MATT MCCARTHY, JASON PURRHEES - @MRMATTMACCARTHY ISSUE 122 | FEBRUARY 2024 MAJORA'S MASK: KRYSTI JOMÉI Z MINUS ONE: JONNY DESTEFANO GOGO YUBARI: JULIANNA BECKERT MONO NO AWARE: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI KATANA: CRISTIN COLVIN POLYSICS: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH KIDDY LAND: MEGAN ARENSON FRONT COVER: ERIC JOYNER, AMERICAN TRAGIC - ERICJOYNER.COM BACK COVER: MOON PATROL, POTATO GOTHIC - @MOON_PATROL SKILLFUL HAWKS: ERIC JOYNER, MATT MCCARTHY, RICARDO FERNANDEZ, ROB GINSBERG, PETER KORNOWSKI, JASON WHITE, JOEL TAGERT, GRAHAM FRANCIOSE, MICHAEL DEE, BRIAN POLK, HANA ZITTEL, PETER GLANTING, CAITY KENNEDY, DAVE DANZARA, ERIK ROGERS, ZAC DUNN, TOM MURPHY, NATE BALDING, NICK FLOOK, MOON PATROL RISING SUNS: RIVKA YEKER, MIGHTY COCONUT, ALVARO ZINOS-AMARO, UTAGAWA KUNIYOSHI, KAWANABE KYŌSAI SHINTO SHRINES: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: MEOW WOLF, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, MONKEY BARREL, SEXY PIZZA, ROOTS RX, ASTRO TOURS, TOXOPLASMA ARTS, BENNY BLANCO'S, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, HEX PUBLISHERS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE 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 + HELP US GROW: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US/#ADVERTISE BIRDY IS HANDING OUT HEARTS MONTHLY ♥ ©2024 BIRDY MAGAZINE, EVEN MONKEYS FALL FROM TREES 1
TOHO
THE CURSE OF BEING A SMALL BLACK DOG BY RICARDO FERNANDEZ My name is Harold and I’m a Miniature Werepoodle. I’m what you’d call a B-list monster. No one is scared of a man who, by the light of the waxing moon, turns into a black puffball. Really, the A-list monsters have it all. Vampires, Frankenstein and actual Werewolves have the best powers, the best transformation times and all the attention. Who says, “Don’t go outside! It’s a waxing moon tonight and the Mini Weredogs are out,” without laughing? I’m actually a fourth generation Werepoodle. My great grandfather really screwed over a gypsy. She cursed my family so hard that we all turn into little black dogs. My transformative condition has affected all areas of my life. I especially haven’t had the greatest success in dating. The last time I turned into my toy breed self in front of a woman was a complete fiasco. We were drinking some wine and, apparently, my judgment must have become impaired because I opened the blinds at her place and transformed. She laughed so hard she almost peed herself and spent the rest of the night watching rom-coms, eating ice cream and rubbing my belly. The next morning I woke up in my human form with a pink bow in my hair. There was a note on the table that said she had a great time and was glad I was her friend. I pissed on her rug before I let myself out. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of people out there who hate all monsters. Even the poodle breed. Enough to kill them. Still, the A-list monsters even have the monopoly on cool ways to die. I mean, people have spent centuries trying all different methods to murder them. A few years ago I actually ran into Van Helsing in a bar. As he was taking a sip from his beer, I asked him if he had ever killed one of my kind, and do you know what that pompous jerk did? He spit his beer all over me and said, “Werepoodle?! Boy, you don’t need to kill them! They die from shame!” My uncle Morty spent the greater part of two decades trying to find out what actually kills us. He ate wolfsbane. Nothing. Another time he melted down my grandmother’s silver, made bullets and shot all of us on Christmas. Nothing. One time he waited until he transformed and ate five pounds of chocolate. We thought he was on to something, but now he just has diabetes. I won’t deny that more than once I have, as a mini dog, jumped in front of a car. Hurts like hell, but no death. I’ve often wondered what would happen if I ever bit anyone while in my dog form. Could I possibly be able to share my curse with others? I mainly think about this at work. I constantly imagine sinking my tiny doggy teeth into my boss’ ankle and making him into a Werepoodle. In fact, more than once I’ve camped outside his luxury townhouse and waited for him to take out the trash. I bit that fat ass right on the Achilles tendon and held on for dear life. He shouted and kicked up his legs. He even stepped on me a couple of times, but I wouldn’t let go! I thought I was in the clear until his wife came out in her bathrobe and started to beat me with a bat. I woke up in a cage at the city pound the next morning, naked as the day I was born, to the screams of a poor volunteer. It was like she had never seen a naked man in a cage before! Well, things have quickly gone downhill since then. I’m now at county jail awaiting trial facing charges of Felonious Assault by a Transformative Monster with Intent to Infect. It’ll be forty years if my boss changes into a little dog the next waxing moon. No one is sure whether or not he will because this is the first time one of my kind has actually bit anybody. But on the plus side, I have an interview with Dateline in an hour. Top that, Bigfoot! BEST OF BIRDY ISSUE 002 3
ROB GINSBERG (D.A.S.A.), FREEDOM OF CHOICE MUTANTS - ROBGINSBERG.COM MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES (2018-2019)
PETER KORNOWSKI, NOWHERE TO TURN
No. 122
BY JOEL TAGERT ART BY JASON WHITE Zabbie couldn’t understand her sister. She had been gone for three months for a foreign exchange program in Australia. At the time she’d felt guilty about leaving when her family was already so stressed with Lyn’s care, but her mother had encouraged her to go, and anyway the progress of the disease tended to be slow. But in that time the slight slurring they’d all heard in the summer had gotten worse — worse to where Zabbie kept having to ask Lyn to repeat herself over dinner that first night, and still didn’t really know what she’d said. “I’m going to use the restroom,” she announced, shut the door and spent fifteen minutes sobbing. She shouldn’t have gone. She was a terrible sister. She could have, should have done more. She would do more. Otherwise what was the use of being a witch? That night, alone in her childhood bedroom, she went into her closet and brought out her Box of Very Special Things. From the box she withdrew the body of an old dried whiptail lizard. She had neglected her coffee-table altar for a long time — there were months-old cups and several magazines on top of it — but now she cleaned it off, straightened the embroidered cloth, lit incense and candles, and placed the lizard in a special brass plate inscribed with a pentagram. Finally, she pulled off the tail of the lizard and set it in a separate dish, a teacup with an interesting black glaze. Preparations complete, she settled herself on the floor and closed her eyes. She held the image of the lizard in her mind, focusing intently on how she thought it would taste. She tried to imagine how a hungry cat might enjoy it, how interesting the texture was, the meaty flavor enhanced with age. “Here kitty kitty,” she called softly. “I have a treat for you.” And there: that old familiar feeling, something stirring, like small claws pulling at her temples. Zabbie’s inward gaze deepened. Holding that gaze, she saw the feline face of her familiar, the glowing red eyes, the peculiar verdigris color of the demon’s sleek fur. Finally she heard Baalephin’s voice, a rippling purr: What have you brought me? “I’ve brought you a gift,” Zabbie murmured. I want it! Zabbie did not protest, but reached out for the lizard’s tail and without looking, placed it in her mouth. It was difficult to eat — very chewy — but finally she got it down. Baalephin glowed with pleasure, the inward connection strengthening. Delicious! But something’s missing. Where’s the rest? “I have it here. But you have to do something for me.” Name your desire. Zabbie did, and her familiar agreed. The girl reached for the lizard’s body. ¤¤ “How are you feeling?” she asked Lyn the next morning, looking at her sister intently. Where red-headed Zabbie wore loose, dark clothes looted from a half-dozen thrift stores and consignment shops, her blond sister had always liked expensive designer shit, and so far had made only small concessions to the wheelchair. Today she wore a pale cashmere sweater and brown pants with a velvety sheen. “Much better, actually,” Lyn said, and the word actually was perfectly enunciated. Zabbie smiled brightly, delighted. “Maybe I’ll go for a run later,” she continued wryly. “Maybe you will,” Zabbie said. ¤¤¤ For several days Lyn really did seem better. She said she was sleeping well and their parents commented that her mood had improved. But it didn’t last. By week’s end Zabbie’s attentive ear detected the slur returning, a softening of the syllables. This time she went to Crystal Cave and talked with Melani. “I need something special,” she said. “Something my familiar will really go crazy for.” Melani nodded, the charms in her white hair bobbing. “I have just the thing.” Zabbie spooned half the hummingbird hearts out of the tiny jar they came in and placed them in the brass offering dish. With one finger she reached out and tasted the juices they stewed in. “Here kitty kitty. I have a treat for you.” Her temples tightened and a dull pain formed inside her head. The feeling intensified, a sharp pain as of cat’s claws raking her skin, and with that the demon was here again. What do you have? Zabbie picked up the dish and choked down the three tiny hearts there. Delectable! More! “I have more. But you have to do something for me.” What is your desire? When she named it, she saw her familiar’s face change. Where before she had envisioned a cat, now she saw a human face, the head bald, the features sharp, and all the green of rainworn copper except for the demon’s red eyes. You ask too much for such an offering. But I am generous. ¤¤¤¤ The next morning Lyn came to breakfast using her walker. “Look at you!” Zabbie said, trying to sound cheerful despite her headache. “I know, right? Ready for the dance floor.” “That’s great.” “You okay?” “I’m great. Just a bit of hurty-head.” 9
¤¤¤¤¤ But nothing good could last. One day, two, three, with Lyn upright, smiling, laughing; and on the fourth, back to the wheelchair, listless, head bowed. Zabbie was crushed. What was the point of the bargain if it didn’t last? On the other hand, the spells had worked. They did bring Lyn relief. Once more into the breach, then. She had to wait two weeks for Melani to obtain the body of a two-headed chick that had died shortly after it was hatched. It cost her fifteen hundred dollars, money intended for her living expenses when school started again. But she needed it. Lyn needed it. “Come to me, Baalephin,” she chanted. “I offer you gifts, I offer you unusual flavors, I offer you sustenance.” But at first Baalephin wouldn’t come. Two hours she sat there, making magical gestures, lighting incense in different arrangements. Not until she burned several feathers from the chick did she feel her temples tighten — and tighten, and tighten. The demon’s claws were cutting into her face, its teeth sinking into her forehead. A small cry of surprise escaped her, but she fought it, tried to calm her mind, tried to relax her features against the pain, still keeping her eyes tightly shut. When she finally saw the visage of Baalephin, it was neither cat nor human, but a verdigris crocodile, its grin all teeth, its eyes red and greedy. What have you brought me? Zabbie bit off one head of the chick. The feathers were more difficult to swallow than she’d expected, small as they were. What do you desire? “I want my sister to be healed. Permanently.” The crocodile Baalephin made a croaking sound that eventually she realized was laughter. For this tiny bird? Waste my time and I will not answer your call again. “Can you do it, though?” There is little outside my power. But the offering must be commensurate. “What, then?” Baalephin shifted its gaze, and she knew what the demon regarded: Little Bit, the family dog, down in his donut-shaped dog bed in the living room. The crocodile’s smile widened. Zabbie was aghast, but slowly she stood and went downstairs. The chihuahua licked her face when she picked him up — he was a notorious face-licker — and in her bedroom was content to sit facing her, his outsized eyes reflecting the candlelight. Zabbie picked up her ceremonial knife, a crystal set in the hilt. She bowed her head, praying, but the only face that came to her was Baalephin’s, avid and reptilian. Give me the dog! But she couldn’t do it. Crying, she let the knife fall from her fingers and hugged the dog to her chest. ¤¤¤¤¤¤ The next day Lyn looked her sister over. “You look better,” she said. “You’ve been looking pretty ragged the last couple weeks. Thought I might have to do something drastic to cheer you up.” Zabbie laughed until she cried. No. 122
GRAHAM FRANCIOSE, FORWARD, BACK, FORWARD, BACK, PRESENT
MY EXISTENTIAL THERAPIST HERB AND I DISCUSS THE RAMIFICATIONS OF EXISTING IN THE MODERN WORKPLACE BY BRIAN POLK No. 122 MICHAEL DEE, GREAT APE-BOT DILEMMA
“I think I pinpointed the reason I hate working,” I tell my Existential Therapist Herb. “And it wasn’t immediately obvious. It really took some soul-searching.” “Is it because you realized you’re not the steward of your own time when you have to adhere to a rigid schedule?” asks Herb. “Is it because you don’t enjoy being subservient to arbitrary chains of command where authority figures are granted power over you based on nothing more than a resume and an interview? Or maybe you feel you’re wasting your one and only opportunity to fully experience your own humanity every time you ask a customer if you can help them?” I shift in my seat as I mull over his counsel. “No, I don’t think it’s any of those, really,” I say. “I think it has more to do with identity.” “Ah yes,” he says. “You’re upset that the entirety of your creativity and talents as a person are overlooked for your ability to provide a menial service to any half-wit who enters your place of work.” I smile. He’s thought about this before. “That is a part of it.” Gathering my thoughts for a moment, I notice Herb staring at me expectantly. His attention isn’t usually so rapt during our meetings. He’s also not ordinarily so conversant. Most of the time, he works on crossword puzzles or ponders his own place in the universe (I assume) while I blather on endlessly. “Are you back on caffeine or something?” I ask him. “Usually you’re not so interested …” “Don’t lose your concentration,” he snaps back. “Stay dialed into this.” “Okay, so here’s the thing: I don’t like the person I have to be when I’m at work. I have this totally different personality, and I hate that part of me. It’s like that song, ‘Bittersweet Symphony.’ ‘I’m a million different people …’” “I don’t think I’ve heard that song,” he says. This bit of information shocks me. I berate him for having never heard of it — which is ironic, since I’m unfamiliar with the entirety of Top 40 music these days. (Do they even call it “Top 40” anymore?) He asks which band wrote the song, and my mind draws a blank. I start to google it on my phone, but he tells me once again to stay dialed in. “Oh right,” I say. “Think about this: if I spoke to my romantic partner the way my boss expects me to speak to him, my lover would lose all respect for me. No one — aside from authority figures, I guess — likes to be grovelled to. I’m pretty sure Ferris Bueller said something like, ‘You can’t respect someone who kisses your ass. It just doesn’t work.’” “True,” says Herb. “But you are right to make an exception for authority figures. I think that’s why they seek positions of authority, because they do enjoy being grovelled to.” “Sure,” I say. “But let’s stay dialed in, shall we?” Herb smirks and nods. “So, I have to put on this show for everyone at my place of work — my boss, my coworkers, the customers. I have to perform. I have to act. And it’s not a role that I have any respect for. If I were a professional actor and that part came up, I wouldn’t even audition for it. I would tell my agent to hold out for something — anything — that’s better than that.” “So you find putting on a nametag, forcing yourself to smile, and suppressing each and every genuine expression of your personality to be dehumanizing?” Herb wonders. I nod. “That’s not really that profound,” he says. “I thought maybe it was one of the aspects I mentioned — the rigid schedule, forced deference to arbitrary authority, or the demeaning nature of customer service.” “It’s probably those things too,” I tell him. “But it’s mostly compromising my identity by pretending to be someone else. And that’s the other side of this coin: if I decide not to do the job anymore, they’re just going to replace me, and everyone would forget I worked there. I’m an easily replaceable cog. So I’m sacrificing my very concept of ‘self’ for nothing.” Herb has a look of concentration on his face, and as he opens his mouth to speak, I interrupt him. “Think about this: if I don’t write a song or a book or an article or a haiku, then that piece of art — that expression of my true ‘self’ — would not exist,” I say as I sit on the edge of the couch. “But if I don’t do my job, someone else will just do it. Either my coworkers will pick up my slack, or they’ll fire me and hire someone new — and that will be it. The work will still get done whether I have anything to do with it or not. So my job — the role that I perform the majority of my waking hours — has absolutely nothing to do with me. It existed before I was there and it will exist when I’m gone.” “That’s kind of depressing,” says Herb. “I suppose when I retire, someone will just take over my job.” “It’s true.” “You know the reason I hate working?” I shake my head. “Patients like you who remind me everything I do is pointless,” he admits. “Dude,” I say, “you’re an existential therapist. You would think you’d be used to it by now.” “Well yeah, but let me ask you this,” he says. “How are you going to maintain morale at your job when all you do is think about how much you don’t like being the person you have to be in order to earn your paycheck? I mean, sure, I get that working is the worst part of most people’s lives, but you have to do it, don’t you? So what do you get out of the rumination? Why formulate worldviews that make the worst part of your life even worse? Wouldn’t it behoove you to spend that mental fortitude imagining ways your job benefits you, or ways you could make it better? What’s the point of hating a life that you have to keep on living?” “What’s the point of hating a life I have to keep on living?” I say slowly as I really contemplate each word. My brow furrows. “Um … Hmm …” It’s the first time I’ve ever been left speechless in this office. I think about it for several moments. “I suppose there is no point to doing that.” “There you go,” he says. “Yeah, but I feel like I’m giving up if I don’t keep up the negativity, or something. Like I’m some kind of phony if I didn’t act miserable at work.” “Well that’s ridiculous,” he responds. “Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t keep up the fight. Go ahead and march for the six hour work day. Vote for people who promise a guaranteed basic income. Throw molotov cocktails in the windows of capitalists for all I care. You can keep doing all of that and still find a way to not be miserable at work.” “I suppose …” “So?” he says after another considerable silence. “So what?” I ask. “So what are you going to do?” I don’t feel like answering that question, because I don’t like it when I’m wrong about things. So I think of ways to change the subject. I look at the clock in anticipation of our appointment nearing its end, and I figure it’s close enough. “Time’s up,” I say. He smiles and says, “It most certainly is, isn’t it?” 13
WHAT WE FED TO THE MANTICORE BY TALIA LAKSHMI KOLLURI (2022) Talia Lakshmi Kolluri’s 2022 debut short story collection captures the fantastical inner lives of wild creatures across the globe. Crafted in the form of fables, these stories grant all animals inner thoughts and lives, enabling them to interact across species with full language. In the title story, a group of tigers living among mangroves face the reality of dwindling food when a mythical manticore stumbles upon their territory. Despite their desperation, the tigers have never stooped low enough to prey on the people of the local village, until the manticore starts stalking and devouring locals, while attempting to lure the tigers into joining. In Someone Must Watch Over The Dead, a young vulture strives to fulfill its ancestral duty of devouring the dead in order to honor them. “It is said and also it is known by almost everyone that there are some among us that can taste the life that was lived the closer they get to the bone.” The young vulture soon becomes overwhelmed with an intensifying task as a disease strikes a herd of antelope, leaving more death than it can consume. Strung together with the currents of the natural world and the intricate complexity of wild creatures, What We Fed to the Manticore is a sparse and emotionally raw collection. Kolluri illuminates the interior lives of animals with vibrant prose and sparse storytelling, providing imagery and reason to their instincts and behaviors. Despite suffering from the illeffects of humanity, from climate change to outright brutality, these creatures remain tethered to the balance of the natural world. Each creature is intrinsically aware of what most humans severely lack, the deep understanding of the intertwined beauty of our world and the connection between all living beings. What We Fed to the Manticore is Kolluri’s only present publication and was longlisted for the Andrew Carnegie Award for Fiction and the PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize for Debut Short Story Collection, among other nominations. THE BORDER SIMULATOR BY GABRIEL DOZAL (2023) SPANISH TRANSLATION BY NATASHA TINIACOS The Border Simulator (like the real border) was made up of narratives that pass inspection, ports of entry÷ poems that have artificial rivers have brother and sister stream down holographic mountains in an attempt to reach the lower valley’s work floor. Gabriel Dozal, through his expansive debut poetry collection, vividly portrays the bureaucratic cruelty inherent in the U.S. Mexico border. Following the brother-sister duo, Primitivo and Primitiva, Dozal captures their crossing journey, interactions with U.S. customs, and Primitiva’s subsequent exploited labor at “the fábrica.” Dozal’s depiction of the border is a cyclical hellscape, an endless simulation trapping crossers in its closing grasp and assimilating them into the system. “He thought he arrived, ipso facto / he’s named “crosser.” For if he truly is one / then surely that’s his job, to cross. You name an appliance / for what it does. It says here in his file that his alias / is “Primitivo the Asymptote” but we’ll still call him / a crosser because we’re creepy bullies.” Each poem in The Border Simulator is accompanied by its mirror translation in Spanish provided by Natasha Tiniacos. Dozal’s winding and expansive prose allows this consuming collection to truly capture the dark, labyrinthian state of immigration at the U.S. Mexico border, highlighting the absurdity of humanity’s imagined and enforced borders. No. 122 By Hana Zittel
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PETER GLANTING, Z
MEOW WOLF AND MIGHTY COCONUT ARE BRINGING NEW UNIVERSES TO PEOPLE EVERYWHERE WITH VIRTUAL MINI-GOLF GAME, WALKABOUT. BY RIVKA YEKER VR insinuates that your reality will be altered and turned into something unreal. For Meow Wolf and entertainment studio Mighty Coconut, virtual reality has less to do with tricking you into something that doesn’t exist, and instead brings you into a world that already does. This specific world is one that was originally built by Meow Wolf at Convergence Station in Denver, Colorado. Numina, created by Meow Wolf’s brilliant blue-haired angel Caity Kennedy, is “an organic landscape that is actually a sixthdimensional sentient plant — the many cells of which are all timelines and universes within.” While Numina’s physical location is open to whoever ventures to it, Kennedy and Lucas Martell, executive producer and head of Mighty Coconut, expanded the access to bring the world to people everywhere with virtual mini-golf game, Walkabout. In a conversation with Meow Wolf’s Director of Brand Content Allyson Lupovich, Kennedy delved into the joy of collaboration within the art of VR. But before there was talk of collaboration, there was exploration of what mini-golf means for people — in its campy nature, oftentimes ridiculous setup and childhood nostalgia. Kennedy reflected, “It has a little bit of a funny mystique to it, kind of like a roadside attraction. You know, any of those things that as a little kid you were like, oh my god. Here’s a giant dinosaur in there and you can choose the color of your ball. It’s such a bizarre form of entertainment that is beloved and kind of forgotten and the sort of thing that people who are from another culture could come here, see mini-golf and be like, wow.” Mini-golf allows people the option to gamify their experience or just take their time to leisurely explore the magical world that was carefully crafted and imagined by these artists. With collaboration being at the forefront, there was so much possibility for Meow Wolf and Mighty Coconut’s Walkabout to actually co-create together by learning from one another’s mediums. For instance, Kennedy excitedly spoke about a lighting designer who found thrill in newfound possibility amongst the fantastical. “There was no particular logic at play that he had to work with. You know, in our world, we have to deal with light fixtures, and in their world, they often have to make light fixtures up. We can just light things, but then they have to go in and make light sources so that it looks more natural.” This exploration of what is possible in the “natural” world versus the digital one is both a science fiction phenomenon and a tangible reality for designers, animators and artists operating in both spheres. What you know in one plane of existence looks differently in another. But this is exactly what encouraged such open collaboration — the power of people’s strengths and curiosities. Kennedy said that she’d pose the question: “What do you want to do? Yeah, this is my project, but it’s your project now too. What have you always wanted to do that you could do here?” These sorts of questions were the perfect ground for the most natural partnerships in world-building. It invoked true unlimited imagination. In many ways, the digital space is the new accessible art collaboration. Meow Wolf started off as a vehemently open door collaborative, but as the company progressed, possibilities shifted. So, for this to be the first Meow Wolf VR project, it made sense that it was co-conspired with others — a reminiscent homage to the early days when anybody could join in and collectively make art. For this particular project, because the art itself is also mini-golf, there are so many different ways
you can explore the VR sphere. Kennedy explains, “You can be the type of deep diver that’s gonna go find every detail, find every Easter egg, have it be more about the visual experience. You can be the type of deep diver that’s gonna solve every puzzle. You can also just pass through.” The openness of the world reminds the experiencer that there is no correct way to appreciate this world. It is an experience crafted by people who want you to engage with it in whatever way is right for you. Everything is intentional, so no matter how you go about it, you’re doing it right. In terms of the actual production of the work, Kennedy spoke about Mighty Coconut’s perspective on the game itself. She explained, “The Walkabout folks said something like, ‘this is the most complex of any of our builds’ even though it’s one of the spatially smallest, but a lot of their builds have a lot of space, a lot of planes. This one is all tangles and facets and, you know, leaves and flowers are complicated shapes.” She went on to describe how difficult it is to replicate certain concepts in the virtual world, how an artist has to think in a totally different language. For instance, mirrors in the physical realm are used as a cost saving device. In VR, they’re nearly impossible. Kennedy reflected, “You just can’t do an exact mirror in this space. It’s easier to build a second room that’s flipped and have it look like you’re looking through whatever than to build a mirror that’s reflecting what you’re actually in. Creating reality is really hard. Dealing with the reality of sound bleed in real life is really hard. The things that are so natural — they become problems in one — are so impossible to recreate their problems in the other.” Despite these challenges, the digital world of art-making does create way more accessible options for people to engage with art. Though it isn’t cheap still, it is far less expensive to buy a headset than it is to acquire a huge space, all the materials, and all the help necessary to build a gigantic installation. Kennedy reflects on a dream she has — a Meow Wolf commune. She analyzes, “We can find people, they can find us, we can have proposals, we can work together, we can do all this stuff with a few people that takes years, but other than the ecological implications of server farms, the digital space is open.” She envisions, “We could have people building together as neighbors, like those games where you have a farm and you build a farm and then you can go visit a random farm over and over and be like, ‘I like this farm,’ upvote or see top voted farms … Or top voted cookie shops, you know, they’re all games where you can do that. It’s this quasi-social, quasi-geographic experience that could be done with art and with the virtual.” Meow Wolf’s approach to art is, in many ways, a subversion of the norm no matter which reality it exists in. Kennedy and her team take pride in this new venture into the digital, planting a Meow Wolf stamp on every virtual crevice they find. With this being her first entrance into a VR game like this, she wholeheartedly asks, “What’s weirder than the idea of an art game?” In every inch of the Walkabout x Mighty Coconut x Meow Wolf version of Numina, weird art waits for someone to witness it. When it comes to VR, it expands these realities into multiple layered meta planes. It allows for collaboration on every level, from its most physical form to its more digitized. This is what encourages and welcomes sincere artistic expression — the freedom to truly play with, be inspired by, and learn from one another. ESCAPE INTO THE FUN AND BEAUTIFUL WORLD OF WALKABOUT: MIGHTYCOCONUT.COM/MINIGOLF VISIT THE REAL LIFE NUMINA & MORE AT CONVERGENCE STATION IN DENVER, CO: MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT/DENVER. CHECK OUT MEOW WOLF'S OTHER PORTALS NEAR YOU: SANTA FE, NM; LAS VEGAS, NV; GRAPEVINE, TX; AND COMING SOON ... HOUSTON, TX! MEOWWOLF.COM/VISIT
HUGO-AWARD WINNING FINALIST ALVARO ZINOS-AMARO DEBUTS HIS FIRST NOVEL RELEASED BY COLORADO’S INDEPENDENT PUBLISHING HOUSE HEX PUBLISHERS. “A CLEVERLY BORGESIAN, REALITY-DISTORTING PREMISE ENLIVENS THIS TRIBUTE TO SILVER AGE SF,” (KIRKUS REVIEWS) — EQUIMEDIAN IS AVAILABLE THIS MONTH. Jason Velez lives a mundane existence installing EmuX virtual reality machines — scraping together just enough money to pay for his increasingly unsustainable science fiction collection — when he begins having strange dreams. He knows he has to make some personal changes if he hopes to get his life in order. Except change is exactly what’s happening to those around him. His roommate’s personality suddenly shifts. Jill, his closest single friend, retroactively has a long-term partner. And why doesn’t anyone remember what a wristplex is? Disoriented by these alterations, and suffering from panic attacks and lapses in memory, Jason tries to convince his friends that something is off, and it might have to do with the enigmatic Progress Pilgrims — a mysterious order who can travel microseconds into the future. But if that wasn’t enough, a flyer labeled only EQUIMEDIAN leads Jason to a meditative selfNo. 122 improvement service that seems to know a little too much about Jason for comfort. With his walls closing in and nowhere else to turn, Jason must decide where and how to finally make a stand. If he does, he might just change the world — if the world doesn’t change him first. [Excerpt from EQUIMEDIAN: ] SATURDAY MORNING I wake up feeling weirdly hung over, not from alcohol, but from my trapdoor nightmares. I leave the apartment in a hurry, making my way to a Brooklyn dump called Jackson’s in search of literary bargains. They have none. From there I visit an antique shop that sometimes carries old magazines, and I score three issues of Vertex. One of these has a rubber-stamped address of another shop I’ve never heard of. Something about the address — 106a Court — calls out to me, and the name of the store, The Curio, immediately appeals, so I decide to venture forth and explore. As I head over, I wonder if the place is still in business; the magazine with the stamped address is over ten years old. My speculative excitement grows with each step, and I recall a plethora of “magic shop” stories I read as a teen. When I reach the address, I find that the place still very much exists. I’m both underwhelmed and completely satisfied by its dingy exterior.
Dirty storefront glass reveals the diffuse glow of a faint bulb inside, and the building itself, drab and gray, suggests decrepitude. Herein may lie wonders, I think. A surprisingly young man behind a makeshift counter formed by columns of books watches me approach. To get to him I have to navigate a long, narrow passage between walls crammed from floor to ceiling with books. As I draw near, he sets down a green, jacketless hard-cover with a faded title on its cracked spine, and his gaunt face regards me coolly. “What’re you looking for?” He’s probably fifteen years younger than me. How ridiculous that he should have at his command this vast emporium. “Excuse me,” I say, “are you the proprietor?” “I’m his son.” He scowls. “What do you need?” I’m reassured by his response. Nepotism is one of several satisfying explanations for life’s inimical unfairness and requires no further thought. “Do you carry science fiction?” “Upstairs.” He points in the direction of a rickety staircase and resumes his reading. “Would you mind holding on to these?” I place a bag on the counter, containing my purchases from earlier in the day. “Receipt is inside,” I point out. Wordlessly he takes the bag, which disappears behind the counter. Up I go, emerging on an even dustier second level over-stuffed with books and coin cases and mismatched plates and decorative tiles and incomplete silverware sets and what appear to be broken lamps. After a few valiant heartbeats I study the bookcases, organized in no apparent order. Deep inside this crammed, dusky labyrinth, between stamp-collecting catalogs and railway manuals, I hit the mother lode: three bookcases sagging under the weight of obscure science fiction magazines and paperbacks, again in no decipherable order. I roll up my sleeves and begin the treasure hunt. Within minutes, I claim two issues of Odyssey. Until now, I’d never even heard of this magazine, but these two specimens, the first with its bright golden Kelly Freas cover, the second with its seductive magenta backdrop and stylized ships, steal my breath the moment I spy them on one of this bookstore’s endless shelves. And now that I’ve scanned their contents, my fear of glossy-but-caloricallyempty product has been allayed. The nonfiction has its hooks in me. The first issue, dated Spring 1976, includes “Charlie Brown’s Fan Scene,” as well as book reviews by Ted Sturgeon and Bob Silverberg — and there’s even an interview with Zenna Henderson. The second issue, from Summer 1976, has more reviews by Silverberg, another fan piece by Charlie Brown, and essays by Ackerman, Pohl and Goldin. Looking at the fiction listings, the only author who grabs my attention is Thomas N. Scortia, whose collection a few years back, Caution! Inflammable!, won me over with its Aztec-infused tale “The Goddess of the Cats.” Senora Martin and that mermaid mural — sigh. Those two exclamation marks pack a punch, too. Take that, feeble singleexclamation-mark Dorsai! and Cryptozoic!! The magazines are dusty but are otherwise in acceptable condition, their covers mostly uncreased. They possess the scent of unrealized potential, and they bear the eccentric touch of Roger Elwood, a loony and obsessive editor. He pumped out fifty-five anthologies from 1972 to 1978. I once heard it said that Elwood showed up at a convention where a fan was seeking signatures for his copy of Clute’s Encyclopedia — “The Book” — and when Elwood, who’d never heard of the volume, saw that it contained an entry about him, he proceeded to use the convention hotel’s staff-only photocopier to make himself a copy. Apparently he also once threw cellophane-wrapped sandwiches at the audience of a Lunacon in an attempt to get folks to attend one of his talks. Still, some of Elwood’s misconceived, thoroughly warped projects, like Androids, Time Machines and Blue Giraffes, which Elwood edited with TV publicist Vic Ghidalia, have a certain charm. All of which is to say that despite Elwood being more blemish than medallion, I have a soft spot for him and his work, and it inclines me to like these two magazine issues bearing his imprimatur. The issues’ greatest virtue is probably that they don’t take up much room. I have to think of this now, because once I walk out of here and head back to the apartment, I’m going to be confronted by the reality of my upcoming downsizing. If nothing else, though, I should buy them as a memento of this experience. I finish rifling through the current shelf, but the rest of it turns out to be pretty mundane. I keep going. Time passes in a kind of fugue. Titles start to blur together. Three shelves yield nothing, and I feel my energy wane. But there’s a shot of pick-me-up on the very next shelf, Kenneth Bulmer’s On the Symb-Socket Circuit, which I started reading two years ago, loaned out at a Mayflies gathering, and never received back. Less intriguing but also coming home with me will be Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia, Geoffrey Simmons’ The Adam Experiment and David R. Bunch’s Moderan. I examine them as best I can in the weak light. Is my treacherous right eye acting up again? Two of these paperbacks have hole-punched covers, but are otherwise intact, and the third looks unread. I set them aside along with the magazines. Again, the shelves after this are mostly junk, and the pendulum swings back toward exhaustion. I need fuel. I advise the young man behind the register that I’ll be back shortly to continue scouring the place for more manna. “Knock yourself out,” he says. On my walk I pass a Hardee’s, a Perkins Pancakes and a Bob Evans eatery. I opt for the latter, order one of their “farm-sized” chicken and noodles dishes and leave half the food on my plate. My wristplex tells me about half an hour has passed since I left the Curio, and I hustle back. I receive a surly nod from the cashier and head back to the literary ossuary, now as before, deserted. I’ve barely resumed my efforts when I make out three hardcovers by William Kotzwinkle — isn’t he the writer with whom that Custodian was so enamored? I’ll admit that this trifecta tempts me. Hermes 3000, an unusual Pantheon hardcover, has a pristine jacket, and though Fata Morgana and Herr Nightingale and the Satin Woman, both issued by Knopf, are ex-lib, their worn jacket sleeves can be peeled off without difficulty, as can their spine stamps. The presence of this Pantheon edition puts me on high alert for more British goodies, and this attentiveness pays off when I find a pile of New Worlds Quarterly’s. Anthology number 8 in this series, edited by one Hilary Bailey, has two stories — “The Broken Field” and “Black Hole” — by Nigel Francis, a writer I like, and also two tales by Robert Meadley, whose titles — “Conversations at Ma Maia Metron” and “Love at Lost Sight” — immediately captivate me. And so it continues, until the clerk downstairs calls out, “Fifteen minutes to closing time!” “Be right down,” I yell back. I kick into hyper-mode, assessing and re-assessing my stack of intended purchases with frenetic diligence. I feel guilty about spending any money at all on this stuff, but the store owner clearly has no idea what some of this is worth. Leaving the principle of the thing aside, the books and magazines are in superb condition, and their combined expense won’t make a dent on anything except my grocery money. Besides, if I’m going to reduce my collection to its absolute essentials and sell off most of it, I should allow myself these last additions, which will no doubt enhance the 21
collection’s overall resale value. I sweep the over-stuffed shelves one last time, and as I turn around I notice a flyer sticking out from the middle of the last bookcase. The flyer’s color and sheen distinguish it from its surroundings. Printed on a glossy sheet in deep azure, and neatly inserted atop the book row, it looks brand new. “Closing time,” the clerk hollers. “One second!” I pull the flyer out and glimpse a word printed in a sleek, minimalist, white font: EQUIMEDIAN. Beneath it is a phone number. I fold it in four and stuff it in my pocket. I wend my way down the creaky staircase, both arms loaded, clutching the goods tightly to my chest to keep them from toppling over. As he rings me up, I take another look at the flyer. The word “Equimedian” sounds familiar. Where have I heard it before? Ah yes, Keshawn Lee. In the Custodians meeting he mentioned researching it at the Columbia University library. I deposit the flyer on the desk. “Do you know what this is?” “What?” asks the clerk. “No rebates or coupons, if that’s what you’re after.” “I found this among the stacks,” I say. “Congratulations.” “Looks brand new.” He continues with his arithmetic. “It wasn’t in the science fiction section when I went out for food. I would have noticed it. But it was there when I came back.” “You’re a regular Jules de Grandin.” “My point is that someone left this flyer here during the short time I was away.” “You do realize you’re not the only customer who’s been in here today, right?” His tone wordlessly adds “Thank God for that.” “Do you happen to remember who went upstairs when I was gone? I was away for maybe thirty-five minutes.” “No clue,” he says. “Try.” “I just did.” I wave at the cash register. “I’ll pay you twice whatever you were going to charge me if you try harder.” His forehead stiffens. “Sorry.” Defeated, I refold and repocket the flyer. He bags up my purchases, in a manner more haphazard than I’d like, and I pay and leave. Two subway lines later I’m back at the apartment. When I walk in Leon is standing at the edge of the kitchen. “Hey,” he says. “Hey.” “Wow.” He points at the bags. “And that is?” I stop. “None of your business.” He jeers and juts forward. “More books, isn’t it?” “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Jason, I really don’t care what you read or how you spend your time,” he says. “But I am seriously concerned about the clutter. And the hygiene.” “I’ll have your rent on time,” I say. “What I do in my room is my concern.” I walk to my bedroom, set the bags down and close the door. I sit on my bed and catch my breath. I’m surprised by the apartment’s stillness. It’s gloomy. Invasive. The silence is loud. The trapdoor dreams float up to my consciousness and swim around in No. 122 my thoughts. To avoid them, I start unpacking my haul. The very first book I pick out of the bag has a gash in the cover that I could have sworn wasn’t there when I bought it. The next two paperbacks have obnoxious lime-colored price-stickers that I hadn’t noticed on the rear covers, which, as I find out by clawing at them, won’t come off without peeling away part of the book. The next stack of magazines is mostly okay, though they appear older and more frail than they looked under the Curio’s dim lights. I lay everything out on the bed and do a quick count: seventy-two paperbacks, six hardcovers, and forty-three back issues of rare magazines. I should be shivering with pleasure, with a sense of accomplishment, but as I take a cold, hard look at the display, I mumble, “This looks like a pile of trash.” What was I thinking? I grab a couple of items at random and hold them up to the light. The artwork hues and the aged tint of the pages seem to change before my eyes. I squint and look only through my good eye, the left one. My breath catches in my throat. The world looks slightly blurry. Recently I’ve been seeing these weblike “floaters” and there are more than the last time I checked. Holding the books up much closer, they finally resolve themselves into detail and texture. My eyesight appears to have worsened — a lot. Each thud of my heart tolls disappointment and self-chastisement. I feel myself slouch. I have barely enough willpower to slide all this junk off the bed and toss it into the bags in which I dragged it up here. I sit for a while, hearing things I don’t want to hear, whispers from the relentless demon of self-doubt. I turn off the lights and lie down, fully clothed, and something brushes against my right leg. I reach down and pull out a flyer from my pocket. Its surface shimmers. The letters on the flyer spelling out EQUIMEDIAN emit a faint light. The letters become bioluminescent creatures, roaming through the coral sea of my bed, swimming towards the island that is my life. The creatures lodge themselves in my mind. The phone number right below the word occupies me. Without turning on the light, I reach toward the phone on my night table. I dial the number. GET A COPY OF EQUIMEDIAN: HEXPUBLISHERS.COM | AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE ALVARO ZINOS-AMARO IS A HUGO- AND LOCUS-AWARD FINALIST WHO HAS PUBLISHED OVER FIFTY STORIES, AS WELL AS OVER A HUNDRED ESSAYS, REVIEWS, AND INTERVIEWS, IN A VARIETY OF PROFESSIONAL MAGAZINES AND ANTHOLOGIES. THESE VENUES INCLUDE ANALOG, BENEATH CEASELESS SKIES, GALAXY’S EDGE, NATURE, VASTARIEN: A LITERARY JOUÅVRNAL, THE LOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS, LOCUS, TOR.COM/REACTOR, STRANGE HORIZONS, THE YEAR’S BEST SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY, CYBER WORLD, THIS WAY TO THE END TIMES, THE UNQUIET DREAMER, NOX PAREIDOLIA, THE BOOK OF EXTRAORDINARY FEMME FATALE STORIES, MULTIVERSES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF ALTERNATE REALITIES, AND MANY OTHERS. TRAVELER OF WORLDS: CONVERSATIONS WITH ROBERT SILVERBERG WAS PUBLISHED IN 2016 TO CRITICAL ACCLAIM. BEING MICHAEL SWANWICK, ALVARO'S SECOND BOOK OF INTERVIEWS, APPEARED IN 2023. EQUIMEDIAN IS ALVARO’S DEBUT NOVEL. HEX PUBLISHERS IS COLORADO’S INDEPENDENT PUBLISHING HOUSE PROUDLY SPECIALIZING IN GENRE FICTION: HORROR, SCIENCE FICTION, CRIME, DARK FANTASY, COMICS, AND ANY OTHER FORM THAT EXPLORES THE IMAGINATION. FOUNDED BY WRITERS, HEX VALUES BOTH THE AUTHOR AND THE READER, WITH AN EMPHASIS ON QUALITY, DIVERSITY, AND VOICES OFTEN OVERLOOKED BY THE MAINSTREAM.
DAVE DANZARA - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
Manuel Of Omaha Dinosaurs will fuck ur shit up. Art by Erik Rogers Therizinosaurus Velociraptors bullying a protoceratops No. 122
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THE OWL OF WOODRUFF BY ZAC DUNN The air is escaping through the vent So outside into the snow I went Looking for the old cold little boy who was once so brutally annoyed Gazing in the vacuum expanding endlessly Into sublime silence He would speak of another place Far away that was the opposite of where we stood A place of lights and humans and filth and crime A place of vice and excess of choices expanded to extensions Spelled out neon and steel He spoke of himself tragically Thrown all alone like a stone From his aging folks more surprised to see him than them Always hungry and ambitious As the snow falls and I crawl up the block to Sprinkle the salt so souls don’t slip I wonder about the cold night he told me that he disappeared Somewhere between the Deuce and Penn he said The inner aorta of the pulsing ugly thing That was bigger and badder, kinder and more sublime Bathed in the torrents of humans like The sun chasing the moon rising and falling But never recalling where they came from long enough to forget Where they were SANDY would lace his boots and put on a long woolen coat before putting The long string that contained his keys around his neck As he stepped out of the door He clutched a tiny hand-painted LEAD KNIGHT for luck As the flakes coated the granite and tar block leading down Woodruff an OWL somehow stopped long enough upon A bit of spalted ASH to behold a small person who seemed So all on his own that for a brief moment the snow and the COLD Made him utterly disappear And swallow him WHOLE FOLLOW FOR MORE WORK — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @WTFCRAIGSLISTNYC No. 122
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BY TOM MURPHY ACIDBAT – DEAD SUN EP “Beaver Moon” begins with a finely processed progressive beat like an acid version of “On the Run” by Pink Floyd including the warbling off-center sonics. The pacing and rhythm warp and stretch but reassert an urgent forward motion with rapid hi-hat shimmer. It sets the expectation for the 4-song EP that pairs rattling percussion and processed textures with ghostly abstract melodies as on “Cabrone.” And it provides an enhanced depth of sonic field that guides the production throughout so that individual sounds occupy a place in the mix at varying distances. On the title track tones ring out and fade like strings plucked, while an insectoid fuzz of synth pulses, trading duties with a more low-end sound so that the music takes on dimensional space — like getting to be at some grimy dubtechno club in your mind that fans of early Aphex Twin and Autechre will appreciate greatly. ALIEN GOTHIC – HIGH AND DRY Ryan Policky of A Shoreline Dream fame and his compatriot on the latest Genessier EP, Andy Urmacher, collaborated on this album full of surprisingly grimy and gritty production and guitar. ASD’s sound is so often more dreamlike, uplifting yet frequently dark melodies, whereas Genessier is more Skinny Puppy-esque spooky soundscaping. Alien Gothic is like a fusion of both into something darker and more sinister as a commentary on the current state of culture and its feedback loop of algorithmic associations that, because they aren’t organic, often leave people feeling unsatisfied and empty. There are soaring moments of epic deathrock here which are often lo-fi enough to seem as authentic as a found practice space tape by an unknown band. Pretty chords are replaced with buzzsaw edginess, but never without a haunted quality alongside it in the end. Song to song it’s a monument to modern alienation and isolation in grand Goth shoegaze tones. CALAMITY – CHIROMANCY Kate Hannington’s economy of songwriting across this album is impressive, especially considering it feels fully realized and tonally colored in with its spareness and spaciousness that invites the listener in closer for her stories. Assembling finely crafted guitar riffs with electronic and some live percussion along with synths and field recordings, Hannington gives us a true sense of place physically and emotionally with these songs. Her commanding yet vulnerable vocals always feel like an anchoring presence in the songwriting, like she's putting the direct human experience of the inspiration of the songs first and orchestrating a flow of textures and tones around that. Hannington relates painful experiences and the realization of hard realities but offers a respite from being sunk by them. The title track, as it were, “Palm Reader” seems to be about being observant and reading the signs but not always being able to benefit from one’s keen perceptions, and in the end not feeling beholden to other people’s “vibes.” Is it an indie album? Sure. A shoegaze/dream pop record? You could be into this if you’re into that. But whatever categories seem to suit Calamity, it’s the astute human commentary and the always evocative songwriting that keeps you listening. COMBAT SPORT – CELESTIA SUFFERS The rapid percussion with pulsing bass underneath and triumphant melodies of the album’s title track wouldn’t be out of place in the realm of 90s hard trance. Something about the production here emphasizes a buoyancy to the rhythm with the synths sustaining an expansive spirit. Combat Sport doesn’t wear you out with the nonstop adrenaline rush of the music. At the beginning of “Desiderium,” there is a break before the pounding drums come in for a moment then fade, allowing rapid pulsing sounds that dissolve beautifully and give way to other elements in the mix. It’s a subtle way of varying the set if this was something you experienced live at a rave. Combat Sport has clearly been to many raves and brings that awareness to this album that isn’t just dance music, but an expression and purging of melancholy and anxiety. It never gets monotonous and is simply an example of how this music can have real emotional resonance beyond the dance floor. FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM
Stray Cat SmuT By Nate Balding Unaccepted as an archetype by a youthful Carl Jung trapped shivering within his dream-fevers, she rocks back and forth in the shadowy corners of aging homes on every block in America, surrounded by her feline companions. Her form is rooted as deeply in the human psyche as the necessity of breath, or the knowledge that the only thing keeping the InN-Out Double-Double from being considered overrated is the option to order it Animal Style. She is The Forlorn. The Dejected. The Maiden and The Crone spurned by society with its endlessly dubious inquiries. She is the Crazy Cat Lady and hers is the story of love. Cards on the table, this Valentine edition of Werewolf Radar does feature cats, ladies, love (after a fashion) and events perhaps considered crazy if you’re some sort of modern-day Phyllis Schlafly taking your rightful place No. 122 as lead kink-shamer for the Prude Boys. The focus, however, requires we imagine a Byronic near-mythical Kelly Slater surfing across the Pacific and shooting the curl of time to wash up on the shores of Edo period Japan. A place where would-be 2020 Olympian Kanoa Igarashi is all, “What’s up old man? I hope you brought your gold medal game because this is my beach and trespassers have to crush before they can party.” Free license surf rock emerges from nowhere and The Kids™ gather round for an ol’ fashioned Beach Blanket Banger. Slater and Kanoa paddle into battle where the only real winner can be the boundless sea. In the end, both lie breathless on the warm sand and Kanoa gives Slater the goahead, enemies no more. KAWANABE KYŌSAI UTAGAWA KUNIYOSHI UTAGAWA KUNIYOSHI
“What brings you to our storied shores, Kel?” “Cat ladies.” “Righteous.” Slater follows dusk’s slow crawl over the sand, toward the city, leaving the fires of go-go jubilation in his wake. He’s guided by strange tales recounted in a cheaply-purchased sharenbon — travelogs for the pleasure districts. Among these first-hand accounts of restaurants, kabuki plays and inns where one might meet a companion-for-a-fee, are tales of supernatural occurrences. One is a story about Kono, a bakeneko — reductive translation: shape-shifting cat — working as a meshimori onna entertaining men at the Ise Inn in the Shinagawa-juku area. A similar tale recounts a man witnessing his amant pour la nuit — reductive translation: sex worker — now transformed into a cat-person, feasting on a human arm, remnants of her shrimp cocktail appetizer scattered across the floor. Slater pursues rumor into the underbelly of Edo. He makes no deference for anonymity or guile in his inquiries, whether it’s with degenerate gamblers in the back rooms of sketchy inns or a street-side throng of unruly samurai collecting their lord’s debts. It takes little time for a woman to approach him with answers: “The gentleman prefers the company of bakeneko yūjo. Purrrrfect choice. Allow me to show you my wares.” She proffers a series of intricately detailed watercolors of women with felid heads. Many of them are in consort with seemingly happy men, holding hands on a walk or taking a picnic at a crossroads. Co-ed interspecies mouth-fishing, a description of which is an adventure you choose. Whatever you came up with, gold star! You’re correct! “Once our kind were feared. Kaibyō sent from hell to steal corpses or curse children or dance upright with napkins draping our heads [Author’s Note: All things people absolutely believed. Carry on]. But now— ” gesturing to the images, “— now we are famous across every island. Sought by people of means for our more … exotic traits. In the brothels of Yoshiwara where dreams and reality are intertwined so acutely that boundaries lose meaning. Physical … mental … emotional …” Entranced, Slater swoons like an undersexed character in a Joe Eszterhas erotic thriller — Showgirls if everyone in the cast knew it was a comedy. He drifts into wanton emptiness; falling for this cat-woman, for her enigmatic wiles. Drawing on his decades of world-class surfing, he recalls all the spills it took to achieve greatness; the necessity of embracing the flow, understanding the waves; becoming part of the greater, not to conquer it but to collude. In what he refers to as his mind-egg, when he’s positive nobody’s listening to his thoughts, he douses the furry puff most humans recognize as a feeling synonymous to “pleasant” with a deluge of sea-foam. “I … love … the OCEAN!” he shrieks, breaking the enchantment. “Suit yourself, aquaman. We could have been beautiful together.” The crazy cat lady, true to form, eschews this human as easily as she’d attached. For her, there’s always another. A love yet unfound, simultaneously deep and petty. Schrödinger’s conversation of candy hearts. Happy Valentine’s Day, you self-actualized singles out there. 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.
NICK FLOOK, DREAM GUARDIAN - @FLOOKO
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