was too dark for me to go any further without a flashlight and I said I’d come back. I did hear sounds like there were foreigners there. Lively. A bold voice similar to the marine’s saying, ‘That’s right!’ But in all, what? I couldn’t know.

At work the next day one of the waitresses asked me, did you lose weight, and another, my best friend then, wanted to know if I was seeing my son’s father again.

‘He’s a louse Olesia,’ she said, ‘Such a charming romantic he can be, and a louse all the same.’ Her final warning to me?: ‘You yourself said it.’

It’s true I’d come to work excited, smiling at everyone, and I kept checking my feet to make sure my new boots were holding up. But other than my plans for that night, nothing much had changed. I was still divorced, living with my mother and son, and working at the restaurant.

Well, when my shift ended, I quickly took off my uniform, washed up and put on a favorite old skirt I found at the back of my closet that morning. Before that, there was no reason to wear it. I remembered my leather jacket, too, the one with all the pockets. Some rogue uncle of mine had smuggled it in from Italy. Probably in jail somewhere, bless him. You should have seen the looks I got from the other girls when I headed out after work. It was pretty brazen then for a restaurant girl to go stomping about town in fine Italian style.

So same routine as the night before except this time the watchman didn’t stop me and gently smiled when I said ‘I’m back.’ I walked down the long corridor towards the sounds from the eastern side of the building. I kept going until I reached the back – this time I had my flashlight, and a stick I’d picked up from outside. You know, just in case. Well, the back door was open and apart from that, where the noise was coming from, there it was, right there, a tent of people drinking and talking. I stood there taking this in when the old fellow at the head of the table — red jacket and black jodhpurs — turned around and said: ‘Don’t be shy. Come on in. Meet my friends. Stan, say hello to the lady. Someone get her something to eat.’

He introduced me to the tattooed fellow with rings in his nose, ears, lips… and pins. Oh boy. You wouldn’t have known what to think either ‘til he smiled and showed his gap teeth.

There was a gentleman dwarf – crisp business suit, and the eyes of a killer. Also a Czech piccoloist holding a toupee. I remembered, too, a glamorous femme fatale attending to her little girl. So pretty, she. Black eyes and tiny heart-shaped lips.

‘I know why you’re here,’ the older fellow said. And the resemblance was plain on his face.

‘Well, why am I?’ I asked. He smiled at me before looking away.

‘The boy’s forcing me to make square,’ he said. He continued, his back to me, and facing his friends, ‘These days they’ve got it so there’s no place a man can run and hide.’

I asked about the crew and why here, near the end of the world.

‘It’s as good a place as any,for a man to pitch a tent and have good times with old friends,’ he said. ‘This is it. Just wrapped up our last tour, and now may be the right time to say goodbye.

‘There’s nowhere else to go?’ I asked him.

‘Three generations,’ he replied, ‘My dad and grandpa were circus folk too. One a flamethrower, the other a hypeman. And they never settled any one place as far as I know.’

14

Later when everyone was singing along to the piccolo player’s last jingle, and I finished up the last of my beans, the old man took three gold coins out of his pocket, fiddled with them a while before handing me the shiniest.

‘Take that one, and give it to my son,’ he said. ‘He knows all about me but knows better than to get too close.’

Then he asked me about myself, ‘What about your mother?

Still around?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Well, all right,’ he said, ‘she can have this one.’

By now the moon’s fading, and the sun’s playing coy, so I left there with the coins, eager to find the American fellow.

I figure it must have been important. Maybe they meant more in America. The coins felt heavy in my pocket. Could be a big inheritance. In any case, I was on my quest.

I took the train back and decided to go to the restaurant earlier than usual. I didn’t want to miss the marine. I did that all week but he never showed. Well, after a while, I took my chances and walked straight to the American embassy. Four marines stood outside smoking and laughing with a Russian woman who towered over them in clunky high heels.

‘Could you help me find this fellow,’ I said, and I described him in full. ‘Lean with sharp shoulders. A freckled face, and very smartly put together.’

It was a fair day, I remember, after a morning of heavy winds and rain. The streets were peaceful in a way I miss still.

Once in a while there could be an afternoon like that.

‘So,’ the Russian woman said, ‘They don’t know what you’re talking about lady, go away.’

‘But you didn’t even ask them,’ I said. Right then she says something to them, and she ends it with a suspicious ‘yeh.’ The marine who never took his eyes off of me spoke up before anyone else.

‘Ask inside,’ he said. As I went past the gates, I could hear them laughing.

‘Wha’didja tell her that for?’ one of the men said before laughing again.

‘No, this is not good,’ said the woman in heels. ‘Not good.’

But I kept walking towards the building and whenever some official or soldier came towards me shouting, I’d say, ‘Pi!’ Like that, and they’d stop or say, ‘All right lady get on with it.’ I found myself in an office with a ruddy bald fellow, stocky and wearing a golf cap.

‘Can I help you?’ he said. I showed him the coins and explained myself.

‘Ah, I see. I see,’ that’s all he said. ‘Right. Yes, I see.’

‘Marge,’ he called out to a woman in the lobby, with his big, rolling accent. ‘This woman knows things, all right. Take care of her.’

Eventually they gave me a visa…”

“Olesia!” the women cried out.

“I know. At the time, to tell you the truth, it didn’t even register… The bald fellow came around once more to hold my hand and say, ‘Now there’s no reason to fear. You can leave at anytime. Good luck.’ I wasn’t sure if they expected me to say thank you, so I just made a little bow, like this, and walked away.

‘I went back home tired, and still thinking, well, what to do next. I was too wound up for a nap. I said, ‘Look, Ma. This gentleman gave me two coins. This one’s for you.’

And I told her the whole story.

‘Yeah, these coins are special,’ she said. ‘And, Pi, eh? So you remembered.’

‘Of course,’ I told her, ‘I couldn’t think of anything else.

And with all those tales you used to tell, well...’

Mother took the coin and then asked me, ‘So what did

the fellow look like? Strong? Handsome?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Too bad I can’t find his son.’

‘His father is a fugitive, you know. His son can’t be seen with him.’

‘Fugitive? How do you figure that,’ I asked her.

‘Well, he is,’ she said. ‘That’s why he’s here in Russia, and that’s how I met him. We traveled all over which was unusual for a mixed group like ours back then. It helped that he was close with American theater folk like Paul Robeson, and all these other somebodies from America who’d come to look for him from time to time. Angela Davis, others like her.

It got crazy in the seventies, but I’d left him by then. As far as the party men were concerned, he was all right.’

‘What do you mean, Ma?’ I asked.

‘The generals made sure to protect his profile,’ she said.

‘He’s safe here, but, and I guess our son has figured this out, maybe not for much longer.’ My mother got quiet for a second.

I said, ‘This American, the young fellow, the marine, what do you know about him?’

‘It was his decision to send our son away,’ she said, ‘and the life his father and I were both living then, I supposed it was for the best.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘And all this time when you knew he might still be here you said nothing?’

‘It was all in the past, so why drag it up?’

‘You were hippies, right?’ I asked her.

‘We were a bit wild.’

‘So why didn’t the fellow tell me he was my brother?’

‘He can’t get involved in this,’ she said. ‘He found out all he needed to know. You may never see him again.’”

“Your mom told you all of this?” asked Sveta, Olesia’s neighbor. She held on to the remaining half a bottle of wine.

There was no more food.

“Yes. I got more curious about this former life of hers, but she didn’t want to say too much about the secret side of Pi. Things were changing with Glasnost and all that, but we weren’t sure when they’d shut things down again. You could never really be sure just how much you could say. She saw no advantage in revisiting that.

‘It was quite a life,’ Mother said. ‘You meet everyone, all sorts.’

And that was it. No more. Well, for us, the next few years things didn’t get much better. My son got sick for one, and then the restaurant temporarily closed. That’s when my mother suggested that I leave for America. ‘Maybe you’ll find your brother,’ she said.

‘You really think so?’ I asked her.

‘Well, truthfully, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope,’ she said. ‘He may be curious, but I’m not sure how much he really wants to know you. Or me.’”

“What did she mean?” asked Sveta.

“Who knows? Maybe the stodgy aunts who raised him didn’t teach him patience for irregulars and showy hippy spies.”

“You’re being cheeky?”

“Some. In any case, our first couple of years after arriving, mother would try to keep up with us. Sending us letters whenever she could, but I have to be honest, I wasn’t much of a daughter and lost touch. She knows how it is, moving to another country. In any case, finally, this past Christmas I got the chance to hear what’s been going on.

Well, she decided to go by the dock, all by herself, and wasn’t surprised to see her old love still there, and playing Chinese checkers with some old friends: ‘Something told me you’d eventually find me,’ he said.

‘Better before it’s too late, and it’s good to see you.’

‘I’m not here for that though,’ my mother said.

‘What is it then?’”

“Was she angry at him, Olesia?” asked one of the women.

“No, not my mother. I think secretly she was kinda happy to see him there: ‘I’d like a shot at the last coin,’ she told him. ‘For my daughter.’

‘Don’t you think I deserve to keep the last one?’ he asked her.

‘No, she said. ‘We worked for it together.’

‘I risked more,’ he said, ‘and besides the leaders gave the coins to me.’

‘Maybe because you were American.’

‘I wasn’t just a prize. I believed. And I worked.’

‘I did too in my own way so you owe me,’ she said.

‘All right. What do you want to do for it?’

‘I could still do that,’ she said pointing.

‘Walk a tight rope?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Without a net?’

‘Of course.’

She must have done it all right, ‘cause she said she was sending the coin to me, marked special delivery, care of a most unusual charmer. This one you can spend on whatever you’d like, she said, ‘cause it’s yours.

They made their peace. The last I heard, they turned our apartment into some rabble-rousing speakeasy where their friends from all over come and visit, eat, drink, and quarrel about everything under the sun.”

Even at two in the morning, Ocean Parkway could be busy, and only here, on this strip in Brooklyn would you find people like this. The chess players, along with the late-night joggers, and mute people-watchers had gone home, but there were still some young lovers hanging around, and some lonely old men, and even lonelier women, a few with their sleeping children.

“Hmm, Olesia,” said Yulia, a petite woman, and the youngest of the group, “So, how much are the coins?”

“Quite a lot from what I understand. One of a kind.”

“No…” “Yes. They date back to the ‘20s. Stolen bounty, most likely gifts to Stalin’s men.”

“Strange.”

“Yet not as strange as my mother. Who knew.”

“Yeah, but we’re mothers too. Our children would never guess at our many lives.”

“True,” said Yulia, “They have no idea how we stay alive. And look what happens once they come to America – they dump you like garbage!”

“Everyone?” said Olesia.

“Once our children are off and eager to earn some bread, they have no time for us.”

“Well,” said Olesia, “the best you can do is feed their hunger.”

“Do you ever wonder where your brother is?” asked Yulia.

“All the time.”

“Well, if he’s anything like your mother and his father, I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Yulia.

“Right,” Olesia said, laughing.

“No shame in that game,” Yulia continued, “Right, girls?

Life is for living.” She happily hummed an old pop tune, “Keep young and beautiful, it’s your duty to be beautiful. Keep young and beautiful, if you want to be loved…”

“Catchy,” said Olesia with a smile. The women cleared the table, and put their bags and bottles away. Before parting, they gave each other a kiss saying, “Same time next week?”

15

Interview With

Dr. Camille Goodison camillegoodison.tumblr.com

16

17

Describe a moment in your life which moulded your artistic experience.

Wow, that’s a tough one. I have two sisters who are also professors, of English and Journalism.

Within my family, on my dad’s side, are some notable artists and writers. The most well known is probably my aunt, Lorna. On my mom’s side are some of the best storytellers you could meet— warm and humorous. I never consciously thought I would write for a living. I do remember growing up in a storytelling culture with an active, vibrant oral tradition. Thanks to my schoolteacher dad, my sisters and I didn’t spend much time watching television. There was no shortage of books. We lived in a world of ideas where one-on-one contact, people were important. It was, in retrospect, a very enriching environment. Our imaginations and creativity were given space to develop.

What inspired you to come into your profession?

I mentioned my dad being a teacher. He’s a big influence on my life. He’s provided a great example through his words and deeds on how to live a meaningful life filled with joy. He made very deliberate choices as a younger man to live his life in a particular way. It’s not the world’s way and it must have taken a great deal of courage. But I see him now in retirement and he looks happy. We share a birthday, he and I. As with my writing, I can’t say what inspired me to follow my profession.

Somehow I made my way here and it is feeling like home.

Tell me about your professional experiences. What do you teach & where?

I teach at the City University of New York. CUNY, as it is known, includes about two dozen schools and colleges. It is the largest urban university in the United States, and I would say, in terms of its student body, also one of the most diverse. One of the nice things about teaching at CUNY, particularly at my campus near downtown Brooklyn, is the variety of people you meet, from every corner of the world. I mostly teach first year writing, and intro to literature.

Why is academic learning important to artistic development?

For me, academic learning helped me satisfy my curiosity on a variety of subjects. Almost everything I’ve ever written started with the question, “why?” It’s no longer surprising to me that so many artists have a spiritual aspect to them. My academic career has allowed me to learn a great deal about languages and culture, science and art. I feel that background goes hand-in-hand with the less-knowable things of the world, like matters of the heart.

Please describe your process.

Because I write fiction and essay I wouldn’t say I have one process. For fiction, I usually need a single spark. That could be a word or an object, often a single image. I then try to find out the story behind that image or object. It is important that I engage my imagination in some way, which feeds off the other disparate images I take in on a day-to-day basis. For nonfiction, the process is more linear. I simply start at the beginning.

18

Where do you grab the most inspiration for your work?

Most of my inspiration probably comes from my earliest years listening to Anansi stories. It seems a simple thing but hearing, and then telling those stories taught me everything I know. Music inspires me also, in the same way and for the same reason. It’s a “language” I hear that allows me to make sense of the world I live in, and with humor; it can be transformative, as well as transcendent. I’ve also been inspired by classic film and modern art. As a creative writer I can be very visual (or aural). It is often how I enter a work.

What inspired your current project: Chance Wanderer and Other Tales of Hunger?

The main inspiration for my collection was my interest in folktales and in the oral tradition. I wanted to see if I could spin my own version of contemporary folktales, or prose that is written as if it were told. I guess I was aiming for a feeling of intimacy with my readers.

Who is your intended audience and why should they follow your work?

I hope my work will reach all the people who believe there is good in the world, that none of us is ever really alone, and that our most precious gift to each other is our presence.

Any words of advice for artists struggling with inspiration?

Look around you. I’ve written stories that started off as two random objects and wanting to find the connection between them.

What is your current favourite work of art/music/sculpture/ literature?

Another tough question! I’m not sure I could name a favourite. In terms of literature I seem to prefer the funny (that is, funny ha ha) and the weird, work that forces you out of any preconceived notions, and other places of comfort. I like George Saunders. Any work of art that doesn’t pretend to have all the answers, or that is aesthetically appealing— whether on the page or on a wall—gets my vote. I’m all for beauty, and recognizing it is ephemeral, and so all the more precious and worthy of your careful attention.

Catch Dr Goodison’s book Chancewanderer on its release in 2016.

19

I could fit this grieve on a nine year old. An eight year old boy. How tiny were they? How fragile were their bones? Would we be Goliath to them?

Sapha Burnell

20

An October State of Mind Richard King Perkins II It is not important but Mind discerns the earthy hooves of Apocalypse stampeding near like the immolation of iron leaves smells the stench of equine breath lurid on its twisted spine as pond scum loam spills forth.

On warhorses of tableau force ride a voiceless mythic quarce carrying a vile portmanteau Spirit Heart Aura Ego brandishing fine nets and magic fists of pharmacon— arrived to take a piece of Mind home on the monarch wing of windswept depths where it flutters drunkenly against pasty green walls beside three hitlers one ghengis khan and five other sons of god.

21

Tree of Life Sapha Burnell Digital Media 22

top 10 creative bag essentials Liz and Marissa @Vraeyda

A wallet & keys stuffed in our pockets might be great for a hop to the store, or that night at the bar, but for the creative professional having a few key things on hand at all times not only gives us the air of professionalism when the opportunity arises, but it acts as a benchmark against potential embarrassment.

“I’m an artist. No I don’t have a card, but you can find me online” makes an artist/writer/musician look like a college dropout with no prospects. Even worse is shelling out a smartphone and asking the person (who may be running out of time, disinterested or on the fence) to wait while you search for wifi, or wait for your graphics-heavy website to load on a 2 by 4 inch screen. A small bag/purse/murse (don’t call the fashion Police if you’re using a murse. Just don’t do it.) or wallet with cards can salvage you in all situations: 1. Journal: Lines or no lines, small, leather bound, spiral, saddle stitched, options aside the key is to have a place for sudden-onset ideas, and for writing down peoples’ names & attributes to remember later on.

2. Pens/Pencils: Can’t write without them, right?

3. Cell Phone: Camera, texting device, impromptu computer, note taker, contact list and phone in one, a good smartphone can salvage nearly any faux pas. I once had a proud papa fling out his phone to play his daughter’s spoken word portfolio for me while he was installing new countertops in my and my partner’s kitchen. His dedication to his daughter worked. She’s amazing!

4. Book/eReader: Always expand your mind. Hit up articles, books, poetry, magazines, anything that gets your grey matter a bit of love. Never leave home without something to read.

5. Hair Ties/Comb: We’ve had tons of daily errand runs turn into potential business. When a potential client wants to meet, or a fun day at the beach turns into ‘give me ten minutes’, taking the 90 seconds to address your hair can save your face, and the face of the people you’re meeting. Ladies, lipstick, a mini mascara & an eyebrow pencil are the minimalist makeup artist’s best friends.

6. Breath Mints: Fresh breath is awesome. So is chewing gum right before a meeting if you’re nervous. Just remember not to chew during your meeting. Breath mints are better.

7. Business Cards: Your best friends as a creative professional, you must have quality, colour cards. If you’re not graphically oriented, it’s worth going on a site like Moo or Vistaprint, or getting a local graphic designer to make you up a double-sided, full colour, thick stock business card that explains who you are, what you do, your contact info, a picture of your work/latest book cover and your main online presence. In a pinch you can print some yourself, but it’s worth the $50-$150 to get proper cards designed, printed, and in stock. Business cards are an embarkation point for professional relationship building, the golden ticket to portraying yourself with poise. Always carry a bunch, as you can run out like lightning in the right crowd.

8. Portfolio Cards: Especially if you’re a visual artist, having postcard sized portfolio cards are an absolute essential.

Larger than business cards, and more about your creative esthetic/author personality, portfolio cards have your latest and greatest, or proudest creative moments layered on the full colour front, and a review blurb with contact info on the back. This is your sales pitch. It’s what you give when you want someone to look at your full online portfolio.

Making a potential contact wait as you whip out your smartphone and call up the mobile-enabled site always takes longer than you’d think, looks less polished than it should, and can get uncomfortable. Have a QR code or web address to transfer them to once they have the card in their hands.

9. Snack Bar: Hunger can create a wendigo in anyone on planet earth. Take care of your nutrition with a healthy, all-in-one snack bar for those busy days. Not hungry? End of your day? See that homeless guy at the stop light with a ‘hard times’ sign? Yeah, paying it forward with a snack is better than giving him a couple of loonies or a downward glance.

10. Credit Card/Cash: The words ‘starving artist’ get bandied around in the creative professional’s world, but having an emergency fund on your person is the last on our list of must-haves. Whether it’s $15 tucked into the back of your smartphone case, a blank cheque folded in your wallet or a credit card with 0’s behind the ‘available funds’ number, keeping some moolah set aside is essential. You just never know when a casual meeting with a fellow professional may turn into a business dinner. Those informal, spontaneous meets can be life changing for the creative professional on the go.

23

18

Volume 1 Issue 1 June 2016 US $4.99 CAN $5.99