ISSUE 121 | JANUARY 2024 LA TORCHA: KRYSTI JOMÉI EL TIBURÓN: JONNY DESTEFANO CHIK TORMENTA: JULIANNA BECKERT MISTICO: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI AMAPOLA: CRISTIN COLVIN NEUTRÓN: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH LA DIABÓLICA: MEGAN ARENSON FRONT COVER: RAY YOUNG CHU, DINO CUT DIAMOND CUT BACK COVER: KRISTIE STOTT, BIRDY COLLAGE SUPER HURACANRANAS: RAY YOUNG CHU, HYEIN LEE, DAVE DANZARA, NICK FLOOK, GRAY WINSLER, ZAC DUNN, MOON_PATROL, BRIAN POLK, HANA ZITTEL, ERIC JOYNER, PETER KORNOWSKI, JOEL TAGERT, JESS BERNSTEIN, TOM MURPHY, ROB GINSBERG, NATE BALDING, ARNA MILLER, JASON WHITE FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE QUEBRADORAS: HANA DUNN, NOKHOOG, CHARLOTTE, JESS WEBB, LEAH CLANCY, SHIZUKO “SUZIE” MURPHY, ELIZABETH MURPHY, DIMITRIS KOLYRIS, KRISTIE STOTT ROPA DOPAS: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: MEOW WOLF, DENVER ART MUSEUM, MONKEY BARREL, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, ROOTS RX, ASTRO TOURS, SEXY PIZZA, BENNY BLANCO'S, FRONTIÈRE NATURAL MEATS, TOXOPLASMA ARTS BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + SINGLE & BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT US: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US/#ADVERTISE BIRDY IS DENVER'S FEATHERWEIGHT, FROG SPLASHING MONTHLY ©2024 BIRDY MAGAZINE, REVENGE OF MONTEZUMA 1 HYEIN LEE, LUCHADOR MASKS
DAVE DANZARA - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
JANUARY 26, 6–10 PM PERFORMANCES MUSIC ARTMAKING & MORE With Featured Artists QUÁNA MADISON Visual artist, mindfulness teacher, healing arts workshop facilitator, self-leadership coach, model, and artist-philanthropist. WES WATKINS Performing artist, musician, and “cosmos crusader.” LEARN MORE AT DENVERARTMUSEUM.ORG/UNTITLED
NICK FLOOK, I'LL BE IN THE LOBBY - @FLOOKO
BY GRAY WINSLER Some days I wish they had killed me, rather than banish me to this desolate, snake infested rock. But the cowards don’t have the courage to commit such an act. They’d rather me languish here for an eternity than make a martyr out of me. They will have spread lies amongst the people, told them that after decades of service I yearned for a life of peaceful retirement. Nothing could be further from the truth, but people so rarely question the comforting lies fed to them. And so I must find my way off of this planet and reclaim what is mine. This morning I set off for the southern cliffs. My hope is to find the remains of some wreckage that may furnish the means of my escape. What I found instead was a fox-like creature muzzle-deep in the carcass of an antelope. I called to her, and in an instant she snapped her head toward me. Her eyes were sharp, cunning. She surveyed me the way I may survey a battlefield, in search of my strengths and weaknesses. She seemed a veteran of this planet, light scars marking her nose, and it occurred to me she may make a useful companion in my quest for escape. I spent the following days studying her. She is a ruthless hunter, a beast after my own heart. From the cliffs I glassed her movements as she hunted down her prey. She is quiet and swift, but what I admired most was her patience. She lay for hours, sometimes days, with her nose fixed on the scent of a gazelle, betraying not so much as a twitch as she waited for her moment. And when the moment came, she allowed her prey a mere instant of recognition before dealing the killing blow. These creatures shouldn’t even be here. It was one of man’s greatest disappointments, to venture out into the cosmos and find it, against all odds, void of life. As a species, we are always lonely, and always in search of ways to make ourselves feel less alone. And so we sent life out into the universe, the way one may cast a beam of light into an empty abyss. I suppose I should consider myself lucky, else I’d be truly alone on this world. She kept me at a distance for a time. It took months of careful study and gradual endearments to earn her trust. I would bring her food from the cache left for me, scraps of bacon and steak, entreating her to come closer. Eventually, she came to trust me enough to eat the scraps straight from my palm. I remember that first time, the way her whiskers tickled my hand. It made me chuckle, something I’m not sure I’ve done since I was a kid. She has been my sole companion in this world since that day. Together we have explored what little this planet has to offer. We have trekked up to its highest cliffs, ventured down into its deepest ravines — and we have found nothing. Not so much as a scrap. It seems I am condemned to this place. And yet, I cannot say that prospect weighs on me as it did when I first arrived. I will not give up my search, but I will also continue to savor the joy of the hunt with Freya. Together, we have tracked down antelope side by side, and in the evenings sat by the firelight together enjoying the rewards of our hunt. It is a primitive life, one I never thought I’d live, yet alone find fulfillment in. But it has given me a peace I have never known. In my life before exile there were few moments of rest. I thrived on the inertia, the endless complications on the road to power. But I confess I have come to enjoy merely sitting on a couch, watching the moons rise with Freya. She loves a good scratch behind the ears, and it gives me no small amount of joy to scratch them for her. Before, I would have dismissed such pleasures as little more than distractions for the feckless masses. But I suppose it is one of the great artifacts of mankind, that we can always recalibrate our expectations and, in our best moments, find joy in the little things. And despite all this time together, she still finds ways to surprise me. There was a time I fell ill, taken by some brutal parasite born from god knows what crevice. I spent days able to do little more than lie as a corpse, trembling at the slightest breeze. I expected Freya to take leave of me, to see the state I was in and, confident in my demise, venture out on her own again. But for days she kept to my side, her warmth the solitary comfort I felt. Even as I wretched and moaned she showed no desire to leave. I have never been loved in this way, so … unconditionally. I can’t say there is a man is this world I would place as much trust in as her. I once heard an ancient general reflect that he always admits when he is wrong, it is simply that he never is. I find these to be the words of a dolt. The true tactician never ceases to find their mistakes and to root them out with fervor. I have no one to blame for my exile but myself. I betrayed my master, I bit the hand that feeds. And once you bite the hand, you have mere moments to devour the whole before the hand slips from your jaws and smacks you back into place. I was impatient and slow, and I have learned from Freya these are not the traits of a huntress. Still, this was not my gravest mistake. Freya and I went on an expedition this evening — through one of the few remaining canyons we’d yet to search. She kept to my side as we wound through the smooth, reddened cliffs. But suddenly, she picked up a scent and in an instant started off after it. I shouted after her, but there can be nothing to stop a predator once it’s caught the scent of its prey. I gave chase, ducking into a small cave carved out from the rock. When I found her, she was snarling at a snake of crimson red scales. Its head reared back, and from it came a menacing hiss that prickled the hairs on my neck. I called to her, I begged her to come. But she could not hear. She was in another world, fixed on her prey. I edged closer, hoping I might be able to bash the vile serpent myself. I was slow, delicate, careful not to break the brittle tension that hung between the two. But I was too slow. Freya snarled, and the serpent lunged at her, burying its fangs in her leg as she yelped. Heedless now I leapt forward and ripped the thing off her, slamming its head violently against the now blood-smeared rocks of the cave until it writhed no more. When I turned back to Freya she was already stiff, on her side, breath shallow. I cradled her into my arms and sprinted back to our shelter. “Stay with me girl,” I whispered. “You are strong. You are the greatest huntress I have ever known.” In all the battles I have fought, all the people I have lost, I have never known a fear like I did in this moment. By the time we made it back, she was already gone. I held her close to my chest and walked to our couch, so that we may watch one last moonrise together. And as the moons rose, I scratched her ears one last time, and whispered, “Goodnight, my huntress.” 5
BY ZAC DUNN The velocity that we move through time and space on a skateboard is seldom a silent act. This would by all accounts be a direct relationship between surface texture and the durometer selection of any wheel in contact with the plane of projection forward. As one approaches any given day, we as riders of wheels choose to take said wheels into the street. Be it to propel ourselves from point A to B, or to choose a more profound and stylistic path. No matter the context, it’s imperative to note that the choices we make can have a very direct impact on the experience and outcome of any outing. This is in large part due to the other living creatures that we interact with as we skate through the world. At this time we must telescope inward to our CANINE friends who share our world. In my 30 plus years of skateboarding in many iterations, I have had many experiences with dogs. Most of them could be labeled as traumatic. I was first attacked skating up NORTH WINOOSKI street in the old NORTH END of BURLINGTON, VERMONT. This was completely MY FAULT. I was riding an era correct deck with hard ass SPITFIRE, LONGHORN 99a wheels, that growled on the rough gradient of pavement. I was also wearing a certain outfit consisting of a BOB MARLEY tied shirt, cut off jeans shorts, and nasty chicken wing/ blood/wing sauce, food essence as though they were foul tea bags that were on my feet. The full-grown PIT BULL barked quite loudly so as to announce himself, prior to lunging and breaking the retractable leash that he was tethered to. The dog was roughly 50 feet from me as I passed when he broke and charged at me. I saw him coming and took several solid kicks. The dog No. 121 was very fast, but I was determined to not let him get me. I kicked him out and cussed as I gained the space to step off and the owner to get him under control. The dog was acting out of instinct. The dog either saw me as a threat to his dude, or the sound simply made him really upset, potentially hurting its ears. The dog didn’t wake up dreaming of seeing me and charging at me in the street, no more than I woke up expecting him to. But we both live in a neighborhood together and have to coexist. I never saw that dog again, but I never forgot him. I always wanted to prevent that from happening again. The second time was midday, skating down COLFAX and WASHINGTON in front of ARGONAUT LIQUORS. My amigo and I were just out and about passing by the LQ and a lady had parked her large 80s JEEP GRAND CHEROKEE with five dogs in the back seat with ALL THE WINDOWS OPEN, and NO ONE watching over them. I skate by and all the dogs pile out of the CHEROKEE. It’s almost comical until one who seems rather MAD charges me and starts to bite the tail of my skateboard. This is as we are rolling away rather fast. Then he shifts his chopping to my ACHILLES ... Which is mad painful!!! I just off, kick the shit out of the dog to get him to stop biting me and run back to the JEEP. By this time the security guard and owner of the dogs come out of the LQ. The lady is pushing a huge cart of booze. She is crying as though she was attached to this guy and I’m trying to sort out what to do about my leg. The lady was some kind of manic narcissist because rather than say SORRY, she immediately turned the security guard loose on me and my friend. Threatening us. Telling us to leave the property. So I calmly look across COLFAX and start yelling at two COPS
parked next to KITTY’S ADULT BOOKS. They chirped the siren and pulled right up on the curb almost instantly. The two men who got out really were cool to me and my boy. They cussed out the security guard and the lady pretty hard and offered to take me to hospital. I didn’t wanna go and I didn’t. People told me I should SUE her and all that. I realized I was not raised to be a man who SUES people like this. If I had gotten sick, that would be another matter. But I forgave her just as other random people I have crossed paths with in her shoes have forgiven me. This is the way for me. When I was summoned to court, the two COPS showed up too. I saw them in the elevator and sort of recognized them. I cracked a joke in the elevator about them looking like two guys who were security guards at the TIVOLI downtown ... They were salty for a second! But we had a laugh when we were all in the DA office and they told him what nice guys me and my buddy were. They really said nice stuff in court too. It meant a lot to me and I was pulled over by one of them while I was arguing with my boy years later. He smelled booze on me and he somehow recognized me and gave me a stern GOOD TO SEE YOU, GO PARK THE WHIP. I’m still thankful to those two guys helping a skater instead of just harassing us. The common factor in these two tales of wheels and dogs is the negative consequence of two things interacting. In order to really enjoy our CANINE friends and skate in the same space we share, it’s time to address some foundational respect so we can all live prosperously. These are my these initial MAXIMS of DOG AND DUROMETER: 1. The sound generated by a wheel is a product of surface, hardness and speed. 2. All dogs will react differently to the sound of skate wheels as such. 3. Dogs that are larger need to be seen and respected. 4. DOGS are NOT RESPONSIBLE for reacting to sounds that scare or frighten them. 5. If we choose to roll in the streets with the hard wheels that BARK and mean BUSINESS, we must be aware that the dogs will all bark and potentially charge. 6. We shall not fear each other but learn to RESPECT and PROTECT each other’s space. I went to skate on my tiny ledge spot a couple blocks from my home. I entered the gated track and realized I was alone in the fenced-in park with a young man and a very large ROTTWEILER. When the man first saw me, his first instinct was to anchor himself to the 120 pound dog that would lunge at me if he heard the wheels. I told them both to chill as they were there first playing and I could just chill a sec and skate another spot. I sat and chatted with this guy about his dog and being a big dog owner person. I could tell how serious he was about owning such a large and very serious dog. I rolled a spliff and left after our chat wishing them well. DOGS and SKATERS do not need to fear each other. But understanding how we choose to interact is very important to what’s next for us both. FOLLOW FOR MORE WORK IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @WTFCRAIGSLISTNYC RAY YOUNG CHU, BLACK DOBERMAN WITH METAL MUZZLE - BEST OF BIRDY ISSUE 053
MOON_PATROL, FINAL GIRL II
9
CAN EVERYONE IN MY PAST FORGET ABOUT ALL THE TIMES I ACTED AWKWARD? THE REASON I ASK IS BECAUSE I’M TIRED OF THINKING ABOUT IT When I’m lying in bed at night, a mere seconds away from nodding off to sleep, I tend to think about all the times I did incredibly stupid shit in front of others. This has a two-pronged effect: (1) it makes me hate the fact that I’m not a smooth person. And (2) it keeps me awake. And frankly, I’ve grown weary of this nightly occurrence and I don’t want to do it anymore. So I’m offering a deal to all the people in my life: I will forget about all the times you acted like a bumbling fool in front of me if you forget all the times I behaved like a yammering jackass in front of you. That way, we could disremember our collective inelegance and finally get a good night’s sleep, for chrissake. No. 121 NOW WE’RE COOKING WITH GASOLINE Recently, I discovered the phrase, “now we’re cooking with gas,” was coined by the natural gas industry to promote the increased consumption of that particular non-renewable resource. I always thought the phrase meant, “... cooking with gasoline,” which would be a hell of a way to cook, am I right? But now that I know I’m shilling for powerful titans of business when I use this expression, I will henceforth be saying, “Now we’re cooking with gasoline,” because the natural gas industry doesn’t need any more spokespeople. (Note: I will promptly stop using this turn of phrase if the petrol industry picks up on it. And if the saying does get popular, they probably will, since marketers tend to ruin everything. To quote the late Bill Hicks, “Quit putting a god damn dollar sign on every fucking thing on this planet.” … But I digress.) MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, BEAUTIFUL MUTANTS: FIBI, DEDICATED FAMILY WATCHDOG
SOMETIMES WHEN I’M NUMBER TWOING IN A QUIET PLACE AND THERE ARE PEOPLE I DON’T KNOW VERY WELL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BATHROOM DOOR, I WILL CLEAR MY THROAT AND COUGH A BUNCH SO NO ONE CAN HEAR THE SOUNDS OF MY CACOPHONOUS DIGESTIVE SYSTEM The only downside to this is when I open the bathroom door and have to explain both the smell and the fact that I don’t have Covid. (“It was the guy before me,” usually explains away the odor; whereas, “I’m not sick, it’s just that my throat has just been so dry in this winter weather,” takes care of the cough. I suppose I will have to come up with a different excuse during the humid summer months, but I have some time to plan before that happens.) AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, I AM STILL NOT A LITERAL MOTHER FUCKER As an insult, “mother fucker” was never meant to be taken literally. It was just a mean thing to call someone. While I have been referred to as a mother fucker on a few occasions, as a statement of pure accuracy, I’ve never actually had sexual relations with a woman who has birthed children. I have been intimate with people who went on to have children, but I don’t think the term applies retroactively. (I suppose you could call me a “pre-mother fucker,” but if you start throwing around this insult, you’re going to have some explaining to do.) The funny thing is, all of my friends who have had children are most definitely fucking mothers, so they are true examples of this expression. But none of them are figurative mother fuckers (they’re actually quite nice). I suppose that’s the nature of swear words — they’re hyperbolic in nature. For example, I’ve never met an actual “ass clown,” “shit head,” or “fuck face” — though I have referred to people as such. Also, all the literal “bitches” I’ve met have been quite lovely — though I was bitten by one once, but that’s just because she was being a good girl and protecting her owner. SPEAKING OF CANINES, MY DOG IS REALLY TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE FACT THAT I HAVE AN AVERSION TO KILLING ANIMALS From daily feedings that must be served promptly on schedule to walks he shamelessly demands, my dog is quite bold with his awareness that I won’t murder him. (He is both a literal and figurative son of a bitch.) And now in his old age — he’s 15 — he doesn’t even discriminate where he pees anymore. This latest development has really tested my patience. I even explained to him that if he pees in the house one more time, I would dump him on the side of the road. The next day, he called my bluff when he began micturating in the living room while never breaking eye contact with me. It’s like he was saying, “How do you like me now, you animal-loving nerd?” He certainly has my number. I’M GOING TO START AN ORANGE JUICE COMPANY AND MAKE A PRODUCT CALLED, “OOPS ALL PULP” It will contain absolutely no juice, and consumers will have to eat it with a spoon. After I quickly go out of business, I will still be proud of myself for accomplishing one of my life goals. And when people say, “That was a pretty stupid life goal,” I will say, “Well now, that’s not a very nice thing to say, is it?” And then I will accomplish another life goal — trying to get more people to be less dickish and judgemental. 11
ride by Krysti Joméi art by Julianna Beckert ready set, fists lock around the smooth metal bars of her sweet cherry ride. straight-face, tough enough, she never stops on red. like pressing pause on a good song. pupils flare, brows sharp, like a boxer that ripe second before the bell. her pulse, the rhythm of the ride. an air-fueled beat for the tar dance ahead. everyday’s a good day to die live.
HANA, COLFAX UNICORN - PHOTO BY ZAC DUNN 13
Things We Lost in the Fire by Mariana Enríquez, Translated by Megan McDowell (2017) Mariana Enríquez’s first work translated into English from Spanish arrived in 2017 in this collection of 12 haunting and gruesome stories set in Argentina. In the opening piece, a middle-class woman residing in her family home in the Constitución neighborhood is a bit proud that she is able to navigate this tough part of the city, knowing who to talk to and who not to, and making friends with outcasts that call the neighborhood home. When she notices a sullen, dirty young boy and his mother sleeping on a mattress outside her house, she starts to wonder more deeply about their situation. Left alone one day, she intervenes, taking him out to ice cream. When they return his mother is irate, holding a broken glass and ready to attack, and the woman rushes inside. The next day, the boy, his mother, and the mattress vanish. A week later, a decapitated, tortured body of a young boy is discovered in the neighborhood. The woman becomes obsessed over his disappearance, terrified that the body possibly belongs to the boy who was outside her home. She is consumed with guilt that she missed a chance to save him and questions if she is cut out to live in that neighborhood after all. Enríquez continually darkens her stories throughout the collection, tightening the suspense and weaving eerie spiritual and monstrous encounters. In one tale, a tour guide responsible for the murder tour in Buenos Aires begins seeing the ghost of one of the more chaotic and brutal murderers from his script on his bus. The turn of the century serial murderer is known as the Big-Eared Runt who killed children just because he liked it. The tour guide sees deeper into the symbolism of his murders as, “a foretaste of evils to come, a warning that there was much more to the country than palaces and estates; he was a slap in the face to the provincialism of the Argentine elites who worshiped Europe and believed only good things could come from the magnificent and yearned-for old country.” In The Inn, two girls attempt an innocent prank, but encounter ghosts in an old dictatorship-era police academy turned inn, a former site of torture and disappearances. In one of the most macabre stories in the collection, a disgraced social worker swears she sees a boy held captive at a nearby apartment, chained up outside. Her mind spirals at the horror she imagines happening to him, stimulated by the trauma she has heard through her former work, leading to a rescue plan and building to a situation that turns out more grisly than her darkest nightmares. Enríquez so masterfully crafts suspense and delivers twists so disturbing that entering into the next story from the last feels like emerging from the depths of another world. Since the release of Things We Lost in the Fire, Enríquez’s additional short story collection, The Dangers of Smoking in Bed, was published in English in 2021. Her first novel, Our Share of Night, was translated into English in 2023 appearing on many best of lists including The New York Times Ten Best Horror Books of the Year. Shubeik Lubeik by Deena Mohamed (2023) “What is your heart’s deepest desire?” In Deena Mohamed’s fantastical Cairo the ability to mine and use the power of wishing rules everyday life. Previously only used by indigenous peoples, colonization has led to wishes being commoditized, abused and integrated into the machinery of capitalism. The quality of each wish is directly proportional to its expense, with wish classes ranging from first to third, with third class wishes now banned in Egypt due to the level of danger and mishaps they have caused. Shorky manages a kiosk in Cairo and has inherited three first class wishes from his father. He believes religious principles forbid him from using these wishes and has decided to sell them. Shubeik Lubeik follows Shorky’s journey with the three wishes, each sold to individuals seeking to fulfill their innermost desires and needs — from Nour, a college student grappling with the waves of a deep depression; to Aziza left in deep debt after the death of her husband; to Shawqia facing the impending death of her sick children. Mohamed’s graphic novel paints a beautiful portrait of humanity and kindness, creating an entire fantasy universe with intricately crafted laws and profound magical components. She skillfully fluctuates between black and white and color, creating lively panels that illuminate the already superb world-building. Mohamed’s patient and careful storytelling makes Shubeik Lubeik a heartfelt venture into the power of want and desire. No. 121 By Hana Zittel
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PETER KORNOWSKI, THE DELIVERY
The Zvezda Morey had cannon, guns, steel. The deep-dwellers had needle teeth, claws on their webbed hands and feet, and countless numbers. They were hatched by the thousands in the darkness, voracious in their legions, contained only by the availability of food and intolerance of the sun. They thrived by the volcanic vents, ecosystems untouched by light and unglimpsed by human eyes. Even shallow waters pained them, much less the open air; but the offense to their god could not go unanswered. On an unnamed island in the Sea of Okhotsk, trading for fox furs, the captain found something that interested him: a pendant of carved red coral worn by an Ainu shaman, an old woman with a black smile tattooed upon her lips and cheeks in the native style. “What’s that?” he asked. The shaman shook her head, indicating it was not for trade; but Morozov insisted, and with five armed men at his back, the woman finally handed it over. The carving was intricate, the design a whirlpool of swirling bodies. “What do you think?” he asked the purser, Zhukov, the closest thing to an educated man the brig possessed other than the captain himself. “Not Ainu. Incredible craftsmanship. Chinese, maybe.” But the old woman insisted it was not. She said it was from the island. The captain promised an axe if she could get them more. She pursed her lips, obviously not wanting to agree, but it was well known that the Russian traders were violent and easily provoked, and already they had been catcalling one of the younger women in the village. She led them down the cliffs, to the entrance of a cave that would have been dangerous in the event of a sea surge. She had brought an oil lamp and led them inside by its light. Fifty yards into the long tunnel the black rock was ridged with ancient carving, much worn with time. The carvings were figural, but the proportions misbegotten, the poses unanchored to anatomy. The sailors, hard men inured to cold and wet, shuddered and muttered curses, but the captain led them forward and they were bound to follow. At the very rear of the cave, an altar: a chest-high platform of black rock set without mortar, and upon it a carven idol. No human thing. A statue of red coral tall as a toddler, with eight outstretched limbs and a Medusa head of writhing snakes or tentacles with a ring of teeth at its center. The coral glistened, appeared to wriggle in the wavering lamplight. In niches behind it, other carvings, other idols whose sources could only be guessed at: figures with bulging eyes and pendulous extrusions, fivearmed, six-eyed, shelled, segmented, sinuous, sea-slug alien. “Gather what you can,” the captain said. “Try not to break it.” The sailors exchanged looks of consternation. “Captain,” ventured Grigory Petrov, able seaman, the largest and most senior among them, “what do we want with these? It’s devilry.” “You need to read the papers, Petrov,” answered Zhukov for the captain. “These days museums and rich collectors pay thousands for statues like this. This could make our fortunes.” That shut them up. They may have been superstitious, but they were traders and in it for the money. They took all they could carry, and Petrov himself carried the Medusa. And Petrov it was who went down to the hold in secret that night, opening its crate to place a sardine in its lamprey mouth, feeling himself in the grip of a fever dream. When he returned the next night, the fish was gone. A rat might have taken it, but he didn’t think so. This time he gave it a spoonful of red cod roe, telling no one of the sickness he felt when he looked at his fellow humans, how unnatural they suddenly appeared. They had already pulled anchor, with the sea rising, the little cove of the island being an unsafe place to harbor in a storm. Three hours later, with the weather dirty and the ocean bearing crosscurrents that made the brig twitch and shift uneasily, the deepdwellers swarmed. Twelve of the crew were already on deck due to the storm, and three were pulled instantly into the water with hardly time to grunt in shock. Captain Morozov, always quick, dived into the cabin and locked the door, scrambling for his revolver. The others fought as best they could, but the waist-high amphibians were quick as snakes and innumerable as a school of mackerel. Petrov, too, was quick — strangely quick, already standing beside the tender when the attack came. He got the small boat into the water in seconds, dispatched two attackers with a belaying pin, and leapt into it with Zhukov fast on his heels. This was no conscious decision; a wave of flat-eyed creatures was scrambling toward the purser, and the tender was the only place to go. The next minutes were a blur. They fought for with oars, fists, feet, the bailing bucket; and then, to Zhukov’s surprise, they had drifted from the Zvezda and Petrov was making headway with the oars. The deepdwellers seemed to ignore them. “Row, man, row!” the purser said, but Petrov was already pulling with all his might, grunting with each stroke, casting wide eyes at the water around them and the carious rocks guarding the entrance to the cove. Across the waves came a shrill disbelieving scream: Nyet, nyet, nyet! Almost they made it, but with the tide short of full, a stone stove three planks of the tender’s bow; and then they were drifting on an easy surf into the beach. The tender settled to the bottom in four feet of water, but so desperate were they to be on dry land that they did not even drag it onto shore, but staggered forward out of the sand, past the beach grass and a line of carved wooden poles, to the edge of a fire burning there. The villagers awaited them. The shaman said nothing, standing with staff in hand and chin raised, satisfaction tattooed upon her face.
NOKHOOG, CYBER CAT No. 121
21 CHARLOTTE, CRASH SITE
They started as simple doodles: Twodimensional drawings, flat, in a graphic, illustrative style, no shading. But there these animals were. So, she talked to them. And like so many things within her artistic practice, they grew into themselves. When Denver-based artist Jess Webb THE STORY BEHIND THE WHIMSICAL began the process of designing the Rainbow Room and the Womb Room for Convergence Station nearly four years ago, it was just a fledgling of an idea that lived in her mind. Something like an incubator, the space she envisioned was one of coziness and whimsy, both natural and supernatural, an imaginary drawn from elements of real life that felt familiar yet impossible, playful in their materiality, appearance and relationship. Jess knew Meow Wolf in its formative years, prior to the permanent Y L E exhibition spaces, when it was a group of DIY artists in Santa Fe, NM. She recalls going to some of their shows: “One in particular was a geodesic dome structure that was filled with thrift store junk, it was so maximalist. You walked in and it was computers, stuffed animals, shoes — and I thought, This is amazing, I wish I could have a community like that in Denver that I could work with.” It was during a Communikey (CMKY) Festival in Boulder, CO when Jess first met the group from Santa Fe. The connection continued from there, but her involvement couldn’t begin just yet. “When they started building House of Eternal Return, I was going to be involved, but I was single moming at the time and I couldn’t go down to work on it. But a lot of my friends did … it came out to be such a neat thing.” Jess’ background was one that drew her to Meow Wolf’s immersive artistic experiences. Her academic experience in both spacial media (“basically another way of saying ‘sculpture’”) and art education let her passions for working with people and natural material thrive. She’s focused on teaching within alternative spaces rather than in more traditional classrooms, such as Think 360, a Denver-based org that champions accessible arts education, where she’s worked with differently-abled artists of all ages. Like many other Meow Wolf artists, she’s been connected to the fine arts world, completing residencies and gallery shows. However, also like many other Meow Wolf artists, she’s never limited herself to one type of creative practice. Rather than thinking of it as artwork, she likes to think of it as artplay. Her career experiences have ranged from interior design and custom installation, to creative direction and film production for music videos. She makes paintings and ambient music; she designs earthware and jewelry; she uses textiles and wood and plants. “When I found out they were building one in Denver, I was ecstatic. I felt like it was a long time coming.” Early on in the development process, Jess began working with Meow Wolf Co-Founder and Senior Creative Director Caity Kennedy. After pitching her idea of the Womb Room, she learned her installation would exist in Numina, a sentient universe that is just as much a living being as it is a place. No. 121 ANIMAL CAVE AKA THE WOMB ROOM At first, when the Womb Room existed only as collaged planning sketches and in Jess’ mind, “… it was going to have a net, a place you could lay down in — it was going to be a cushy area with pillows.” But between the emergence of COVID, budget constraints and fire code requirements, her plans shifted. “We had to change a lot of things.” The core of her idea remained the same, to create a place that felt like the beginning of life and time. But all of the materiality changed. “I started rethinking the use [of the room] — how many people were going to be in that space, touching things — it just seemed smarter to move away from fabrics and textiles, and more towards harder washable surfaces.” “Originally everything was going to be made out of fabric and cloth and giant stuffed animals essentially. Then we sort of leaned towards a sculptable concrete instead, with the Rainbow Room specifically.” RAINBOW ROOM/CREATURES The Rainbow Room is a candy-colored psychedelic vestibule to the Womb Room. Her creatures, once just doodles, surround the portal. They huddle around the entrance, not quite greeting visitors but not quite warding them off either; their expressions range from bemused to skeptical, to indifferent. “I know the one on the left is really grumpy,” says Jess. As she developed her initial doodles, these otherworldly animals took on personalities of their own. Jess felt she could talk to them; they even had names. “The one on the bottom left was one of the first ones that I made, her name is Etta. It’s blue with a yellow face, and ears that come out, and she’s just, like, kind of pathetic and depressed, but I just love her.” As she sculpted and hand painted them, she got to know them more. These animals are reminiscent of Jim Henson characters, specifically from the movie Labyrinth (1986), in which a lycra-clad David Bowie is the king of goblins who snatches away a young girl’s baby brother. In her effort to rescue the child from a seemingly infinite labyrinth by midnight, she encounters a hodgepodge of fantastical beasts and critters. Some are tricksters, and some want to help. Jess said that she was “obsessed” with the movie as a kid, and his characters served as very strong inspiration. “There’s one creature that’s up to the right that is kind of ugly, with a wrinkly double-chin going on. That definitely references the door-knocker character [in the film].” As she shifted to incorporating different media, her stuffed animals transformed into concrete and plaster. In their transformation from sketches to sculptures, Jess wanted to play with the push and pull between two- and three-dimensional objects, letting them emerge from the walls while retaining some of their flat quality. WOMB ROOM It’s fitting then that her animals exist between two different planes, as they also act as a welcoming committee to a new world: a chrysalis, a gateway between other spacial dimensions, where one can go backwards BY T R A RNSTEIN T S I B E J S E E S J S B E W S B O B O - P I N - T E R Y V A I E C L W B A H N C H T Y S
and forwards as they please. Entering into the Womb Room is transformative — suddenly you find yourself crawling like an infant into a starry nexus of multi-universal life. Mirrors reflect speckled light, crystalline structures refract a swampy twilight haze. Soak up the warmth of the intergalactic primordial soup. Across all of Jess’ artistic disciplines, there there’s a “really big subwoofer.” Pulling from Saskatoon’s aesthetic, Jess produced a 17-minute track with Paul, directing the piece in the direction of Erik Satie and Brain Eno, ranging from classical to instrumental music not unlike a soundtrack for a meditation, “… but not New Age-y, hopefully.” It’s a tender piece of music that loops, reminiscent is a common denominator: “I draw a lot of inspiration from nature and patterns in nature, so it was important to have that element be a part of it.” Not just incorporated into the imagery, nature was also deeply connected to the materiality and process of forming the Womb Room. “I made a lot of casts of crystals, fruits and vegetables — cucumbers, romanesca, bananas … and cupcakes.” Instead of plastics or silicone, Jess opted for cement mixtures and plaster to cover the cavernous walls in organic textures and shapes reminiscent of barnacles, tree bark and mineral formations. Much of the paint she used was made from natural pigments, including ammonite — fossilized mollusks from the Late Cretaceous period that are naturally found in Colorado. Within the decision to use natural sculpting materials comes a relevant experiment: She’s unsure of how they’ll hold up. “I’m pretty relaxed about how things wear and tear … But it’s the nature of the space. The Womb Room is an organic space so if you were to add elements to it or take elements away, it can transform a bit. It’s its own natural cave, and it’s still going to hold the concept as time changes it and people touch it.” And Jess didn’t have to forsake her textile dreams entirely: She used felt “to create weird organic things … that live on the ceiling.” Among them, you’ll find little creatures hiding in there that she let her daughter paint. So, her animals make an appearance in the room as well. “My favorite creature is inside … he’s like a little Buddha in the corner, he’s blue, and that’s my favorite one for sure. I wish I made casts of them so that I could make a million of them.” SOUND Since so many elements of her installation gesture towards the formation of life, she gave it a heartbeat. Like Numina, one of Convergence Station’s four worlds, both of Jess’ rooms are multisensory experiences, and sound plays a major role in creating a whimsical, surreal atmosphere. In her ambient music practice, she collaborates with her husband, Paul, under the title Saskatoon, and uses field recordings in her work. For the Rainbow Room, Jess again had her daughter pitch in, recording her as she made “crittery, creepy sounds” for the creatures; she then passed the audio on to her husband, who added delay, echo and reverb to make them even creepier. Sound was very important to her, especially its movement. “I wanted it to be very visceral, I wanted there to be a lot of bass, and a lot of movement of sound, bouncing sound through the speakers throughout the room to have it feel like a realistic atmosphere.” Gleefully, she mentions that of bands like Explosions in the Sky and Boards of Canada, and composers like Joe Hisaishi and Yann Tiersen. Throughout it, there’s a heartbeat for the creature of the universe, purposely set outside of the rhythm of the music: “It’s supposed to be a found sound.” A rise and fall of piano provide a wistful melody, twinkles of running water trickle through, strings echo like thoughts inside the cavern, and a gentle lull of bass glows with warmth. “This room is influenced by the moment when you’re underwater and sound is different, and everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion — I wanted that feeling, where everything’s cozy and safe. I mean, it’s the Womb Room!” COMPLETION Jess’ process of developing the Rainbow Room and the Womb Room is fitting — an inkling of an idea birthed, imaginary animals gestated and come to life, a universal cosmic heart given its beat — it was built by acts of creation to represent, well, creation. “I was one of the first artist contractors working in the space … It was an industrial skeleton.” There was steel and concrete. But once she returned before the official opening in September 2021, she saw the transformation. She walked in and thought, “Oh wow, they really did it again. It’s just so magical. Being a part of something that’s really creative in this way is such an honor.” And while she was unable to contribute to House of Eternal Return in 2016, the family she was building at the time helped her build an entire origin of worlds within two rooms. “I was really excited to bring my husband and my daughter to this space because their voices and music and work were really a part of it. Sitting in the Womb Room and listening to the music and being in that space [with them] was really special, and so wholesome … it was really sweet.” Now, on the other side of the process, she feels a natural completion: “When I first began working with Caity, I told her what my idea was with the Womb Room and the animal heads. And I think that my vision came through. Everything that I set out to do, I did. It’s cool to see that come to fruition.” Jess invites visitors to “become their 4-year-old self” within her space. And it lets you do just that. MEET THESE CREATURES AND MORE AT CONVERGENCE STATION IN DENVER, CO: MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT/DENVER CHECK OUT OTHER PORTALS NEAR YOU: SANTA FE, NM; LAS VEGAS, NV; GRAPEVINE, TX; AND COMING SOON ... HOUSTON, TX! MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT
Shizuko “Suzie” Murphy BY TOM MURPHY PHOTOS COURTESY OF ELIZABETH MURPHY & TOM MURPHY Normally the January Queen City Sounds column is dedicated to trends and assessments of the year prior. But 2023 brought me the most life-altering event of recent years when my mother, Shizuko “Suzie” Murphy, passed away on October 20th. I had been her primary full-time caretaker for several years and music journalism and the like was stuff I could keep doing. More than any other human in my life by far, my mom supported what I did even though I don't know if she always fully understood what that was at any given time. When I was trying to be a childhood cartoonist she paid for some lessons in cartooning; she was the one who arranged for me to have a trumpet when I started playing music in fourth grade; and she helped me in countless and numerous ways throughout my life. Shizuko Murphy was born right before World War II in Okinawa in the Empire of Japan, a rural backwater island chain that had once been an independent kingdom with its own language and rich cultural traditions. It is there that karate was created and various martial arts weapons attributed to ninjas because they were “farming implements.” Her older brother fought for the Japanese Army and my own father and some of his brothers fought in the American military at the Battle of Okinawa, one of the bloodiest of the entire war. Peace Memorial Park stands on Mabuni Hill where the battle ended. Women of my mother’s generation generally didn’t complete education beyond the fifth grade and I’ve met people she grew up with for whom that was true. They had a touching level of respect for my mom who not only completed elementary school, but finished high school, attended university and became a teacher who paid off her own parents’ mortgage on their ancestral land. This was all before she met my father in the late 60s. He was assigned to the Vietnam conflict as a medic in the Green Berets and performed health inspections in Okinawa TO SEE TOM MURPHY'S MUSIC AND ART REVIEWS IN DENVER, CO AND BEYOND, VISIT: QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM which is how they met. As a teacher, my mom taught physical education, home economics and crafts which meant she taught not just flower arranging, Japanese doll making and the like but also music as she had skills in singing, piano and guitar. After she married my dad in 1968 she ultimately moved to the United States and learned more English from watching television shows like Perry Mason and Green Acres and was an avid viewer of police procedural shows for the rest of her life. My mother had four children, three boys and a girl, including me, the oldest. In my youngest years I lived in Okinawa for six critical months when I was acquiring language and learned a bit of Okinawan from my sugar cane farmer grandfather. She worked hard her whole life from her youth, to raising kids, dealing with a veteran husband, taking on three full-time jobs at points to pay off her own mortgage and also with her constant volunteer work. Then on one trip to Okinawa she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and after having an injury she was finally diagnosed with diabetes from years of long nights and overwork with a bit of genetics in the mix. She finally couldn’t work and had to be taken care of. I witnessed firsthand her progression of Alzheimer’s while helping get her diabetes under control. The end came quickly after years of steady decline in stages and I can say her final days were in peace. Even though we didn’t always see eye to eye I will miss my mother a lot and wish I could thank her for basically making anything I’ve accomplished in life possible, even if these expressions of gratitude and affection in Asian families tends to come in the form of deeds and actions rather than mere words. Hopefully my time in caretaking was an adequate indication of all of that. Sorry for joking about how you looked like you were ready to drop your gangster trap mixtape when you wore your hoodie, mom.
ROB GINSBERG (D.A.S.A.), NIBBLER - ROBGINSBERG.COM
BY NATE BALD I NG Chicagoland has a lot of history. Most of it kinda bad. The Mob? Check. Violent cops? Double check. Aetherial hitchhikers from another time? Turns out, also check. The initial meeting with Resurrection Mary comes from Jerry Palus, a cab driver who got very thirsty and ended up dancing with a ghost in 1939. From his description she had “cold hands but a warm heart.” The Venn diagram for both the undead and unintentional parents. At bar close Jerry proffered a lift back to her house — presumably for what in the 30s they’d call a roll in the hay and what in the 1830s was an actual roll in the hay — and Mary asked for a ride up Archer Avenue. This surprised Jerry as there was pretty much nothing up Archer Avenue but a handful of people who could only afford to live next to a cemetery. Jerry and Mary (we won’t make fun of it) kissed and he agreed to drive her past the graveyard. He rode up to the Resurrection Cemetery and Mary got out, walked in and fucking disappeared. Like, straight up evaded reality. Jerry, however, was not deterred. He’d met a cool woman and wasn’t going to be a slave to perception. He got Mary’s address and stopped by, finding her mother, likely still bereaved, who informed him that Mary had been dead for several years. It took a few decades for another encounter but they were prolific. In 1979 a cab driver named Ralph went unpaid when a young woman checked out to a dilapidated shack on Archer Avenue. He apparently didn’t follow up on the fare but was scared out of his mind when the woman evaporated into the night. So much so that he contributed to an article in Suburban Trip magazine, just in case anyone was thinking of taking a terrible trip to the suburbs of Chicago and starting their own version of Roseanne. Hopefully with less litigious entrails. 1980 saw (and make no mistake — 1980 is WATCHING) Clare Rudniki and husband Mark, lesser of the two, ignoring a hitchhiker on Archer Avenue wearing a gauzy dress that might have also been spectral. Clare was very sure she was a ghost. Mark, as usual, had no opinion. Fucking Mark. 1989 Janet Kalel encounters a woman in a long white dress leaping in front of her car outside Resurrection Cemetery. Could be an Ophelia moment but also could be a ghost jumping in front of a car. You decide. What Janet decided was that, having no impact, it must have been Resurrection Mary and not a stranger she ran over. Again, you decide. (She almost definitely killed someone). It’s worth noting that Resurrection Mary’s name isn’t even Mary. While Mary Bregovy had been the given name drawn from the cemetery, it’s more likely that the ghost is Anna “Majira” Norkus, killed in a car accident in 1927 on her way from the Oh Henry Ballroom. Again, we won’t make any jokes. Not that there are any jokes to be made about car accidents. Candy bars, though. It’s possible to get a sit-down with Resurrection Mary. Chet’s Melody Lounge (pay us for the plug?) does a Sunday Bloody Mary which technically summons someone totally different but still terribly frightening. Have fun with the mirror! HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL? SEND THEM TO: WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM OR TWITTER: @WEREWOLFRADAR. IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED. No. 121 DIMITRIS KOLYRIS, LEVITATING GHOST
ARNA MILLER, DINO'S COMET
No. 121
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