Issue 34: soil
This month we offer skies black, a cloud corked inside an umbrella, and the germination of the moon’s sanity.
Issue 33: the majesty of the mundane
This month we offer frost’s kiss, an empty shudder, golden threads of love.
Issue 32: the truth isn’t always hopeful
On the first day of the new year our theme is to forget, to put out of one's mind: we offer a blue plastic whale, bleak light billowing, too-frozen fan-ice.
Issue 31: it’s going to be beautiful
For our last issue of the year, we offer mushrooms, caption writers, and bygones.
Issue 30: ode
This month we offer changed names, the flame of fierce determination, and a body resistant to loving. Next month we continue to: ode Submission guidelines can be found here. love, amanda lezra Editor-in-Chief FITTING IN We kissed cats, Cuddled dogs, Reared rats, Fed frogs, Smoked
Issue 29: linger
layers - cory fisher This month we offer fruit we never eat, transparent gummy worms, and dream after dream. Next month we: ode Submission guidelines can be found here. love, amanda lezra Editor-in-Chief still life with neighbors Cezanne’s tables, broken and discontinuous, are
Issue 28: possess
This month the theme is possess: to have, or, to take, or, to be taken. Today we offer cookies garnished with poems, a sprig of lilac, a new love, and another love.
Issue 27: why is love
Today we offer a light that isn't really light, flat sweet bleach, and the one who will protect you.
Issue 26: the way you treated us
In the heat wave we offer bright little hostages, reflections of a necessary light, your broken violin, moonlight after rain.
Issue 22: if I could stop time
Late last winter the world as we knew it shut down. I kept a list of words that echoed across early pandemic conversations: grief, dead, sick, wait, prognosis, we’ll see, stay safe, be well. I unearthed this list this winter. I noticed how each word revolved around time: its ebbing, passing, ending; how much we have, how much we want.
Issue 21: the bright days were very bright
Shards of rain batter the window as I write this. The wind howls; the clouds are white sheets. Wherever you are this winter, I hope comfort sits with you, nearby.
Issue 20: the past is as fluid as the future
This month we are honored to be in conversation with Professor Susan Stryker. She says that the past is as fluid as the future; that history is proof of how radical change transpires even if to us it feels incremental. On the first day of the new year we offer you new clothes, new names, a long night, and new hands.
Issue 19: to remember is to reconstruct
Memory is liminal and to remember is to reconstruct. In reconstruction we often discover new wounds and fictions.
Issue 18: The Antidote to Rage is Nuance
Fire will not cross the road to kill you. You have to lie down to keep going. It won't hurt to have proof you loved me. She lives through this, but I never see her again.
Issue 17: You Never Know Who’s Watching
During this month's conversation with poet, educator and activist Denice Frohman she said that she finds hope in nature—in the beauty we have yet to see. This evening we explore dusk, champagne days, and animals that face extinction.
Issue 16: The Goal Is To Be Forgotten
You asked how my heart is. I have lost touch with it over these years. Like a dusty hallway that I’ve learned not to take people down. But every day, inside those walls there is a longing:
Issue 15: resistance
During our interview, poet Diannely Antigua said: "I am resisting something within myself that doesn’t want me to be alive," and I told her I resonated. So August is about resistance.
Issue 14: rastro
tonight, as my building boards up and the sirens begin to sound, I think, Revolt, revolt, revolt! It's time; the dead are calling...
Issue 13: WRATH
tonight, as my building boards up and the sirens begin to sound, I think, Revolt, revolt, revolt! It's time; the dead are calling...
Issue 12: touch me STAY AWAY
In this issue, you will find a cat, a rattlesnake, and bumps raising like braille. You will also find an interview about the philosophy of aesthetics with Professor Jay A. Gupta. He teaches at Mills College and once gave me a C on a paper. When I went to his office to ask why, he said: “You told me where you arrived but you didn’t show me how you got there.”
Issue 11: WELL THAT ESCALATED
It’s so weird that everything can change in what feels like a second but really it’s all an imperfect culmination of coincidences. Like a viral jump from animal to human and neglectful world leaders. Our understanding of “essential” is changing. But if you are reading this you too turn to art when you’re in pain or in love or wanting to feel at all.
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