QUARANZINE VOLUME 1!!!
MARCH 23, 2020
WASH YOUR HANDS & STAY TF HOME!!!!!
I am present. I am growing. I am holding space for healing,
hollowing myself into a soft cave where tender creatures will
shelter and rest. I am immobile, spreading my roots. I am
unlearning “value,” “productivity,” “positivity.” I am calling in
the inherent truthfulness of my body, in all its terrible,
beautiful vulnerability. From my little corner of things, I watch
the seasons turn, and fill my bones with that gift of renewal
given to all things. I am accomplishing this mainly by shuffling
I was recruited out of college to be a corporate spy and it turns
out it’s easy.
You busy around just enough to earn your keep, and every now and
then draft in a workhorse’s wake to seem exceptional by proxy.
Anyone who cares enough to parse out your actual contribution breakdown is a low tier tryhard; use them as a social scapegoat.
In formal settings, you parrot company propaganda, and slag it off hours, so everyone knows it’s a performance, that your conversance in the awful local argot bespeaks a playful wit, that you’re in this world but not of it.
Do: smile, drink (just enough), accept invitations (but never extend), tease playfully (but with a delightful nastiness only those operating on your higher plane will register), dress simple but flattering, passively cultivate mystique, playfully deflect flirtation, smoke cigarettes, accept drugs (but never offer), collect gossip, talk normal, flick your eyes everywhere always.
Don’t: grin, sleep with anyone, disperse gossip, sweat, social climb, hug, brag, have a “work family,” have a “work wife,” show up early, stay late, hold too much eye contact, play a character, play multiple characters, run, wear a backpack, whine, take sides, wear interesting shoes.
The rest is just emails.🎲
The girl was lost in the mall, outside the candle store. While
all the other stores smeared together for her, she had remembered
passing through the cloud around it that smelled like her aunt’s
condo, and the bird looking woman with the cupcakes that weren’t
actually cupcakes out front. At least while she was swaddled
in the vanilla-ish cloud she knew where she was, sort of.
She decided to walk. Her mom kept not appearing, and the bird
woman’s scrunch face she kept flashing over was making the girl
antsy. She didn’t want to be concerned-for; to see an adult
nervous made her nervous. Obviously she knew, when you’re lost,
stay put, kiddo, but she could do a lap and go back to staying
put, she figured.
By the store that seemed to only sell one kind of big chair was a
propped metal door, and past the propped metal door was a tunnel,
and the girl loved tunnels. Tunnels were cool. They were
buildings’ secret skeletons. Out of the bird woman’s frown zone
she was back to confident she’d find her mom, or vice versa,
eventually. It was how this worked. So she could go check out the
tunnel for a bit before that happened, while she had the chance.
Well, the tunnel was disappointing. While it had a nice illicit
dinginess, it wasn’t all that different in vibe or particulars
than the basement rooms at Sunday School, where she liked to duck
out to under cover of bathroom break. Dim fluorescent, wet looking
paint, sticky floor. But it was long and empty and something to
do. And look at this: when she turned a corner, a whole big room,
and in the room, a play structure.
Each time she reaches for this memory later in life, the elements
of the play structure seem to reshuffle and recombine. Tube
bridge, net bridge, tube slide, bubble window, ball pit, tic tac
toe spinners, all in dull old-candy purples and greens, in every
permutation. If she drew it twice she would draw it different. But
that’s later. Now, the girl put her shoes in the shoe cubby, the
only pair there. Why wouldn’t she explore it?
It’s big. The tunnels twist ahead and behind her as she crawls.
The ambient static tugs at her like puppies. The tunnels keep
twisting and now she’s disoriented. It feels like a circle. It
feels like coiled intestines. She hasn’t panicked this whole time
but she’s starting to now. The faster she crawls the wronger
things feel. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
Until finally, blessedly, there’s the slide, into the ball pit.
She scrambles out, as fast as anyone can claw out of a ball pit,
snatching her shoes from their cubby, and runs. It’s not until
she’s in the car home, tuning out a steady drone of lecture from
the driver’s seat, that she notices they’re not quite her shoes.
It’s something about the laces. She untangles, retangles them.
They’re not hers, she can tell. She’s sure, really.
The feeling of wrong doesn’t goes away, it just burrows deeper. It’s in everything. The colors of this world are wrong, flatter, especially near sunset. Some sodas are too sweet. Some aren’t sweet enough. Her father insists foods that aren’t her favorite are; her mother’s smell has a sour note. Her teacher is stricter. She doesn’t say anything about it, to anyone. She watches and observes, collects data, for when she can get back to where she came from. She never does.
Just a short explanation about what this is exactly--
So I have for a long time now been studying afrocuban music. When I first started studying I had several circles of people that I met up with regularly to practice and learn new things with. For some time now, for a variety of reasons, it has been difficult for me to meet up with people, and now with covid-19, full blown impossible. So in my efforts to continue practicing and learning things on my own I have turned to the multitrack recording. Working out a song sequence and then playing each drum part and singing really helps solidify things for me. I've found that these "practices" that I do often pay dividends in performance. Now that I've done these little practices hundreds of times or something, I am really noticing the results. They have really elevated my playing ability and it also helps chip away at the many thousands of songs and rhythms that one must commit to memory in order to play this style of music. All that said, many of these that I have made in the past have not sounded that great. It is a practice, after all, so I'm usually trying out something that I don't know very well. This one sounds not too bad though. So I added some synths for your covid-19 pleasure. I will likely have some more of these to share as the quarantine continues.
Now...while I have your attention... why not pay a quick visit to http://batrueshka.bandcamp.com??? Now this is not something that was conceived during the quarantine, but we've just finished it. So it kind of half-counts for the zine.
A quick song about health insurance & government...
Is there someway to make it true?
If we all fight the whole way through?
Fuck the system and all them too.
Organize and then riot, boo.
Is it something we can agree?
That the power won’t set us free.
Hang the bastards and let us be.
Make it clear that we’re poor, not thieves.