When I was fifteen a family took me in; they taught me how to cook and garden and the dad gave me books; we spent hours talking about the power of story-telling.
This time of year reminds me of them because every night after dinner we’d go around that wooden table and share our “thankfuls”—this was daily living, not a holiday thing.
They taught me how to practice gratitude when facing hopeless horizons; this isn’t easy; this is discipline.
And as this year comes to a close, I am grateful for you.
Love,
amanda lezra
Editor-in-Chief
When I was fifteen a family took me in; they taught me how to cook and garden and the dad gave me books; we spent hours talking about the power of story-telling.
This time of year reminds me of them because every night after dinner we’d go around that wooden table and share our “thankfuls”—this was daily living, not a holiday thing.
They taught me how to practice gratitude when facing hopeless horizons; this isn’t easy; this is discipline.
And as this year comes to a close, I am grateful for you.
Love,
amanda lezra
Editor-in-Chief
“You don’t have to have an opinion on free will to agree on this point:
the fact remains that humans exist in a wide variety of occupations on the causal/non-causal spectrum, and once you acknowledge that non-causal existence is as real as any “intentional” state, there’s no reason to separate the world of dreams, memories, reveries, ambitions, visualizations from any other experience in daily life.”
Lucy Enlo Infinity Arp
We first meet Lucy as she hangs by her fingertips from the top floor of her apartment building.
She’s not in any actual danger of falling; the inertia deflectors in the wall paneling would easily catch her weight and pull her back to safety even if she lost her grip, accidentally.
This isn’t her first time here, either. Lucy has been coming to the roof for a while now, whenever she wants to think. She usually just hangs for a time, feeling the tension in her forearms, the wind gently pulling around her clothes. She enjoys feeling the weight of her body pulled against her grip, the smell of the warm night air and the soft city glow around her.
Today Lucy is thinking about stories she’s heard in the past; how apparently, way back when, people in cities used to kill themselves all the time. Not that she’s ever had any desire to do that herself; honestly, now that she thinks about it, she can’t even really imagine what that would feel like.
Apparently some people would have the feeling for years and years before they finally decided to do it. Sometimes they would just be in the wrong mood at the wrong time, and end up flinging themselves, utterly impulsively. She wonders idly if they would do it something like this — just hanging off the side of a building. She wonders if they regretted it as they fell.
Even with no threat to her safety she gets a strange, blossoming tingle in her chest at the thought of just letting it all go. She keeps thinking about how strange it must have been to just give up and fall like that. How desperate people’s minds must have been back then.
Lucy Enlo Infinity Arp is a multi-medium project that spans color, sound and sci-fi.
Listen to the first single, INFINITY ARP, here.
Follow the story and the artist, Sylvia, here.
“You don’t have to have an opinion on free will to agree on this point:
the fact remains that humans exist in a wide variety of occupations on the causal/non-causal spectrum, and once you acknowledge that non-causal existence is as real as any “intentional” state, there’s no reason to separate the world of dreams, memories, reveries, ambitions, visualizations from any other experience in daily life.”
Lucy Enlo Infinity Arp
We first meet Lucy as she hangs by her fingertips from the top floor of her apartment building.
She’s not in any actual danger of falling; the inertia deflectors in the wall paneling would easily catch her weight and pull her back to safety even if she lost her grip, accidentally.
This isn’t her first time here, either. Lucy has been coming to the roof for a while now, whenever she wants to think. She usually just hangs for a time, feeling the tension in her forearms, the wind gently pulling around her clothes. She enjoys feeling the weight of her body pulled against her grip, the smell of the warm night air and the soft city glow around her.
Today Lucy is thinking about stories she’s heard in the past; how apparently, way back when, people in cities used to kill themselves all the time. Not that she’s ever had any desire to do that herself; honestly, now that she thinks about it, she can’t even really imagine what that would feel like.
Apparently some people would have the feeling for years and years before they finally decided to do it. Sometimes they would just be in the wrong mood at the wrong time, and end up flinging themselves, utterly impulsively. She wonders idly if they would do it something like this — just hanging off the side of a building. She wonders if they regretted it as they fell.
Even with no threat to her safety she gets a strange, blossoming tingle in her chest at the thought of just letting it all go. She keeps thinking about how strange it must have been to just give up and fall like that. How desperate people’s minds must have been back then.
Lucy Enlo Infinity Arp is a multi-medium project that spans color, sound and sci-fi.
Listen to the first single, INFINITY ARP, here.
Follow the story and the artist, Sylvia, here.
The Path Is Flooded and Treacherous
Stone steps rising up a hill, and under
the hill, stone.
I am wondering about the mineral content
of all things today.
I am wondering if all things are stone
at their core.
The magnolia blossoms turn their faces
to the sky, worshipping.
The rain has torn at them, left them missing
petals, left the petals scattered on the path
like the path is waiting for a lover,
like the rain is waiting for a lover.
The rain has battered the mushrooms,
broken them in chunks, left their mangled
bodies on the hill.
The rain is tender-violent today.
I pick my way down the flooded path,
between these loving petals, between
these torn corpses.
rest
journey wade-hak
The Path Is Flooded and Treacherous
Stone steps rising up a hill, and under
the hill, stone.
I am wondering about the mineral content
of all things today.
I am wondering if all things are stone
at their core.
The magnolia blossoms turn their faces
to the sky, worshipping.
The rain has torn at them, left them missing
petals, left the petals scattered on the path
like the path is waiting for a lover,
like the rain is waiting for a lover.
The rain has battered the mushrooms,
broken them in chunks, left their mangled
bodies on the hill.
The rain is tender-violent today.
I pick my way down the flooded path,
between these loving petals, between
these torn corpses.
rest
journey wade-hak
The Ache
As you drive down the road you can barely see the outline of the trees that crowd the interstate.
The darkness stretches beyond the branches and creeps into your car and chest, like an infection. But instead of feeling feverish sickening warmth you feel The Ache.
The physical symptoms aren’t in the DSM–5 and you can’t find them on Web MD so this isn’t official, but nothing can prepare you for it.
It feels like death, worse than death, maybe, because hypothetically you could call him but in reality you can’t call him to tell him that you love him or that you wanted to hear his voice or that you’re thinking Chinese or Thai or pizza for dinner.
It started when he slid in your DMs. You told him that you felt butterflies whenever he texted so he took you to a butterfly exhibit. They were magical and everywhere and landed on you. You kissed.
It’s been less than a month so now he’s everywhere. Rivers. Music. Butterflies. You never laughed like you laughed with him. You haven’t laughed since. He used to call you starshine.
rest
claire wade-hak
The Ache
As you drive down the road you can barely see the outline of the trees that crowd the interstate.
The darkness stretches beyond the branches and creeps into your car and chest, like an infection. But instead of feeling feverish sickening warmth you feel The Ache.
The physical symptoms aren’t in the DSM–5 and you can’t find them on Web MD so this isn’t official, but nothing can prepare you for it.
It feels like death, worse than death, maybe, because hypothetically you could call him but in reality you can’t call him to tell him that you love him or that you wanted to hear his voice or that you’re thinking Chinese or Thai or pizza for dinner.
It started when he slid in your DMs. You told him that you felt butterflies whenever he texted so he took you to a butterfly exhibit. They were magical and everywhere and landed on you. You kissed.
It’s been less than a month so now he’s everywhere. Rivers. Music. Butterflies. You never laughed like you laughed with him. You haven’t laughed since. He used to call you starshine.
rest
claire wade-hak
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