ISSUE 136 | APRIL 2025 THE DEEP: KRYSTI JOMÉI LOST AT SEA: JONNY DESTEFANO FALSE BAY: JULIANNA BECKERT MARIANA TRENCH: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI SIGNAL FLARE: CRISTIN COLVIN THE SHADOW KNOWS: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH CAPE TOWN: MEGAN ARENSON SURF PUNKS: AMANDA SHAFER VANISHING: ALAN ROY FRONT COVER: PETE KORNOWSKI, STEPPING INTO THE LIGHT 2 - @PETEKORNOWSKI BACK COVER: JOSH KEYES, LINDA - @JOSHKEYES.ART OPEN WATER: PETE KORNOWSKI, JAMES HATTAWAY, ERIC JOYNER, JORDAN DOLL, ZAC DUNN, JOEL TAGERT, JASH TRACEY, JASON WHITE, HANA ZITTEL, DAVE DANZARA, BRIAN POLK, TOM MURPHY, SIENA GOLDMAN, ROB GINSBERG, PETER GLANTING, JOSH KEYES WHAT LURKS BENEATH: JOE VAUX, FINNEAS SHAFER, CLAIRE ÅKEBRAND, LUKE ANDERSON, ANDREA BARTINE CALDARISE, MARVEL CHUKWUDI PEPHEL, LERA RYBAKOW, CREATICKLE, VALERIIA VOLOKHOVA SEAL ISLAND: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, CRISTIN COLVIN SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS AND BENEFACTORS: DENVER ART MUSEUM, DENVER COMEDY UNDERGROUND, MUTINY COFFEE & COMICS, DENVER THEATRE DISTRICT, UNDERSTUDY, MONKEY BARREL, ART CARD DISPATCH, BLACK MONARCH HOTEL, MEOW WOLF, OOQZA, BROOM BOOK & CANDLE: HORROR WRITERS RETREAT, MONKEY MINDFUL TRANSFORMATIONAL COACHING, CITY, O' CITY, WATERCOURSE FOODS, COLORADO SUN TOFU, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, BRASSWORKS GALLERY, BENNY BLANCO'S, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | BSKY + FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT OUR ARTIST-RUN MAGAZINE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS AFLOAT, BUCKETS OF WATER MONTHLY ©2025 BIRDY MAGAZINE, I'LL CATCH THIS BIRD FOR YOU 1 SHADOW, ART BY JAMES HATTAWAY, STORYBOARD BY JONNY DESTEFANO - BEST OF BIRDY 004
| BEST OF BIRDY 038 STOP EVERYTHING. If you are eating dinner, throw that shit out the window. If you are walking your dog, set him free. If you are driving a car, step out, walk away, and let it roll into the ocean. Because what I am about to tell you is going to turn your entire world upside down. Get this: According to a video circulating the deep web, Bigfoot is real. I know! I know. I was skeptical at first too. Seems like every few months a new Bigfoot video drops and the internet goes all ape-spit. Dissecting and scrutinizing it. Pointing out plot holes and comparing it to Bigfoot’s earlier work until it is inevitably exposed as a hoax. But things are different this time. YouTuber Peter Caine has proof. Proof in the form of body parts. Most notably, Mr. Caine claims to be in possession of one of Bigfoot’s big ol’ feet. And he is not shy about showing you. Over the course of about two weeks in 2017, Mr. Caine quietly, but brazenly, released a number of videos on his YouTube channel depicting the unboxing and subsequent poking and prodding of various animal bits which he claims to be the frozen remains of a dismembered Bigfoot. No doubt a startling development for most of Mr. Caine’s regular subscribers as his channel normally focuses on dog training videos. No. 136 Mr. Caine claims the body parts come from a creature his father encountered in 1972 while hunting in a patch of “mush cane.” The creature allegedly charged at his father, at which point he shot it (possibly with a grenade launcher judging by the way it apparently exploded into a million pieces). He then dragged the corpse home where he wrapped the pieces in brown paper, and selflessly froze them for future generations instead of selling them for a gajillion dollars. The videos themselves are wildly entertaining. Mr. Caine is something like a cross between a dangerously caffeinated Marc Maron and your dad’s war buddy, “Patches,” who doesn’t trust Netflix (“Who’s watchin’ who, man?!”). He comports himself with all the pissed off earnestness of a man who has had been pushed too far; A man who has a goddamn Bigfoot arm in his freezer and is sick of people making wild allegations to the contrary. At the top of each video, Mr. Caine usually takes a few moments to scream vulgarities at his detractors before excitedly unwrapping the Bigfoot limb in question like it is the spookiest Christmas morning of all time. The body parts themselves are actually pretty convincing. They definitely appear to be from some brand of hairy hominid, and look suitably frozen and icky for something that has been rattling ERIC JOYNER, T-REX MUTATES INTO LEGO BRICKS - ERICJOYNER.COM
around in the Caine’s freezer for a few decades, likely making all the ice cream taste weird and serving as legal grounds for, I would guess, no fewer than three of his divorces. Throughout the video series, Mr. Caine reveals that he is the proud owner of a Bigfoot forearm/hand section, a pair of Bigfoot kidneys, and of course, a Bigfoot foot and ankle. He is refreshingly “hands-on” with his trophies and really shows us what they can do. Slamming them around to exhibit their weight, pointing out anatomical consistencies like skin and bone marrow, and describing the acrid, piney odor that allegedly wafts off the meat. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The real show begins when a YouTube commenter suggests that the “bones don’t look right” and that Mr. Caine’s enormous frozen Bigfoot foot, the crown jewel of his collection, is a forgery. Mr. Caine responds with all the measured calmness one might expect from a dude with a freezer full of monster meat. By whipping out a blow dryer and an enormous bowie knife and performing one of the most gripping backyard Bigfoot dissections I have ever seen, thawing and cutting away the frozen flesh to reveal that the foot does indeed comply with the modern understanding of primate physiology. Then, as something of an afterthought, he lops off a goodly chunk of squatch-meat, and calmly informs the viewer that he intends to eat it. To eat it so as to cement his place in the “record books.” Now, I could go on for some time detailing my reservations about consuming the 40-year-old flesh of a mythical swamp ape. There are, of course, the ethical questions inherent in the eating of the most important discovery in the history of modern primatology. There is the almost 100 percent certainty of developing some horrific strain of magical swamp-diarrhea. And perhaps, most alarmingly, there are the inevitable existential ramifications of attempting to eat something that may or may not even exist. But something tells me that Mr. Caine’s mind is made up. And I, for one, salute him. It’s his damn Bigfoot meat and he should do whatever the hell he wants with it, which for some reason, I imagine should be made into some kind of stroganoff. Not sure why. Just feels right. I could prattle on for pages about the hilarious, deep web spectacle that is Peter Caine’s YouTube presence, but you should really just go and watch him for yourself over at youtube.com/petercainedogtraining. From his claims that he is working with Carnegie Mellon University to get Bigfoot named after him (Cainus Skunkus Apis), to the cameos from his many animal companions, to the “notes from his father,” that he occasionally discovers secreted away within Bigfoot’s burial wrappings, the whole thing is just plain old good programming. A cursory review of Mr. Caine’s previous videos will reveal that he is both a Bigfoot enthusiast and a prankster. Most of his videos exhibit a sort of tongue-in-cheek humor to suggest he is just goofing around with just enough of a “conspiracy wingnut” stank about them to keep things interesting. Plus, I get the distinct impression that Mr. Caine is building up to something. Like we ain’t seen nothing yet. Like, if this whole thing doesn’t end with the ceremonial unboxing of Bigfoot’s dick, I would be VERY surprised. Now you wouldn’t want to miss that, would you? 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. 3
JOE VAUX, CHERISHED MOMENTS - IG + BSKY: @JOEVAUX
BY ZAC DUNN The typhoon moon pulls the wings batting into the center of the serpentine spire woven into cloven hooves encircling the cardinal’s beak of bleak nibbles upon prancing pink eye pony’s lonely only grifting stardusted particles in vertical arcs spellbound like the hellhounds chasing after furry critters that can’t hide or deliver passenger pigeon ninja scrolls as Saturn spins slings of rocks that shiver the scepter of specters FOLLOW FOR MORE IG: @UZIEGO TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYCV 5
BY JOEL TAGERT BEST OF BIRDY 054 I tell ya, it’s getting so you can’t take a dame to an abandoned beach no more without some giant bug trying to crunch you between its mouth-hooks. There I was with my client, Ms. Harriet Flores, when this giant ant comes over the rise, and it looks red, mean, huge and hungry. I stand up lickety-split, pulling my bean-squirter. I look once at Flores, who’s looking right back at me, and then the ant is rushing us. But I didn’t spend six years in Uncle Sam’s shooting club for nothing, so I put a slug right in one of its ugly eyes, and down it goes, flailing its legs and stirring up a cloud of sand right in our faces. When I’m done spitting grit, I grab Flores’ hand. “Come on, we gotta run.” She stands, but none too quickly. “What for? It’s dead.” “You ever see just one ant at a picnic? Come on!” Seems like lately I been seeing ants everywhere. Must be how some hop-heads feel, always scratching imaginary bugs, only mine are real and oversized. Last Wednesday, this guy by the name of Selva comes into my office. He’s clean-cut and in a good suit, so I figure maybe he’s got some dough. Then he says he’s a civil rights lawyer, so I reconsider. But I hear him out. No. 136 “People are dying in the fields,” he says. “Three so far. The others are terrified, but they don’t want to talk to the police.” “What people?” “Migrant workers. Fruit pickers.” “I thought that was all done by ants these days.” You see ‘em all the time, driving around California — little black knee-high buggers tending the crops. Helluva lot cheaper than paying any kind of human. “Ants are best for low plants.” He puts his hand at his waist. “For orchards, not as good. So there are still humans. This is in the orange orchards in Riverside.” Seems three workers are picking oranges in the sky now. He shows me pictures, and they aren’t pretty. Looks like someone went at ‘em with a machete. “Hard to believe the police aren’t looking into it.” “They think it’s maybe gangs from Mexico, drugs. But it’s not. And right next door to the orchards is a military base, and they don’t answer questions.” I’m about to tell him if the Army’s involved, there isn’t much I can do — I’m a private dick, not a spy — but he pulls out three C-notes and I shut my yap. I promise no results, but for that many berries, I’ll give it the old college try.
The Riverside base has fences twelve feet high and electrified, miles of ‘em, and some big warehouses in the distance. The guards at the gate eye me as I cruise past slow on the highway. No way am I getting in there. But I have my own sources. Find out there’s a lot of animal feed getting shipped in there, and a lot of scientists going in and out. Word is it’s some kind of testing facility, but no one’ll say what they’re testing. A week later Flores shows up. She’s real put together, like a Swiss watch, and about as complicated. “Are you Ray Denton?” “What it says on the door. What can I do you for?” She says she’s looking for her sister, who disappeared a few days prior. Probably her sis has just run off, but she insists otherwise. “We were staying at a beach house down by San Clemente. I went out for groceries, and when I came back she was gone.” I tell her my rates, and here again she pulls out two Benjamins and forks ‘em over. My lucky month. So we pile in her convertible and head south to look at the beach house. The Pacific’s blue and the breeze is fresh. Here and there are cars by the side of the road where people have pulled over to swim or to ride horses, which they do around here — just before we stop, I notice two silver horse trailers. When we’re parked, she takes a little perfume and dabs it on her wrists and neck. “Is this a date now?” I ask. “Anything’s possible,” she says, archly. And before we even get to the house, she asks if we can stop a minute. “Let’s just enjoy the view for a bit.” I’m getting paid, so I’m perfectly amendable, and maybe she wants to tell me something. I’m about to ask her what the deal is when the ant shows up. With the first ant dead, we run, and I swear she’s slowing me down the whole way back to the car. With twenty yards to go I spot three more of the big red suckers, and hoo boy, can they move. I fire at one and hit it, judging from the squeal it makes, and tell Flores to give me the keys. “I can drive,” she protests. It is her car, after all. I show her the business end of the revolver. “Keys now, lady!” We burn rubber out of there, and damned if the bugs don’t keep pace for half a mile. Then we’re doing sixty-five and they’re out of sight. Fifteen minutes later I pull over. “You want to tell me what this is really about?” She tightens her lips. “I think you’re going to have to tell me.” “All right, I will. You don’t have a sister, never did, and there’s nothing much in that house. You drove me out here to take care of a problem, and maybe to give your damn bugs some practice. You brought the ants out here in those trailers, and put that scent on right before heading out. I’m betting it’s some kind of pheromone to let ‘em know not to kill you. It stinks, by the way. “Whoever you are, you work for someone at the base at Riverside, and you’re cooking up something nasty — for real Army ants that will only attack the enemy. But one got out and decided to see how the locals taste. That about the size of it?” She sneers. “What if it is? What are you going to do about it?” “I’m going to kick you out of this car, is what.” So I do. Then I keep heading north, looking for someplace scenic, cold and giant-insectfree. 7
JASH TRACEY, CAR CRASH - BEST OF BIRDY 027
WITH JASON WHITE INTERVIEW BY KRYSTI JOMÉI Chicago artist Jason White uses pen, ink and oil to create eye candy, portraits and scenes of otherworldly creatures often interacting with morphed, peculiar people in curious fantasy environments. His illustrations and paintings are seemingly riddled with a deep sense of humor and child-like play, but dig a little deeper and it’s clear that his work is multilayered. An almost personal journal turned fever dream world, his art often invokes our own nostalgic memories or even cuts straight to the heart of experiences that we too might have undergone or are currently going through. Whenever Jason shares a piece, it’s like a little dose of we’re-in-this-together medicine and a reminder that life maybe isn’t meant to be all figured out. And with that, we might as well have a little fun along the way. I had the honor of interviewing Jason for the debut of Draw Your Answers. HOW WAS YOUR EXPERIENCE AS A CHILD ON THE BOZO SHOW? Okay, my crying on the Bozo Show story: When I was maybe around 8, I got to be in the studio audience for a taping of the Bozo Show in Chicago. It was bizarre for me because I loved watching the show and now I was IN the show, watching Bozo, Cooky, Wizzo and Frazier Thomas. Oh, golly! Bozo was played by Bob Bell, who was the inspiration for Krusty the Clown [of The Simpsons] because of his loud and abrasive voice. I remember how intense his presence was in person. Imagine a furious Tom Waits screaming in the room constantly. So back then, the method to pick the two contestants for Bozo Buckets was by having the camera go helter-skelter over the audience with a blinking arrow at the center of the screen, and whomever the arrow was pointing at when the camera froze was chosen. Later on, the method of picking contestants changed to them just pulling names from a drum — possibly because of what was about to happen to me. So in the studio, they rolled out some TVs so the audience could see the stupid arrow bounce around the crowd. Well, when the arrow stopped, it was at the top of my head, and also kind of on the kid sitting in the row behind me — the arrow tip was right on the edge of us. I remember feeling clueless as hands pushed me towards the stage, but the other kid was also headed to the stage. So on camera, you see me looking up at Frazier Thomas, with my bowl cut and he says, “We don’t want you, son. We want the other boy. We want the other boy.” Then you see me turn and head back to my seat. When the other boy starts with his go at the Bozo Buckets, tossing the ping-pong balls at the buckets, you notice everyone in the audience isn’t watching, they’re looking at the crying boy. I stole the show. There was several minutes of this — my weeping red face in the No. 136 audience. I remember being confused and embarrassed, and how Bozo seemed to be constantly screaming. After the show, they have the audience walk passed the camera and wave on the way out of the studio during closing credits, which I did. Then, as we were slowly shuffling down a hall towards the parking lot, Cooky came running after me. He said something nice and gave me a Nerf football. WHEN DID YOU KNOW YOU WERE AN ARTIST? In kindergarten my class was asked to draw a dog in our workbook. I drew a bulldog face that made everyone dump themselves with disbelief. Everyone else drew these messed up dogs that looked like a caveman drew a stick person’s dog poorly. My fellow students and the teacher gathered around me to see this bulldog face, with its nose and cheek flaps and all that. That was the moment I noticed I was an artist. GIVE US A SNAPSHOT OF YOUR CURRENT CREATIVE SPACE.
IF YOU COULD BRING ONE OF YOUR CHARACTERS TO LIFE, WHAT/ WHO WOULD IT BE? WE’RE ALWAYS SO BLOWN AWAY BY THE VOLUME OF WORK YOU PUMP OUT. WHAT KEEPS YOU MOTIVATED TO KEEP CREATING? Ever since I can remember, I would draw a lot. My mother said my grandmother would often encourage me to draw from early on. Drawing just happens automatically. I tried to think of why or how I’m motivated to draw so much, almost constantly, but it just happens. It’s enjoyable to see technical improvement over time and getting better with visualizing ideas with practice. I always have a pen and paper on me. WHAT SCARES YOU? NOTE: BUG CATS WAS MADE IN JANUARY 2023. WHAT DO YOU LOVE TO DO OUTSIDE OF MAKING ART? 11
BIGGEST ARTISTIC INFLUENCES. FAVORITE CREATURES. FAVORITE MOVIE. FAVORITE SONG. “Poet Bums” by Robert Pollard FOLLOW JASON TO SEE MORE OF HIS WORK - IG: @JASON_WHITE_ART No. 136
By Hana Zittel Death Takes Me by Cristina Rivera Garza, Translated by Robin Myers and Sarah Booker (2025) Cristina Rivera Garza doesn’t run for exercise. She runs for the mental challenge and the pure pleasure of reaching the euphoric state of endorphin release. When she runs, it’s not on the streets or in parks, but in the alleys of the city, where danger is elevated and the unusual occurs. During a run, she stumbles upon a dead body, the first time this has happened. The man is the victim of a brutal murder, castrated and left in the alley accompanied by a block of text sprawled on a brick wall nearby written in nail polish. When a detective interviews her for the investigation, she questions Rivera Garza about the text. As a writer and professor she recognizes the words as the work of Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik. As more castrated and murdered men start to show up around the city with Pizarnik’s words as a calling card, the detective and Garza become more intertwined. Though Garza includes herself as one of the main characters, Death Takes Me is a work of fiction, and one that rejects the conformity of genre or literary expectations. At its root a mystery tale that inverts gendered violence, this novel ventures into sections with varied viewpoints and dips into the diary of Pizarnik, creating a unique amalgam of story forms and pacing. Living in Mexico, Garza was constantly confronted with news of murdered women inspiring the violence in Death Takes Me, focusing on men as victims instead. In a NPR interview, Garza states, “We live in societies that have high tolerance for the suffering of women and that has invited the perpetration of violence against women. To me, it was really important to swap these places to see that even though in Spanish the word victim is always feminine — it’s La Victima. So what do we do when we are faced with this violence that is perpetrated specifically against men for sexual reasons?” Cristina Rivera Garza’s Death Takes Me is crafty, subversive and a masterful work that serves as a worthy follow up to the 2023 English language release of her Publisher Prize winning memoir, Liliana’s Invincible Summer. The Most Foreign Country by Alejandra Pizarnik, Translated by Yvette Siegert (2017) and time strangulated my star but its essence will go on existing in my atemporal interior shine, oh essence of my star! Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik’s first collection of poetry was published in 1955, when the writer was just 19 years old. This collection, La tierra más ajena, in the original Spanish, was only released in English in 2017 translated by Yvette Siegert and released by Ugly Duckling Presse. A collection that serves as a youthful introduction to the renowned, surrealist poet, The Most Foreign Country provides a glimpse into Pizarnik’s evolving writing. In these poems, she dwells on love and writing and plays with abstract metaphors. Her obsession with poetry, prose and carefully chosen words ring through these early poems, which uphold the intensity of her later work. Pizarnik went on to receive both a Guggenheim and a Fulbright Fellowship, publishing more poetry collections, among other styles of writing. She worked as a translator, magazine writer and literary critic, living in both Paris and Buenos Aires. In 1972, Alejandra Pizarnik took her own life at age 36. The power of her work continues to outlive her with a complete collection of her diaries set to be released in Spanish in spring 2025. No. 136
FINNEAS SHAFER (AGE 5), PRINT IS UNDEAD | SKELETON | ROBOTS 15
DAVE DANZARA, GAME OVER - BEST OF BIRDY 122 - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS
ZOMBOIDS THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE BY MARVEL CHUKWUDI PEPHEL ART BY LERA RYBAKOW
The ship had capsized a night before. Mayday calls weren't answered, at least not on time. Perhaps because the captain who called didn't give adequate details before drowning. People died. The ship was gone without a trace, gravity showing its earthly omnipresence. When rescue copters and boats arrived, the sea was already hissing with satisfaction, roaring with defiance each time the waves moved and crashed at the shores. Everyone aboard the Space B ship had just disappeared, as many as fifteen thousand. The belly of the sea had been overfed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Rescue copters and ships returned, mission unaccomplished. The gist was that the almost infallible ship was bombed by international enemies of progress. But a week later, the sea saw a man rise from its belly. The man, in a bid to survive, swam desperately towards the shores. He looked horrified. He couldn't imagine being dead. He couldn't imagine being a juicy bite for sharks nor was he ready to rot several nautical miles beneath. He swam, on and on, beating the waters furiously. With unquantifiable strength and fear, it was a miracle that he made it up alive. He knew this and also knew he must make good use of the luck given to him. He swam, he swam, he swam. His breathing was fast and showed signs of fatigue. But yet still, he swam and never stopped. He knew he needed to survive. He knew he had one life to live. He swam and swam and swam. Finally, by dint of hardwork and faith, he made it to the shores. He reached there exhausted and temporarily out of his mind. He lay on his back and tried to catch his breath, cursing himself and the sea softly. His stomach appeared engorged, perhaps he had swallowed too much water. He was here alone. He was here all by himself, lost and alive. The gigantic Space B ship had suddenly disappointed for the first time since its creation. He had also boarded the famous ship for the first time. There on the ground, his bloodshot eyes blinked now and then. The sun was yet to be out in its shining glory — it was just early morning. He felt something wasn't right in his trousers. He quickly put his hand through his zipper and fought to stop his discomfort. Out of the zipper came a fierce-looking small fish. Angrily, he raised his other hand and crushed the fish with his two palms. Impulsively, or just a result of plain hunger, he bit off the fish's head and began to extricate its flesh — flesh which found its way into his mouth from time to time till the fish was nothing but a long bone, till the fish was gone. With pain, he tried to lay himself on his side. He managed to do that, spitting out little bones from his mouth. Everything was coming to his mind now with a cold feat of disbelief. HE WAS THE ONLY SURVIVOR AMONGST FIFTEEN THOUSAND PASSENGERS. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get up. He placed his two hands on the ground and raised himself slowly with a groan. Gradually, he stood. Standing slightly erect on his feet now, he began to look around. He combed the environment surrounding him with his eyes. He knew he was lost on this strange island. He could hear the noises of birds and the noises of animals he couldn't decipher. He looked back just in time to duck a big strange bird charging towards him. He stood as the bird flew past and cursed it. He had wanted to walk away when he saw the bird charging towards him again. With anger and defense on his mind, he took a stance and grabbed its strong wing. In the fight that ensued, he angrily broke the bones of the wing in his grip and smashed the bird on the ground, denying it the opportunity to use the beak it had turned towards him. The bird began burrowing a hole in the process. He charged towards it immediately and stood on its neck. This was it — he had killed a stubborn strange bird. He stepped back and watched it take its last breath. He chuckled and began to drag the bird with him as he navigated his newfound environment. He stopped briefly and folded up the bottom of his trousers. He rose and continued. He found a coconut tree and went to rest under it. Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch he shouted and ran from the tree, removing his trousers in the process. Inside his boxers was a crab. He brought out the thing and flung it thoughtlessly. He was still in pain, so he held his crotch and yelled. There he stood, looking here and there till the pain subsided. He returned to the coconut tree afterwards, where he sat in his boxers and thought about his life. And on trying to sit comfortably, he placed his hand mistakenly on the neck of the strange bird with the resultant effect being that a jutted-out bone injured him. He let out an umph cry and cursed the bird. Meanwhile, somewhere in America, a man and his clay son were the most integral element of the news making the rounds. "This is crazy," people were saying. "How could he allow his mind to think such crazy idea," others said. Everyone criticized until they heard the real story, the motive behind his creation of a clay son. The backup story that started making the rounds alongside the first news was that the man had lost his son to a ship accident. He was his only son and child. He was traveling to Brussels, from Connecticut, for his master's program. The man had sold plots of land to enable his son's traveling and studies. Grief is a dangerous thing, grief is grief, grief is unquantifiable. He didn't know how to manage his growing grief. The clay son was the only way out, was the only way out for him. Grief is a dangerous thing. And so when people heard the backup story, they held their wagging tongues — but not completely, because people will always be people. With no matchbox to make fire, he ate some of the bird raw. I hope I am not turning into a savage, he said to himself. He felt devastated and mentally unwound, the lyricality of it all a sad tone in the vast hall of his existence. He wondered how long he could last on the island. He wondered if he would make it out of this place, or if his body would be another contribution to the earth and manure for the trees and grasses. He beat his chest and assured himself that he was American — body, soul and mind — that he must show the resilience and strength Americans are known for. He knew too well the gains of wearing his American heritage like a necklace round his neck. He missed home. He missed the fecundity and liveliness of his dreams and ambition. He missed everything that added to his definition of humanness. He missed himself, because right now it felt like he wasn't himself. He missed his dad. He missed Shantella, his betrothed. He missed everything. He picked his trousers off the ground and tied them round his waist. The sun was yet to rise. He picked a stick he saw and set about to explore the lonely island. It was the millennium of supercars, millennium of eventful express cars. They ran on the needful, on four-lane roads designed to permit one car at a time. The cars had stations that operated like train stations. It was the era of the fast cars. The cars were just the bomb, and people who patronised them were the brave and adventurous. It was the car for anyone who had his money and in urgent need of reaching his destination faster. These cars could carry as many as eight persons. Fast and reliable, with competent drivers. Fast cars, fast journeys. All fast everything.
He had just traveled several kilometres on foot when he stumbled on a shrub with yellow succulent fruits. The fruits looked like a distant relative of highbush blueberry. He ate and collected as many as he could. He marked the area should he need these succulent fruits again. Excited, he smiled and walked on. He walked and walked and felt a twitch in his arm but never paid attention to it. He was trying to explore the island and find help sooner. He talked to himself and walked on. He walked and smiled, on and on. It seemed he was now having a dangerous affair with his newfound environment. He smiled even harder when he found strong pieces of wood. He knew immediately what he must do with those pieces of wood. He was going to build a strong tent for his safety — because, of course, any wild animal could miss its way and find his flesh a more desirable delicacy. Even though he was lost, he wanted to stay alive at least. He picked the wood, from everywhere they were scattered. He picked them and began to build at a spot he considered preferable. With the gift of a craftsman, he was able to finish building before sunset. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction and watched his tent with admiration. He checked how strong the door was when closed from both outside and inside. He smiled and went to fetch himself more fruits in the direction he saw them. On reaching the shrub, he committed himself to plucking all the ripe fruits he could. He collected them and turned to return to his tent, munching noisily. At least these could keep hunger away for some time till he could kill another unlucky animal. He had just reached the side of his tent when he saw a hyena lurking around the door. Shocked and surprised, he stealthily dropped his succulent fruits and searched for a very strong stick. He found one, taking the right end of his tent. Slowly and gradually he snuck up on the unsuspecting hyena and smashed its head with the strong wood. The animal yelped and tried to run but fell dramatically. He watched with bulged eyes, his weapon aloft. He watched as the thing struggled. He gave it another hit and watched the thing yelp and take its final breath. A shiver of excitement forced his lips into laughter as he realised he had killed it. He dropped his weapon and carried the animal up, placing its limbs across his neck. He began to chant songs of victory. When he felt he was done holding up the dead animal, he brought it down and went to open his tent. He took the animal inside afterwards and sat outside to enjoy his fruits. Meanwhile, somewhere in Ghana, a man was knocked unconscious by a falling object. In fact, he was knocked dead the way coconuts disembarking from their trees do to people underneath them. People gathered at the scene of action and tried hard to fathom what the object was. The object was round like a Frisbee — and heavy. Police arrived at the scene of the accident and took away the victim and the killer object. They took the victim to the hospital where he was pronounced dead. He was taken into the morgue while forensic experts and crime scene investigators tried to ascertain what the object was and what could have led to it falling vertically from nowhere. One week later, after thorough analysis and consultations, they concluded the object had fallen from outer space. They said it contained traces of uranium and other radioactive elements. They said a whole lot of things in regards to what they discovered from their analysis. If there was any prominent thing, the things they did say to the general public, it was leaving them frightened and with a growing sense of No. 136 insecurity. No one knew when they would step out and have their head hit by a mysterious object. People were scared. The supposedly wise wore helmets whenever they went outside. And the fears grew when a similar incident was recorded in Brazil in front of a grocery store where a woman went to shop. Everyone knew they had to be on the lookout for these falling objects, these objects that dared to fall unannounced. "Kiss my eyes,” a man from Ottawa said in Toronto. "Come kiss my eyes." He had been questioned and accused by a police officer for being a witness in the sudden murder of one Ms. Sutcliffe. The man had said he only walked in to see his colleague dead and nothing more. But the police officer had begged him to say everything he knew and saw because nobody was going to implicate him in the crime. But the irate man could not take it anymore. He just had to react. "Alright. Calm down,” the police officer said to him and tried to interrogate others. "Calm down. Alright?" He woke the next day and opened the door of his tent. Birds were chirping noisily and flying about. He tried to stretch but discovered he had some difficulty with moving his arms, as if they were some mechanical appendage. He felt quite unwell and didn't know what was wrong with himself. If asked, he knew he wouldn't be totally able to say how he was feeling. Nonetheless, the truth remained that he was feeling strange. Suddenly, he remembered he was lost and alone and began to feel hopeless. This cup needed to pass over him, or he needed this cup to pass over him — whichever way. He yawned and turned to close his tent so he could go for a walk. As he closed the door, he felt quite dizzy and rubbed his eyes. He walked away, looking here and there. On and on he walked. He had not walked for long when a helicopter appeared from nowhere, buzzing out from above the trees near his tent into the open space where he was standing now. Surprised, he fastened his gaze on the helicopter for two good minutes before he remembered he was lost and needed help. He began to wave frantically. He yelled and called out for help. The helicopter slowed and hovered above him. "I need help y'all!" he screamed. "Get me out of this place!" The helicopter began to descend gradually. He yelled further, throwing his hands into the air. Eventually, the helicopter touched down and two men came out. They wore a certain kind of uniform, uniform that he could not recognise and knew he had never seen. The men shook hands with him and asked what he was saying actually. PHOTO BY KRYSTI JOMÉI
"What else could I possibly be saying, fellas?" he said to the two men. "Isn't it quite obvious that I am lost here?" "How did it happen?" one of the men in uniform asked. "I was aboard the Space B ship, that's all I can remember. I was sleeping in it. I think it capsized." "Goodness gracious!" exclaimed the other. "You are a Space B survivor? This is unbelievable. Can you believe this, Martins? This man is a Space B survivor." "That's amazing,” his colleague said. "But, can you tell us your story?" "I can,” he said, nodding. "But I think I am sick. Take me out of here first." "Oh, sure. Martins, let's get this man to a hospital. This is a miracle. How many days now?" "I have lost count. Let's just get him out of here." They all entered the helicopter and left the ground before he remembered his hyena. The two men laughed and asked if they should throw him down so he could go meet the dead animal. He shrugged and laughed too. Meanwhile, somewhere in Liberia, someone was also found dead with teeth marks on her neck. The police took her dead corpse to the hospital where doctors tried to analyse the teeth incisions to be able to decipher if it was a canine or something else that bit the neck of the woman. And the result of the analysis, to their maximum discomfort, showed the teeth marks belonged to something else. The doctors agreed the whole of humanity was in danger. But they became somewhat political with their findings and decided to keep the truth away from the masses. They believed chewing the curd of truth and regurgitating as much as they could would help buy them some time to ascertain the emotional aftertaste of the world when the news is eventually fed to them. Meanwhile, the two men succeeded in flying the castaway to a reputable hospital where he was taken care of as a Space B survivor, the government willing to interview him when the time was right. The nurses and doctors took good care of him, giving him drugs whenever was right. But something happened that left them fearing for their safety, something happened within the course of two days. Two nurses and a doctor were found dead with teeth marks on their necks. They consulted themselves and the government before it was announced on televisions worldwide that a certain virus was turning people into zomboids — humans that were zombie-like — and that the only known survivor of the Space B disaster turned into a zomboid and escaped the hospital where he was admitted after being rescued. And when people heard the news, they went mad with fear and anxiety. They simply didn't know how to live their lives anymore. But one thing was certain — they must find their ways to survive. Meanwhile, the "runaway zomboid" went to a fast car station and decided it was time to go home — and home he sped, hoping his memory remembers exactly what home looked like and that he doesn't turn into a zomboid, again, any time soon. On and on the fast car sped on its lane, fast and fast his growing nostalgia went. And he knew, somehow, anyhow, that the world had changed totally since he left home on a ship. And he knew, somehow, anyway, that he would either return home as a lost-but-found human or an unwanted zomboid. And at home, his clay replacement waited for him. Book your stay in colorado’s most haunted destination. blackmonarchhotel.com Secrets await...
ART BY CREATICKLE - IG + ETSY: @CREATICKLE I ALWAYS THOUGHT THE BAND OASIS WAS A LOT LIKE OLIVES: I SIMPLY CANNOT UNDERSTAND HOW ANYONE COULD ENJOY THEM Every three years or so, I act in the interest of open-mindedness. I think, Maybe I simply haven’t given olives or the song “Wonderwall” enough of a chance. I mean, there must be something to it, because No. 136 everyone I know seems to like them. And so I will try olives, and I will listen to Oasis. And inevitably I come to the same conclusion: no, it’s not me. Everyone else is wrong. At least now when people ask, “But have you tried to like [either Oasis or olives]?” I can say, “I tried. Believe me, I tried. But there is nothing remotely good about either of them. Olives leave a terrible taste in my mouth, and Oasis leaves a boring
ringing in my ears. So no thank you to either.” like that. I AM ALONE AND UNLOVEABLE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES IN MODERN DATING When you’re texting a new crush, and she doesn’t text back right away, do you overanalyze every word and overthink every negative way she could interpret the text you sent? And you admonish yourself for being an awkward idiot who doesn’t deserve love and will die miserable and alone. And then when she finally responds with “lol” or a heart, you finally relax and realize you should stop blowing everything out of proportion, because it’s just so taxing — and really, you don’t deserve to be treated the way you treat yourself sometimes. But then you send another text that isn’t returned right away, and you once again panic. Over and over. And over again. Has that ever happened to you? I DON’T WEAR ALL BLACK BECAUSE I’M SAD, I DO IT BECAUSE I’M MESSY Well, you wonder why I always dress in black. Why you never see bright colors on my back? I do it because I can’t seem to keep food on the fork when I’m eating. I also have issues drinking — not with alcohol, mind you — but with delivering liquids safely from the cup into my mouth. Then there’s ink, blood, wet paint, grass, etc. I’ve been stained by just about everything. And since I’ve been involved with the punk scene for decades, I’ve always had a very close proximity to black clothing. As such, I soon realized that if I just donned darkness from head to toe, no one would know that I am, at all times, a mess. I’m pretty smart WHAT IS TODAY AGAIN? Hey, does anyone remember what day it is? I lost track at some point. Yeah, I know I could look at my phone, but I was hoping you knew it off the top of your head so you could just tell me. No, I don’t care what the date is. I’m more interested in the day of the week. I feel like it should be Tuesday or Wednesday, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Thursday. What? Monday? Are you kidding me? Holy shit, it’s going to be a long week. THE ODDS THAT I EXIST ON THIS PLANET ARE SO INFINITESIMALLY SMALL, IT’S A MIRACLE I’M EVEN HERE. ALSO, I AM BORED The fact that my ancestors lived long enough to reproduce, the chance that all of them even met each other to begin with, the even smaller odds that the exact sperm met the exact egg demonstrates that I shouldn’t even be here. And that’s not even mentioning how extremely rare it is that life exists on this planet — much less on any planet in this universe. Every human being, every plant and animal — it’s amazing that anything or anyone is here at all! But of course, once the novelty of this train of thought wears off, I can’t help but slip back into my normal day-to-day routine, which is both difficult and soul-crushingly boring. I work, eat, sleep and repeat. Nothing excites me. Yeah, it’s a near miracle I’m even here, but what has life done for me lately? I’m going to go get drunk. 23 PHOTO BY ZAC DUNN
TATTOO TALK W/ ARTIST VALERIIA VOLOKHOVA AKA OOQZA INTERVIEW BY KRYSTI JOMÉI | PHOTOS COURTESY OF OOQZA APRIL, 1 2025 Valeriia Volokhova aka Ooqza is an artist on a mission to literally leave her mark around the world. Her instantly recognizable art speaks for itself — raw, honest, a spectrum of emotion — with each tattoo being a symbiosis of her own personal journey and that of her client. From drawing in her youth in a tiny town in Moscow to becoming a world renowned tattoo artist currently touring the U.S., Valeriia is where she is today due to her grit and years of hard work. But even more, she’s here by virtue of an unwavering authenticity to herself. I was able to catch up with Valeriia during her time in Los Angeles before she visits Denver for the first time in April. GROWING UP THREE HOURS SOUTH OF MOSCOW IN RUSSIA, THERE WERE NO ARTISTS IN YOUR FAMILY, WHO WERE MOSTLY SOCIAL WORKERS. YET, HERE YOU ARE AN ILLUSTRATOR TURNED ACCLAIMED TATTOO ARTIST. WHAT DO YOU ATTRIBUTE TO YOUR INNATE CREATIVITY? AND WHEN DID YOU REALIZE YOU WERE AN ARTIST? My mom always nurtured my creative spirit. I’ve been drawing since I was a kid — mostly designing clothes for women because that fascinated me. She once told me that when she was little, she never felt supported in her creativity by her own mother, so she wanted to change that in our relationship. Honestly, I don’t believe creativity is something you're just born with. I think anyone can develop it in one way or another. The results will be different for everyone, but it all depends on how much effort you put in. No. 136 YOUR CAREER BEGAN IN COLLEGE AT A PARTY WHEN SOMEONE NOTICED YOUR ILLUSTRATIONS AND ASKED FOR A TATTOO, TO WHICH YOU AGREED TO AFTER BUYING A PRIMITIVE MACHINE SET. AT THE TIME, THERE WEREN'T ANY TATTOO ARTISTS IN YOUR AREA WHO YOU FELT YOU COULD LEARN FROM, SO HOW DID YOU GO ABOUT TEACHING YOURSELF? When I was starting out, of course, there were tattoo artists around, but even with my zero experience back then, I knew they couldn’t give me what I wanted. I was aiming for something beyond what they had achieved — something more aesthetic, more refined and better quality. So I had to teach myself, gathering bits of information from the internet. Thirteen years ago, there were no tutorials on how to use tattoo machines, how deep the needle should go, or any real instructions. Everything I learned was through trial and error. The only thing I could find were some random videos from foreign tattoo artists on YouTube. I’d pause, rewind, and analyze every second where I could see their hands, how they held the machine — trying to understand anything at all. You can imagine how long that process took. SEARCHING FOR YOUR STYLE INITIALLY, A FRIEND ASKED YOU WHY YOU DIDN’T DRAW ANIME WHICH HAS BEEN AN INTEGRAL PART OF YOUR LIFE SINCE 13. YOU "RECEIVED YOUR SIGHT" JUST THEN, WITH JAPANESE INFLUENCED ART SERVING AS A STYLISTIC CORNERSTONE. DESCRIBE YOUR FIRST MEMORY OF ANIME. FAST FORWARD, WHAT CURRENTLY SERVES AS YOUR CREATIVE MUSE? It’s hard to say what my first anime was — probably Pokémon or Sailor Moon — but the first one I truly fell in love with was Shaman King. For years
after watching it, every time I blew out birthday candles, I wished to see spirits in real life. I wanted that experience so badly. Maybe to help people who had lost loved ones … maybe to help the spirits themselves, because so many probably left this world with unfinished business or unspoken words. Anime creators teach us about strength and the importance of appreciating what we have. My muse is the experiences we go through — everything I personally have lived through, and I think many people will relate to that. The way I’ve grown from the moment I became aware that I exist on this planet to where I am today — it’s priceless. TAKE US THROUGH YOUR CREATIVE PROCESS OF INITIALLY DEVELOPING A PIECE TO THE ACT OF TATTOOING IT. DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIFIC RITUALS? I don’t really have specific rituals, but I need to have control over my space. I usually draw alone in quiet places, whether it’s my apartment or a hotel room. I can work in a café too, but only if I have my own little corner where no one intrudes. Sometimes I listen to music, but other times I get so deep into designing that I only realize hours later that I’ve been sitting in complete silence. When I travel, I always put on noise-canceling headphones and sketch on the plane. There’s something a little romantic about creating designs in the sky. When I design a tattoo for a client, I always ask what kind of emotion they want it to convey. I think that’s really important. I know some artists actually fear clients who request specific emotions, but I see it as a tool to understand people better. We all experience a full spectrum of emotions every day and no matter how much we might want to avoid some of them, it’s part of life. Sometimes, going through certain moments is incredibly hard, but I find beauty in that, and I reflect it in my work. Even a face that seems expressionless can hide an entire storm of feelings. Most of the time, clients trust me to create their designs, but I always ask about any key details they really want to include. It increases the chances that I’ll create something that feels perfect for them. After all, it’s a custom piece — it’s not just about my vision, but theirs too. TATTOOING IS A MAJOR EXCHANGE OF ENERGY BETWEEN THE ARTIST AND THE ART RECEIVER. HOW DO YOU KEEP GROUNDED AND BALANCED IN YOUR LIFE? I wouldn’t say I have a great work-life balance, but I do love having control over things that affect me personally. The choices we make every day — even small ones like what to eat, when to work, who to spend time with — bring a sense of peace. I listen to myself, I know what I want, and I try to give that to myself. That’s my version of balance. FAVORITE TATTOO-RELATED EXPERIENCE. I can’t pick just one standout experience, but what makes me happiest is my clients' reactions. The excitement in their messages when they see the design before their session. Or the moment after their tattoo is done — when they’re exhausted but staring at it in the mirror, saying it turned out even better than they imagined. Seeing that joy in them makes me happy too. OUTSIDE OF CREATING ART, WHAT DO YOU ENJOY THE MOST? I love psychology — it’s my hobby — and understanding people on a deeper level makes me happy. I also can't live without vintage shopping; it's always a surprise because you never know what you'll find, and that makes it exciting. Spending time with my friends is another thing I really 25 enjoy. I've met some amazing and rare people here. Sometimes we just hang out, watch a great movie, or go play pool. YOUR DEFINITION OF ART. To me, art is a conversation. It connects with people. Someone can look at a piece and feel exactly what the artist felt when they created it. It’s a silent dialogue between the creator and the viewer. WHAT WOULD BE A DREAM COME TRUE FOR YOU? Right now, my biggest wish is the same as when I first started tattooing — to leave a mark on the industry. That goal has only grown bigger over time. I’ve already achieved some things, but I want to create work that lasts. People don’t live forever, but art does. I'm on my way to creating something that will be remembered and become part of the culture WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO MOST IN DENVER? I’ll be visiting Denver for the first time. I’m open to new experiences and don’t have a strict plan — I’m still exploring this country and want to visit as many major cities as possible. Maybe even some smaller ones. I’m always looking for adventure, and I love meeting locals and hearing their stories. WHAT ELSE ARE YOU EXCITED FOR THIS YEAR? I have plans to attend several international and U.S. tattoo conventions, work on expanding my Ooqza brand, and finally settle down. It’s been one of my goals for the past few years. I can feel that this year is going to bring big changes, and I can’t wait! FOLLOW OOQZA FOR MORE WORK + TO STAY UP-TO-DATE WITH WHERE SHE’LL BE NEXT — INSTAGRAM & TIKTOK: @OOQZA
BUCK GOOTER – KING KONG LIVES: THEREMINSANITY The combination of enigmatic, vintage synths and loBY TOM MURPHY fi percussion with the late Terry Turtle’s wiry and urgent guitar, alongside Billy Brett’s impassioned vocals and other strangeness, is the perfect vehicle for an album of cultural and personal time travel. Starting by invoking the poignant moments of the schlocky 1986 sequel to the 1976 King Kong, Buck Gooter weaves in stories of childhood memories as a way of navigating the anxieties of the present, as those early experiences manifest well into adulthood as part of our subconscious narrative. The result is a little like Laurie Anderson, with her typically absurdist humor, making a prescient, tribal industrial punk record without mincing words. DETH RALI – RUBY’S CASTLE ISLAND Did songwriter and lyricist Jay Maike get a time travel machine and go hang out with Billy Thorpe in 1979 while he was recording Children of the Sun, after a stop at Wye Valley in February 1977 to jam with Hawkwind during the making of Quark, Strangeness and Charm? Or more in line with reality, he had some hang time with Kevin Barnes when he was working on Lady on the Cusp in 2024? Chances are no, but this ambitious, psychedelic, goth pop album has plenty of narrative arc, colorful characters, and epic fantasy concepts of its own that it’s easy to get lost in its gorgeous, transporting melodies and tales of peril and transcendence. EDDIE DURKIN – SOME MORE DEMOS FOR NOTHING Durkin probably could have recorded without the wind sound and other white noise in the background, but that would have subtracted from the raw appeal of this album. It’s like he is writing songs on a porch and recording straight to analog tape, though it’s obvious there is some production. When writing tracks that get real about everyday life struggles from the perspective of someone with a poetic soul, a completely pristine recording would seem to work at cross-purposes. The yearning and hopefulness in these songs against present and sometimes overwhelming challenges is refreshingly free of bravado and gives the songwriting a heightened accessibility, like the kind of energy you can reach even if you’re way down low in life. Fans of Microphones and Owen Ashworth will find great resonance here both sonically and emotionally. No. 136
PLAGUE GARDEN – UNDER THE SANGUINE MOON Ostensibly an album themed on vampires and other creatures of the night, this set of songs’ melancholic atmospheres, brooding yet vibrant vocals, and moody, pulsing rhythms leave plenty of sonic space into which the imagination can float into corridors of personal darkness. And it is that which the album explores symbolically, a will to confront, overcome and integrate the — yes — shadow side of one’s personality and life, and find therein what feels vital to hold on to when you’re feeling especially tested. This time out the band integrates some grittier sounds and punk energy on “The Dirty Dead” (which yielded the title of the album) and “Los Niños Perdidos,” and in doing so, invokes the punchier post-punk end of The Sisters of Mercy influence. TEACUP GORILLA – JANE/EYRE: NO NET ENSNARES ME Denver-based, experimental indiepop band Teacup Gorilla provided the music and performances for Jane/Eyre, a queer retelling of the 1847 Charlotte Brontë novel. The performance as a play was an especially poignant exploration of sexuality and gender identity, and the songs with vocal contributions from former Bad Luck City singer Dameon Merkl were standout on their own. When the production company Grapefruit Lab did a reboot of the original play in 2025, the band released the soundtrack as an album. While it doesn’t quite replace the experience of the humor and conceptual richness of the live experience, it very much stands on its own as an Americana-inflected work of masterful pop songcraft with warmly luminous and delicately rendered melodies. The existential storytelling has an old-timey feel that nevertheless resonates broadly with modern sensibilities, like a slice of Vaudeville rendered in the language of classic, experimental literature, yet refreshingly free of pretension and pop culture references. WHERE COULD BE BETTER THAN A HAUNTED VICTORIAN HOTEL TO TURN NIGHTMARES INTO YOUR NEXT NOVEL? FOR MORE, VISIT QUEENCITYSOUNDSANDART.WORDPRESS.COM 27
by Julianna Beckert Q: A: How do I heal my inner child and accept myself? Woah. This is a big one. The answer could take many sessions of therapy to uncover the wounds of your child-self and reveal how this affects you as the person you are today. But there are some small actions you can take right now to start on a path to self-love. The first thing is to recognize and understand why you’re like this. You act like you do because with every painful experience you’ve ever endured, you developed a mechanism to keep yourself safe from getting hurt exactly like that again. You didn’t even do it on purpose. It’s just part of how our body and mind work together to avoid danger. You developed ways to control the situation, but I’m sorry to tell you, control is an illusion. You may ingest substances to control the way you feel (or don’t feel). You may agree to do things you don’t really want to do, just to be certain everyone still likes you — to control your status. You may work yourself to the bone so that you can feel worthy to take up space — again, controlling status. The truth is, we have no right nor ability to control other people’s feelings about us. That belongs to them. What we CAN control is our own thoughts, feelings and responses to the world around us. Next time you find yourself saying, doing, or thinking something that feels icky, this is your signal. For example, I recently found myself being a little fake and pushing to make disingenuous conversation, triggered by a coworker being a little more quiet than usual. I proceeded to dive into a depressive negativity spiral, wallowing in insecurity and mean self-talk. When you notice something is off like this, ask yourself, Why did I do that? What’s going on? Approach yourself with curiosity rather than judgement. If you dig down, you’ll likely find that you did that cringy thing to protect yourself. In my childhood home, someone not speaking was sometimes followed by an angry outburst. My response to my coworker’s silence was a feeling of unease rooted in this deep wonder of Are they mad? Am I in trouble? My inner child was working hard to validate this concern so I could then work to control it and be safe. My childhood was painting a color on the situation that wasn’t even there. Turns out my coworker was quiet because of something that was going on in her personal life that had nothing to do with me. Recognizing what mechanisms you’re bringing into a situation gives you the ability to now make different choices. Instead of being mad at yourself, you can thank yourself (your inner child) for trying so hard and being so diligent about protecting you. Say: “Thank you for protecting me, but I’ve got this one.” Be kind to yourself, and be kind to others. We’re all just hurt animals trying to figure it out. Visit monkeymindful.com to submit your question or find transformational workshops and coaching sessions. No. 136
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES - MARCH 8, 2025 29
“BRASSWORKS GALLERY KRK RYDEN CURATED SHOW OPENING. PHOTO BY SIENA GOLDMAN LAST WEEKEND IN PORTLAND, OREGON (MARCH 10, 2025).” - MARK MOTHERSBAUGH
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