We wanted this issue to stand as the fullest realization of our aesthetic. We believe we’ve succeeded; however, we were surprised by how haunting the whole of it is. Something unknown has crept to the surface in 4.2—perhaps a deeper, unrealized aesthetic, or perhaps our feelings about this issue being our last. Either way an appropriate farewell.
4.1 may be about what’s lost and what’s found in certain relationships: between sons and fathers (“Amends” and “Bora Bora”), between self and self-image (“Carpool” and “Orthorexia”), between percussion and nature (“Altro Alfresco”) and musicians and dancers (“Psychogramm”) and voice and reverb (“Plume”)… and you, the audience.
Our sixth issue is full of sweeping undulation, beginning high with the whimsical “Sea Change” only to plunge deep into “Amplituhedrons,” then coming up for air (albeit amidst explosions) in “I Love Snow” only to go deep once again, weighed down by justice/injustice in “Monster, Are You Sorry?” Grab hold of something sturdy before you read/listen to 3.2.
This issue welcomes the new year with some curiosity about the surrounding world and what is or is not reality. The prose shows us insides that are exposed and masks that are lowered, while the music shows us illusions and chaos and quiet, dark corners. We recommend that you sit down with a pint of your favorite brew as you experience 3.1.
Several pieces in this issue play with genre—”Hammerhead,” for instance, blurs the boundary between fiction and creative nonfiction—while some are adventurous in other ways, incorporating quirky melodies (“The Drama in Her Eyes”), candid narratives (“Active Agent”), and unexpected intensity (“Peace Cell”). Read/listen, and let 2.2 surprise you.
2.1, our biggest issue to date, is brimming with twenty-seven pieces of prose and music, each of which takes its audience on a fascinating ride. Follow Eskimo and Iffini to an abandoned place of bewildering complexity, experience ten compelling minutes in an engine room, and listen (from a safe distance) to creatures from the black bassoon.
Our second issue opens with matters of distortion in “The Curtain,” which captures the sound of a slowly eroding heartbeat imprinted upon a hospital curtain, and then stumbles out into matters of clarity in “The Night of Day Two Days After,” which captures a man’s somewhat clinical understanding of his world. Enjoy these and the pieces that follow in 1.2.
From the fragmented introspection in “God’s Stereographer” to the unsettling simplicity of “Red,” and from the soaring strings in “Vaporization for String Quartet” to the textured nuances of “Ontology of the Flesh,” the prose and music we present in this first issue are both dreamlike and disturbing.