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Enceiderich: Jetzt oder Nicht? | Decide: Now or Not? By Deniz Ataman QuailBellMagazine.com Robin Wyatt Dunn’s chapbook, Telegrams from X County, is an abbreviated social commentary set in X County in X World. But this X County in this X World sounds vaguely familiar. Kinda like the X County in the X World in which we live. A “think piece” (cue Lester Bangs puffing away on a cigarette condemning the death of rock ‘n roll in a superficial, authoritative, corporate-driven-world) foraying the robotic buzzing of a society that is spoon-fed exact doses of carefully sculpted reality by a handful of drones who “know better.”
X County is a Pleasantville of sorts; where dark thoughts pervade each individual, but are suppressed and masked with a plastered smile in order to maintain order. Yet, the narrator is aware of this hollow existence that is eat, sleep, work, repeat. I live in X County where I love you but you’re dead inside. The narrator undergoes these spurts of sanity realizing this society is consumed by superficial artifacts: reality television, screwed and chopped media coverage, masked intentions by those in power, mass produced foods designed to satiate with no nutritional value... A world that values surface, not depth, resulting in a slow, metallic, death. Or in the narrator’s case, a zombie-state. The zombie logic is a real learner. Stoke its fire. Make its sound. Know its name. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
"Listen Closely" When you think of manga, you don't normally think of it as containing social commentary or as being socially conscious. Part of this is because the Western audience isn't aware of how Japanese society differs from Western society. While you can pick up on some cultural and social differences, such as school lasting six days a week, there are some matters you don't normally see in manga that tell you about certain practices in Japanese society. This is something that the slice-of-life genre, which follows daily lives of the characters without having too many fantastic elements to it, can show, and one recent series shows a side of Japanese culture that most Western readers may not be aware of.
Koe no Katachi, which roughly translates to The Shape of Voice or A Silent Voice depending on the translator, is one such series. The story is about a girl named Shouko Nishimiya, a deaf girl who enrolls in a normal elementary school. There, she is bullied and tormented by her peers for her disability, until she is finally forced to transfer. Instead of addressing the problem head on, the class and teachers elect to push the blame on one bully, Shouya Ishida, and find him solely responsible for Shouko's treatment. This leaves Shouya friendless, and he spends the next few years full of self-loathing and suicidal depression. It isn't until Shouya reunites with Shouko that he starts to make amends for his actions and tries to find out how he can live a better life for her sake. The series originated as a one shot (a single chapter manga) story by newcomer Yoshitoki Ooima. Ooima won several awards for her story, but had trouble getting the story picked up for serialization. A group raised a lawsuit in an attempt to prevent the series from being published, claiming it showed a negative side of Japanese society. The series was picked up eventually and given endorsement by the Japanese Federation of the Deaf, allowing the series to run for seven volumes and 62 chapters, running from August 6, 2013 to recently ending on November 12, 2014. The lawsuit and struggle to have Ooima's manga published does show why the series needed to be made. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
"Little Slut" Adult me would be lying if I said a teenage boy has never caught my eye. In college, I found myself lusting after a well-built guy strutting past me while I read a book under a tree. His bulging muscles seemed destined to occupy my future fantasies. As soon as my mind began to wander on the subject, I realized he was in high-school...on a college tour of UC Davis.
I hated myself. So, I stuck my pointy Finnish nose back into the depths of my book and tried to forget my former lustings. And when I see an adult gazing at a person I know to be underage with that same look of longing, I do my best to give the benefit of a doubt. After all, many teenagers (myself included) mature into adult bodies early. As Nerve noted, there is a cultural interest in young, yet sexually mature, women. The issue arises when said adult doesn't know when to stop, i.e., before anything happens other than a flickering moment of fantasy. Refusing to masturbate to the image of a teenager I once saw in the UC Davis Arboretum may seem a tad dramatic, but I am admittedly sensitive to the topic. An unfortunately large portion of my teenage years were spent fending off the lustful gazes and salaciousness of my parents' (formerly) close friend *Abe. I was introduced to Abe at eight years old; my grandparents were friends with he and his wife, *Elaine. The couple had a daughter close in age with my sister and me, so my grandparents decided to play the proverbial Friend Cupid and get everyone acquainted. My parents took to Abe and Elaine quickly—the four of them worked in education, and each possessed a bevy of wit and intelligence. Abe's dry humor always had us roaring at dinnertime. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
How To Be A White Person In A Black Space Words and images by Kate Hickey QuailBellMagazine.com At the November 25th protest rally for the failure to indict Darren Wilson for the murder of Michael Brown, I saw a sign that said, “We all bleed red.” It was a pretty well-made sign—colorful, straightforward, simple, and aesthetically pleasing. And it really rubbed me the wrong way.
The rally met at Mt. Vernon Square, and when I arrived right on time at 7 p.m., there were already at least a hundred people chanting, yelling, waving their signs, and getting pumped up for the march. There were organizers taking people’s information to keep everyone in the loop. By the time we began to march, there were upwards of a thousand people. At first, I felt uncomfortable and awkward. I’m white. I am not Mike Brown and I will never suffer what he suffered, or what countless other Black men and women suffer at the hands of a racist society. I felt that dissonance. I was clearly not among “my” people. But when the speakers started, I relaxed. I listened. I became one among hundreds of people who believe that justice was not served for Mike Brown. I faded into the background, became insignificant but for the fact that I was there. And that’s exactly where I needed to be. Unfortunately, because of the varying noise levels, I didn’t catch the names of the speakers at the rally. But each of them made wonderful statements that I did get some notes down about. One of the speakers gave out a huge volume of information. Some was about local and national organizations that are working to bring about justice for Mike Brown. Organizations like the Black Youth Project, the National Black United Front, ONE DC, and #DCFerguson—all of whom where involved in the planning of the rally. Another disturbing piece of information was about how frequently Black people are murdered at the hands of the police. One Black person is shot every twenty-eight hours by a police officer in the United States. According to the FBI’s definition, that’s terrorism. It’s genocide. “This happens everywhere,” said the speaker. One of the speakers sounded as though she was close to tears as she shouted into her megaphone that, “Black lives matter.” There was immediate applause. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
And Everybody Dies—Not Just the Turkey Gentle Reader, hello. My name is Jeanne Joe and I have lived in New York City for a whole decade. Yes, they give you a medal for that. I have it hanging above my bed. As a result (or perhaps cause) of my tenure in Gotham, 85% of my pants and 97% of my outlook on life is black. The rest is dark grey.
Nevertheless, I distinctly remember the warm, fuzzy, suburban family Thanksgivings with the big turkey, homemade pumpkin pie, cousins and nuclear family and dog sitting around a giant table and saying grace. Just kidding. That’s from a Norman Rockwell painting. Because, really, is that a thing in real life? Thanksgiving for me never meant quality time with family, football games, or parties. In real life with my single mom, Thanksgiving meant time and a half and Chinese food. It was just Thursday, with no school and even more daycare. There would of course be a card from my father, usually a torn sheet from a legal pad with an adorably hand-drawn, bedraggled looking stick-bird picture and the words “turkey turkey gobble gobble” with an arrow pointed at it for clarification, in case I couldn’t decipher what it was supposed to be. Later, when my mom remarried, Thanksgiving meant double-time-and-a-half and Patrick Creek Lodge’s buffet. Times were good then. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Lessons That I Have Learned Working As an Artist 1. People think you can read their minds.
I didn't know you wanted an atomic bomb explosion in the background. That wasn't in the original description. My mistake. 2. They expect you to get it right on the first try. 3. They only give you 1-3 chances. In my experience, art is a process of trial and error. Many times, lots of errors. And you know what they say, to error is human. Well, good luck with that, because if you make one mistake, you've made them all. I try to keep my mistakes to myself, but even if I've gotten 99 aspects of a project correct, if there is just one thing I missed, then I haven't done my job correctly. 4. They don't mean what they say. Example: They give you a description of a drawing with details that they want, and photo examples (ones that look entirely different, mind you). You draw something with those details, then they surprise you by saying that they actually wanted these other details that weren't in the original description. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
(Scary) Girl PowerEditor's Note: Halloween may be over, but chilly times call for movies that make your blood curl. Watch one or all of these: 1. Suspiria If a witches coven masked as an all girls dance school doesn’t interest you, then I’m not sure what will. Also, how can you miss the prog rock soundtrack composed by none other than Goblin? 2. Repulsion Roman Polankski’s 1965 thriller focuses on Carol’s descent into madness after she relives horrors from her past; her complete rejection of sex is fascinating, albeit devastating, to watch.
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Nailing It Once upon a midnight dreary, while I browsed Facebook weak and weary, a photo dark teal-sparkled nail polish caught my eye. For a millisecond, I paused to think, “Hmm, I need to get new nail polish.” Then I scrolled away as thoughtlessly as I had scrolled into my first encounter with the new nail polish that detects date rape drugs. When I first heard about it, I thought it was a great idea. And I still do.
With that said, the nail polish doesn’t negate the necessity of shutting down rape culture and the pernicious beliefs that place the brunt of rape-prevention responsibilities on victims rather than attackers. After all, rapists are the ones who are committing rapes and as the perpetrators, it’s their responsibility to eliminate rape. There’s no doubt that the onus of the blame lies on the assailants’ shoulders. Anyone who has a doubt about that in 2014: Let’s not meet. Ever. But here’s the thing: getting raped really, really sucks. It is a horrific experience, to say the very least. If wearing this nail polish makes people feel safer and increases their quality, then I salute them. I might be wearing that nail polish when I salute them in the future. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
My Great-Grandfather's Covenant Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. #Real #GrandpaTalks #JewishDiasporo #JewishHistory #JewishRelatives #JewishAncestors #OralHistory The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Little Real and a Little Unreal Today’s journey was much the same as any other journey. It started at midnight and it would finish at midnight. Yes, I would travel into the future as a day flashed by in the blink of an eye, but would I truly be moving? In truth: a simple day: no more, no less. Of course, my eyes would be closed for part of the journey, because human necessity requires us to get some much needed REM sleep, a sleep where dreams become real. Yes, a complex dream state to be sure, but who really knows what dreams are made of? Certainly not my days - or my nights for that matter, but maybe somewhere in between days.
Beep, beep, beep, beep...Rise and shine. As they say: I don’t know what sick and twisted individual came up with that saying. It’s a fine way to describe the morning’s drudgery. I feel sluggish this morning. In fact, I feel sluggish every morning. I don’t know anyone who jumps out of bed with a double back flip; two cart wheels and a front flip into the bathroom to brush their teeth, and then casually moonwalks en route to the breakfast bar in the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. Rise and shine indeed. In truth, the average person wakes up with a groan, falls out of the wrong side of the bed, then trips over their slippers as they stumble into Snow White’s magical bathroom mirror, which in turn fractures at the sight of all the creases deeply engraved on the reflected face. Rise and stumble. Rise and fumble. Rise and grumble. Stub your toe. Of course, the more time travelling you do the harder it is to avoid life’s little laughter lines. I’ve been travelling through time for nearly forty four years now and my laughter lines are on the verge of turning into tectonic faults. Just like the Grand Canyon for instance: obviously one of planet Earth’s little wrinkles. So the mirror’s cracked; you’ve stubbed your toe tripping over your slippers; your face looks like the surface of the moon; and still the day moves on. Time is relentless. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Longest Role By Garrett R. QuailBellMagazine.com Transition provides liberation even if it does leave scars. #Real #Transgender #TopSurgery #FTM #Transition #SurgicalScars #Experience #SocialJusticeShares Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Raising A Glass To Grace Gelder So I wrote this piece about how I’ve been single for a long time. Like for years. And how I feel that this population I genuinely happily belong to—those of us who, for whatever reason, are and have been single for a while—never get discussed, or at least not in a flattering or reasonable light. The piece was picked up by theHuffington Post and it appears to be resonating. People—both, for the record, women and men—have actually taken the time to track down my email address and let me know how much the piece meant to them.
Given that I generally just receive sexist-infused “love” mail along the lines of being called a stupid cow or a “boring little Stalinist” (which, misogyny aside, bothers me most because I. am. not. boring.), it’s hard for me to describe how much receiving such positive feedback means. Moreover, people from all over the world reaching out to say how my piece gave them hope or eased their soul has refocused my attention on how poorly single people are often viewed and treated. From TV to movies to just banter with friends, we’re often the butt of jokes—somehow our lives are lacking, incomplete. Somehow because we’re not in a relationship, our existences are sad, empty and pointless. Perhaps even worse than the jokes are the empathetic looks from family members. “Hang in there,” they say with their kind, glinting eyes, “someday you’ll find someone.” My point, beyond just ef yeah singles I’m here for you and I wish we could have a giant, kick-ass global coffee date, is that this notion of being single and genuinely-happy-to-the-core still seems to be quite the radical one in many circles. Which is why I think London-based photographer Grace Gelder is making such waves. She’s the first woman in Britain to marry herself. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Writing Through Holiday Stress No matter how cozy your family is, the holidays are stressful. Writers need their time, space, and routine to create and sustain their work, and these necessities fall by the wayside as Thanksgiving marches nearer. Then add the surplus of heavy food, sugar-packed nostalgic treats, and the stress-eating, and you’re feeling like a hot mess and your manuscript is still unfinished. The Cambridge Writer’s Workshop (CWW) knows this all too well, which is why the Pre-Thanksgiving Yoga & Creative Writing Juice Cleanse was born. On Saturday November 22 and Sunday November 23rd, from 2-4 PM, at Ashtanga Yoga Shala in New York City, we will be hosting an afternoon of creative writing classes, yoga classes, and juice for writers who need to decompress and write their hearts out, all with a little raw juice kick.
I’ve lovingly sung the praises of the symbiotic magic of yoga and writing before, which is why I love teaching at the CWW retreats—yoga prepares the body for meditation, and writing is a kind of meditation-in-motion. When we write, we channel, and we ask a lot of our bodies and minds to sit through what can be both an ecstatic and arduous process. When I treat my body poorly, my writing suffers: I nod off at my desk, my thoughts are dulled, and my muscles ache with distracting intensity. In short, I’m made slow and thick by neglect. So the Yoga, Writing, and Juice Cleanse retreat seems like the perfect antidote to this season of self-abuse. The yoga rejuvenates the body, clears our minds, and balances our energy. The creative writing classes teach us craft techniques and kickstart our writing with exercises. And the juice delvers pure, fast, and easy to digest nutrients, unfettered by fibers or fats. The two-day afternoon retreat is a gentle introduction to a juice cleanse, especially if you never tried one before, and the reasons to try a juice cleanse are many. There are still spots to register, which you can do here. We’ve just released our schedule for the two-day event. You can attend for both days or just one day at the price of $50 per day (all-inclusive). But for those of you waiting till the last minute, you’re in luck! There is a SPECIAL OFFER for you: Register BETWEEN 11 p.m. Mon 11/17 & 11 p.m. Thurs. NOV. 20 for $35 /day (or $75 for both) The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Fiberglass Body Series Like many photographers, I'm fascinated by mannequins. I think it's because they are at once portrait and still life, object and subject, natural and unnatural, lively and dead, sexy and repulsive, abstract and specific, clean and scuffed, nurtured and abused, clarifying and confusing, admired and dismissed. In short, they epitomize many of the paradoxes at the core of photography itself. #Real #Photography #Fashion #Mannequins #BodyImage #Sexy #Opposites #Contradictions #SocietalCommentary Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Philly Zine Fest-ing It Up On November 9th, I went to the Philly Zine Fest. It was held in not just any Rotunda, but the Rotunda. It was just as rotund as I thought it would be. In that space, dozens of people clustered into one room to sample and purchase zines while getting to know the people behind the scenes. One thing that I love about zine fests is how they mend the gap between the reader and the author. Zine fests allow readers to interact with publishers on a much more intimate level. You can ask them questions about the cool stuff that they're selling and ask them questions about their work. It's always nice to see the other colors of the rainbow in other people's hair. It's also nice to not be the only person wearing a Misfits shirt. Needless to say, I enjoyed myself. When I first entered, I got an eyeload of this: It was totally sweet. I mean that in the most literal way; Sugar Coated Magic is an online vender that sells not only zines, but a bunch of other awesome stuff. I slipped into a sugar coma as I adored the oodles of treasures that she so generously makes available for us to purchase. Check out her stuff; I've been gaga over the stuff she's been displaying on her Facebook page since I returned to my relatives' house in Lancaster. She sells not only zines, but fashion accessories and...Well, just look at everything that's going on in the picture. That's not even the bulk of it. Thanks for feeding my head with all that goodness!
And then there was Joseph Carlough. Oh man was there Joseph Carlough. But mostly Displaced Snail Publications, one of my personal favorites. I met him at Pete's Zine Fest in Brooklyn last summer and had an awesome time talking to him, admiring his awesome work, and gushing over the refurbished Nintendos and assorted, antique Nintendo paraphernalia that he sells. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
“Auf Wiedersehen to the Days of Smizing" Whenever I find myself watching reality television, I realize I tend to go for the ones with the most creative output. I can easily go watch people sit in a house, imbibe, then argue/fight each other, but I always much preferred the competition series where artists were challenged in some way. Whether it was watching the contestants on Top Chef make dishes for a charity event, watching make up artists on Face Off create original monster creatures, or watching drag queens square off as celebrities in The Snatch Game on RuPaul's Drag Race, I'm often intrigued by seeing these kinds of competitions. These contestants have to creative something or do something that requires a lot of skill and talent in a short span of time, and the results were always fascinating.
In my middle and high school years, two of the shows I would often watch that fit this genre of reality competition television were America's Next Top Model and Project Runway. The former followed young aspiring models being judged by supermodel Tyra Banks and a panel of judges as they competed in challenges and photoshoots designed to find the next best fashion model. Project Runway pitted fashion designers against one another in order to see who was the next best fashion designer. Both shows had their peak years, and both have been airing for so long that they've shifted the field of reality competition programming. Now, I will admit that neither show was ever truly “great.” They both had good years and weak years, and the longer they aired, the more each series faced issues. Project Runway took a big change when Bravo had to sell the show to Lifetime. America's Next Top Model faced series redesigns as UPN became The CW and the audience for the channel became obsessed with series like Supernatural and The Vampire Diaries. There were plenty of times during these years where I would take breaks from the shows, usually looking up photos of each show online in place of watching them. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fashion Is More Than Clothing By Deniz Ataman QuailBellMagazine.com The Guardian recently published an article on the male-oriented fashion uniform in academia which caused some woolly static all over social media. Francesca Stavrakopoulo's response to this article explored the expectation of women to maintain their appearance in academia which revealed to me another devaluation of the feminine in our current culture.
Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening. -- Mademoiselle Coco Chanel If fashion were a personality pie chart, clothing would only be a slice. With that said, one's personal fashion is about his/ her outlook on his/her perspective on this world. For some, clothing is a big slice, for others, a crumb. For example, I believe in the power of textiles the way I believe in the power of words. Fabric, cut, and fit can come together like a compelling poem, too. We choose particular fabrics to evoke particular slices of ourselves both practically and creatively.When it comes to clothing, whether you care or not, you are exploring your body. Which fabrics make your bodily bits feel good? It's a personal experience, right? Clothes can be used as a practical means or as a combination of both function and creativity (aka "funktional")—but either way, our threads are one form of inspiration for us to slug or strut our stuff; others may include music, film, food, nature, family. So what does it have to do with intellect? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I'm Autistic and I'm Tired By Zack Budryk QuailBellMagazine.com There are entirely too many variations on the same story.
On the evening of November 3rd, blogger Jillian McCabe turned herself in after throwing her autistic six-year-old son from the Yaquina Bay Bridge in Newport, Oregon. Prior to her arrest, McCabe and her husband had run the now-removed blog Autistic London, chronicling the “ups and downs” of raising an autistic child. It was a horrific incident but not an isolated one. In October, New York magazine ran a sympathetic profile of Kelli Stapleton, who attempted to murder her autistic daughter Issy in 2013. The piece, headlined “Kelli Stapleton Can’t Forgive Herself; Can You?” notes on its splash page that Issy was “prone to violent rages.” Nor was New York Stapleton’s only defender; Dr. Phil McGraw gave her a platform around the same time to say things like “The jail of Benzie County has been a much kinder warden than the jail of autism has been.” This week, Gigi Jordan, who forcefed her autistic son a fatal dose of prescription pills, was convicted on the lesser charge of manslaughter, with her lawyer insisting that “she did this because she loved him so much.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Still Displeased with Cinderella and the Whole Gang I usually discount all feminist rage over the Disney Princess movies when they cannot tell me who Boudicca is. White girls raving about Disney Princesses as a channel for expressing their feminist views exhaust me. They exhaust me as they explain their rebellion against chauvinism by woefully succumbing to it. As these white feminists combat their oppression with their perfect recitation of whatever Huffington Post, New York Times, or Buzzfeed article they read, I pity them.
They know nothing, because they generally do not know themselves. They identify as American and have little to no understanding of their European heritage. They usually end their heritage at when they came to America, rejecting all that came before it. Most of their identity revolves around capitalism and its value of materialism. Pop culture, thus, becomes its own marker of American identity and many girls become disillusioned with how their Disney Princess heritage betrayed them. They have no understanding of Europe’s indigenous cultures or how colonialism once raped them of their identity and spirituality long before their European ancestors would, in turn, rape all of America’s indigenous peoples. They cannot tell you how the loss of indigenous culture always seems to follow the loss of feminine value. They will stare at the dots, but cannot connect them. Watching their eyes dart about like gnats around a lamppost is excruciating to any girl, like me, who has taken the time to connect her own dots, in turn to connect the others. Looking at me, a blonde, blue-eyed girl, with skin so fair, it is translucent, you would most likely presume from my distaste of my feminist friends’ enlightened lectures that I do not support feminism. However, this is not true. What my golden hair and fair complexion hide is the full Houma blood of my maternal grandmother and Cherokee paternal great-great grandmother, whose stories and legacies would impact my identity in such a way that no Disney Princess could threaten it. No mythical character on a lunchbox could compete with the real characters that dwell within my very essence. No biddie in a fancy dress could compete with the female warriors who did as they pleased, even if they made mad money off their product line at Wal-mart. |
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