Leslie Feinberg Eman Rimawi gabiMONSTROSITY

Pussy Power Woods of Ypres and more

Death, Dying, Undeath

$4
or trade

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Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above ones head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace. Oscar Wilde To die to be truly dead that must be glorious! Count Dracula (Bela Lugosi) in Dracula (1931) Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they who look for death, and fear it every day. William Cowper

Death, Dying, Undeath Cover by Brandi Lee

(fat grrrlz! and ...like weeds zines) Contact: fatgrrrlz@gmail.com

Darkest of All Illusions Inside Back Cover by An-Tuan Williams

Contact: myspace.com/officialjinzo

or o_jinzo@yahoo.com

Explore the dark side with Absent Cause

Underground cultures, hidden histories, feminist and queer sexualities, body image, chosen families and radical politics; vampirism, the gothic, horror and the macabre; surviving abuse, coping with mental illness/dangerous gifts, self-harm and suicide.
Absent Cause #3, Published October 2009, edited by redguard $4 or trade ($5 postpaid) from Absent Cause, P.O. Box 1568, New York, NY 10276 redguard@gmail.com * http://www.absent-cause.org * http://redguard.etsy.com Absent Cause is copyleft 2009 by redguard. This zine may be freely reproduced in its entirety, with credit. Individual pieces are copyright their respective artists and writers. Please contact the creator if you want to reproduce an individual piece.

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Death is your gift

By redguard
Early in the fifth season of
the TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, our shero has a vision of the prehistoric First Slayer, who tells her, "Death is your gift." Buffy responds with anger and anguish. She takes it to mean that her talent, her "gift," is merely doling out death and destruction. Only later, when she is called upon to lay down her life to save the world, does Buffy realize its true meaning: that her own death is her reward, her "gift," to finally be free of the burden of a life of sacrifice and suffering. To me, death is a gift, and one that I long for. After a life of abuse, squandered potential and seemingly perpetual selfsabotage, it is hard for me to understand how people continue to embrace the taboos surrounding death and suicide. Lack of awareness about mental-health problems, lack of support for victims of abuse, and lack of opportunity force too many people, especially young people, to kill themselves unnecessarily. But I believe that people should have the right to selfdetermination over their own lives, including the right to love whom and how they wish, to choose whether or not to have children, and yes, to make an informed choice to end their lives. We are subject to too many levels of abuse and pain under the profit system to rule out this option for our fellows. Like many of the taboos we struggle against, the proscription against taking one's own life is rooted in class oppression and religious ideology. Take your own life and you take away a potential serf/slave/worker/ worshipper from the master class. And as we all know, theft from the boss is the greatest of all sins. As a teenager, I chose the path of a revolutionist. I never aspired to money or comfortI'd never had them anyway. I've never regretted the choice, only my lack of aptitude for it. Beaten (sometimes literally) into a state of social ineptitude, hampered by the inconsistency and unreliability that comes with severe depression and other mental-health issues, I could never contribute what I wished to. These problems have only worsened with the passage of time. The only reason I continue to breathe is for my daughters. Since I love them, helped bring them into the world, and know there is no safety net to catch them, I remain among the living. I do my best to care for them. And while I remain, I contribute whatever effort I can to the working class's battle for emancipation. But I have no fear of death.

Anti-Imperialist Activist Resources

Workers World Party http://www.workers.org International Action Center http://www.iacenter.org Troops Out Now Coalition http://www.troopsoutnow.org New Jersey Solidarity http://www.newjerseysolidarity.org May 1 Immigrant Rights Coalition http://www.may1.info Millions for Mumia http://www.millions4mumia.org Granma InternationalCuba http://www.granma.cu/ingles/index.html Popular Front for Liberation of Palestine http://www.pflp.ps/english Philippine Revolution http://www.philippinerevolution.net United Socialist Party of Venezuela http://psuv.blogspot.com Colombia Action Network http://www.colombiasolidarity.org The Icarus Project http://www.theicarusproject.net Fight ImperialismStand Together (FIST) http://fistyouth.wordpress.com Womens Fightback Network http://www.iacboston.org/WFN/wfn.html International Union of Sex Workers http://www.iusw.org/ FIERCELGBTQ Youth http://www.fiercenyc.org Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist) http://www.cpnm.org Socialist Unity Centre of India (SUCI) http://www.suci.in Korean Central News Agency http://www.kcna.co.jp/index-e.htm Free the Cuban Five http://www.freethefiveny.org Leonard Peltier Defense Ctte http://www.leonardpeltier.net Peoples Justice Coalition Police Terror http://www.peoplesjustice.org Generation Five End Child Sexual Abuse http://www.generationfive.org

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When it comes, I'll welcome it. The most profound reflection on death that I have read comes from Leon Trotsky. Near the end of his life, he wrote: "For forty-three years of my conscious life I have remained a revolutionist; for forty-two of them I have fought under the banner of Marxism. If I had to begin all over again I would of course try to avoid this or that mistake, but the main course of my life would remain unchanged. I shall die a proletarian revolutionist, a Marxist, a dialectical materialist, and, consequently, an irreconcilable atheist. My faith in the communist future of mankind is not less ardent, indeed it is firmer today, than it was in the days of my youth. Life is beautiful. Let the future generations cleanse it of all evil, oppression and violence, and enjoy it to the full." I would only add: Death, too, can be beautiful. *** An issue devoted to "Death, Dying and Undeath" presented some interesting (and unexpected) challenges. I was turned down by potential interviewees when I asked them to discuss their feelings about death. All had legitimate and understandable reasons for doing so. But I decided to take a different tack and approach this issue's interviews from the "undeath" point of view. So I'm happy to present in-depth conversations with Pussy Power, who jumped feet-first into the art world after focusing on parenting for many years, and Dave Gold, whose band Woods of Ypres seemed all but dead and buried,

but is now back with a new album. The overwhelming number of submissions I received about death were poetry and fiction. I wrestled with how to handle this. Absent Cause includes poetry and fiction, but it isn't a lit zine, and I have no desire to make it one. On the other hand, the quality of the submissions was very good, and who else was going to publish all this morbid stuff if not me? My solution: the very first (and probably last) Absent Cause Literary Supplement, which hopefully you received in a bundle with this issue. The supplement gave me a way to present some great fiction and poetry, break the format, and have a little fun with it. If you're reading this and didn't get a copy of the supplement, send me a dollar for postage and I'll mail you one. I feel especially proud to present works in this issue by Leslie Feinberg and Eman Rimawitwo outstanding writers who are fighting painful and potentially deadly illnesses. Despite their difficulties, both generously agreed to contribute to Absent Cause, and I'm so glad they did. They represent a necessary balance, I thinka light to my darkness. Both are radical thinkers and fighters who have made, and continue to make, valuable contributions to our understanding of life, love and struggle. Theirs are not cases of longevity outstripping inspiration, but just the opposite: vital voices that threaten to be cut short. I offer them my solidarity and urge you to do the same. redguard, 10/15/09

Dedicated to the memory of Gary Schaefer

Fundraiser for Eman Rimawi

On Oct. 3, Absent Cause zine hosted a benefit and open mic night for Eman Rimawi. Eman, a regular contributor to AC, was hospitalized with serious complications from Lupus this summer. The event brought out over 50 people, including several AC contributors, and raised almost $900. Please send contributions to Eman Rimawi, c/o Absent Cause, PO Box 1568, NYC 10276. Pictured above (clockwise from right): Eman Rimawi, Imani Henry, Alison Roh Park (with Dru), Brandi Lee (with Ripley).

Special thanks to: Brandi Lee, Laura-Marie Taylor, Sarah Arr!, Auggie Kennedy, Sara Dodd (Happy 40th!) Dave Gold, Leslie Feinberg, Minnie-Bruce Pratt, Tina Elshalakany, Apraxia, Jessica Lewis, Claire Dailey and Rosie Neidenberg.

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Read more zines!

Introvert #6, $1.50 By Nicole Introvert PO Box 35501, Richmond, VA 23235 www.clickclackdistro.com As the parent of an 8-month-old, I can't imagine anything more horrible than the death of an infant. Nicole had to face just that when her nephew Ethan died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) in 2007. She's done us all a service by writing about her experience, her family's struggle to cope with the loss, and her own fears as someone who hopes to have a child one day. Nicole also offers info on preventing SIDS and ways to help families who've been affected. Essential. Monstress #5, $2 By Una Crow www.monstrousindustry.etsy.com monstress@fmgirl.com Where has this zine been all my life? In Toronto, apparently. This issue focuses on mummies, mixing Una's reminiscences of how she became fascinated with Egyptology as a child, a hilarious yet perfectly suitable sequel to Universal's 1932 The Mummy set in Wild West Utah, and movie reviews. She encourages us to take action against the murders of young women workers at transnational sweatshops in Mexico, some of whose bodies have been recovered mummified in the desert. Una is a ghoul after my own shriveled heart! (Be sure to check out the "Color All Monsters" coloring book, toowhere else can you get your cray-on with Cthulhu and a colossal squid?) Part 1 Divided into pieces I am floating by parts of myself Tiny reminders of the former body I had been placed in Falling into traps laid by the angry child trapped inside of me Division invading my heart like mini suns shining their last starry night before exploding into the fading memories of my past life Division detaching my desire to fight this disease. Division draped along my dreams demanding that I succumb to deepening destruction brewing inside of me Divided into pieces I am floating by parts of myself. Tomorrow drifting, no longer an option. I've played with death too many times. Part 2 Division splashing through me Fire and Ice A reminder of my birth the rapid waves pulse increasing to the charge of fierce waters around me like cubes of lost memories, vivid an imprint on my skin like the birthmark on my face

Division
By Eman Rimawi

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like the thumbprint of God a constant reminder that I am chosen to do what must be done Division deciding that I have to divide my love from my duty Division dating my progress, calculating ticks on the hands of time Division locking destruction into my system; a constant reminder of my own beauty and pain. Division splashing through me Fire and Ice Fire and Ice Eman Rimawi is a Black, Native American and Palestinian Queer woman of color from NYC. She is a writer, performance artist, singer, teacher, student, community organizer and freethinker. Eman uses her writing, performing and photography to send a message of revolution, equality and freedom of expression. She is devoted to organizing and empowering young people in NYC to strive to be their best. After all, success is the best revenge. Check out more of her writing, photography and upcoming projects at www.emanrimawi.com.

Favorite things
Sand Witches Gimme a Slice Cassette Contact: izzykjarvis@gmail.com Is it weird that this grrrl-powered punk band makes me think of Shonen Knife? It must be the food fascination. A dirty DIY punk riff on SleaterKinney might be more apt. Thrilling guitar, fierce vocals and drumming that threatens to tear the whole thing apart, but doesnt. This is a musical hard-on in the best, politicallyminded, pro-womyn kind of way. Support Sand Witches and get your hard-on, too. Red Terror No Terror But Red Terror CD myspace.com/redterrorhc No offense to the anarcho-punx, but Im always happy to find new red punk bands. Red Terror from Australia is tearing it up with speedthrashing vocals and kick-ass drum work that has a spark of the late, great Crimson Spectre. 10 Days Til Dole Day is the standout track. They also cover Body Counts Cop Killer, always a good thing. Not quite a musical hard-on, but these boiz have potential. I hope they stay together and find their groove! Check out axwoundzine.com blogtalkradio.com/thezineshow

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Theres at least a two or three year gap between albums. But because it is hard to keep this lifestyle up in this day and age, while Im in the mode of doing this I want to focus on doing it, getting the most out of this time. Id be really happy if we were able to Woods of Ypres at the Speakeasy, Aug. 16, do this record and 2009. Photo: The Sault Metal Scene then do three smaller, tighter eight-song, 40-minute records plane is when its working really well. in the next three years. Then by 2012 Id be 32, the band would There comes a time where living this lifestyle is no longer have been around for 10 years and wouldve done seven algood or healthy or exciting. I love this more than anything bums, and at that point I might say, my time was good, my else, but thats why I think time is so precious. I also look fortime is done, now its time to leave it open for the next perward to when it will be time to move on. son. The best time to land a

Woods of Ypres
U.S. tour planned for July 2010

For updates on the band and the new album, visit

www.WoodsOfYpres.ca www.myspace.com/woodsofypres

Suffer the Children by Danielle Post Artist and photographer Danielle Post photoblogs at http://psychokitten78.vox.com. See more of her work at flicker.com/photos/psychokitten78/.

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Ravaged
By ^v^elizebeth^v^
smack me eat me drink me fuck me make me yours i will be there i will call time to cut the crap and fall make me unreal use me i don't care a piece of trash better suited for pleasure or pain she was beautiful once an object of perfection a needed desire now she bends for her pain what she carries on her plate she wants them now she doesn't even care how she will be there in the night she will wait wherever you want make her take her she is yours a rabid dog Barbie a penniless rogue she will wait for you in the night under a deep red light and you can do whatever you want ^v^elizebeth^v^s current project is a compilation of her writings entitled "Shadows of Inquiry." Shes also working on a novel, the title currently undecided. She can be reached at myspace.com/elizebeth_bathory.

been able to experience something where I wake up and we have a full day to work on music, or a full day in the recording studio. You experience the creative luxury of having time and a little more brain power to your own disposal, as opposed to at the end of the day using the last little bit of brain power you have left to do your creative work. I look back on this year and its the most productive year I can ever imagine. Were going to end up touring coastto-coast in Canada this year from Halifax, Nova Scotia, in the east all the way to Victoria, British Columbia, in the west. Then this whole new, huge record thats gonna come out, that never would have happened if I hadnt had that much time and space to write like this. However, the whole year has been such an isolating experience. In order to do all this, youre completely robbed of any social or cultural life or anything mentally stimulating at your disposal. It really is like the middle of nowhere. Thats one of the things that makes it easy to do the work. I can wake up and weigh things out and realize that theres really nothing else I could be doing with my time at this moment that I would enjoy more or get more out of. So it becomes really easy, even if you dont really feel like doing it. You get up

and get started, you put enough time into it, and it gets to the point where its in good shape, you think it sounds awesome, youre proud of it and eventually its done! redguard: But if thats all there was in your life, you wouldnt progress very far Dave: There is kind of a balance, because I know at the end Im gonna switch gears again. Were gonna put this record out, were gonna push it and hope it does well. But for me to progress as a songwriter beyond the place that I am now requires me to then go experience something else, something new. We have all these if this then that kind of scenarios lined up for what the next few years of the band are going to be. But I do believe there is a finite amount of time that were in this, for what I think is the real period of the band. What I mean is, at the beginning, you get things started, you do a few first records. Then at a certain point you start to feel a bit more experienced this record I think is gonna be really great and then I imagine in my mind I want to do three more, and that might even be three records in the next three years. Some people might be turned off by that idea because most bands dont tend to do that anymore.

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doing things they loved to do because they were influenced to believe that they needed to grow up or this and that. I got caught in the midst of a lot of that. In the early days, a lot of effort went to waste. You could put a lot of time into trying to get something started musically and then all of a sudden, a phone call or an email later, its all over and youre back to scratch. After I had continued with music for a bunch of years, it was like that in itself became kind of an isolating experience, because you isolate yourself from everybody you know by having a little bit of success. And by that I mean, just being able to put a few albums out, not any kind of monetary success. redguard: Because you are continuing to pursue your dream. Dave: Exactly. There has been nothing more rewarding in my life. Im very happy with my choices. But then from the other side, you also receive all kinds of flack and negativity because youve continued. So you do isolate yourself more and more. It came to a point where I just accepted thats what life was. This past year I spent

abroad in Seoul, South Korea, where I drummed in a band. And then moving back, I wanted to still advance Woods of Ypres. Its ironic and tragic to me that my best option was

Pussy Power:

'As wrong as possible, whilst always being right'

Meeting Sara Dodd (a.k.a. Pussy Power) was one of those serendipitous Internet things. I had just set up a Facebook group for Absent Cause. She was promoting the first issue of her zine. The rest is history! She captivated me with her exploits in and around London. Saras in-your-face work not only engages with feminism and sexuality in a humorous way; it also brings the public right into the act of creating art. We need some Pussy Power in the U.S., too! redguard: What is Pussy Power? Is it a person, a group, an idea? Or all of the above? Sara Dodd: Definitely all of the above. The concept and all the artwork is mine but none of it could happen without the kindness and support of the Snatchlings and the love and chauffeuring services of my poor, long-suffering husband Mike Menzanorak. I seem to have unintentionally created a vagina-based superhero alter ego. Personally I would say that Pussy Power is about externalizing my mid-life crisis and using my creative juices to make art rather than babies. The art Ive made as Pussy Power has included collage, sculpture in cardboard, papier mache and clay, textile pieces, prose, poetry, music, print media. I really like the idea of Pussy Power as a brand and I have a lot of different versions of my logo, much as a brand name breakfast cereal might do. A lot of my work has some kind of performance aspect and requires both collaboration with a growing army of Pussy Lovers and audience participation from random passers by. Pussy Power is many things to many people. For the last issue of the zine I asked people to complete the sentence Pussy Power is... and got all sorts of answers from fun, celebration and sexy to my favorite which was given by my oldest friend Jock S Trapp: Pussy Power is the allpervasive, omnipotent lifeinitiating force driving nearly everything. Yes indeed! redguard: How did you come up with that name? Sara: The name Pussy Power came to me spontaneously

to actually move back home to Saulte Ste. Mariethats something I never thought I would do. It just comes down to rent being cheap and theres lots of space and theres nothing going on. It just allows you some focus to be able to write music. I found my biggest challenge in Toronto, for the four years I lived there, as much as it was always my dream to live there. Its busy and expensive and theres always commotion and temptation and other things that you can and usually do end up doing with your time. I find that music is really hard to create just 10, 20 minutes at a time at the end of your workday. Whereas this year Ive

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I did it all the same. I wanted a when I was making my first soft, friendly word for vagina to piecethe graffiti-ed porn, or contrast with SNATCH which more correctly, collaged porn is quite a harsh wordpussy cunt bunting. fitted the bill perfectly. The Back in February 2008 I alliteration of Pussy Power had just moved into my studio appealed to me so thats what I at the Old Peanut Factory and wrote. my neighborsa sound system I was prepared for an excollective called SNATCH had a barbecue in the communal courtyard and they hung up some decorative bunting made of pages from a porn magazine cut into triangle shapes and laminated. The bunting remained in place for about a week afterwards and I guess I became weary of looking at other ladies vaginas. I like to have the choice of whether to look at other ladies vaginas or not and this choice The life and death of the Pea-Green Boat. had been taken away plosion so I was mightily refrom me. However, I didnt want to come across like an old lieved when SNATCH enjoyed my work and took it in the prude. My husband asked me, spirit in which it was intended. Having got to know and love What would you have done twenty years ago? Graffiti-ed the Snatchlings since then I think their original point in it, I replied. So do it, he said. So I did. I took making the porn bunting had been the celebration of vaginas SNATCHs cunt bunting down and collaged and scribrather than to ridicule women, although that wasnt obvious to bled slogans on it and put it back up. I felt very naughty but me at the time. If I were to ask

WOODS OF YPRES
Continued from page 42

jects, or trying to achieve a new sound? Dave: I look at the path Woods of Ypres has taken from the beginning; we did Woods I as a three-piece, but at the end of the recording it was just me standing there, the two guys who recorded with me moved on. It was basically just me. On Woods II we brought in Jessica Rose, and that was the first Woods album to have keyboards on it. I wrote it and she was able to compliment keyboard parts. For Woods II there were two of us. For Woods III, it was me, Jessica and Dan Hulse, who did bass, backing vocals and also recorded the project. So I just found it fitting, because I like to keep things consistent and have some kind of theme or progression, that Woods IV was going to be four guys. We were gonna write more of a rock record with no keyboards on it. It was going to be more of a guitarbased, drums-vocal thing. What ended up working best for us was me on guitar/ vocal. Evan Madden from Philadelphia is our drummer, and his brother Shane plays bassthey both hail from the band The Green Evening Requiem. On lead guitar is a local

guy from here in Saulte Ste. Marie, Bryan Belleau. On the album he does all the lead and solo work. redguard: I want to turn to the philosophy behind your work. Your songs have a lot to say about the love/hate relationship that comes from growing up in a very secluded place. I can relate to that, having grown up in northern Wisconsin. You seek to experience more of the world, at the same time something draws you back to nature, to that introspection that comes from growing up in isolation. How does that tension fuel your work? Dave: Thats a good topic for us and theres so much I could say about it! When I finished high school I moved away and tried to pursue bigger city things and more interesting things, really. And then a time came when I wrote Your Ontario Town is a Burial Ground, which appeared on the third record. That song was really about growing up with people who might have had interests at a particular time and who had kind of given up on things they enjoyed or wanted to dofor example, musicout of guilt or some other influence. Some people were pushed away from

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formance spaces and SNATCH closed the streets for the OFISH-AL Fish Island Street Party, featuring live bands, DJs and street performances. The amount of work everyone put in was phenomenal and I hope we can go even bigger and better next year. You can find more about our street party and associated events at www.fishisland.com. redguard: You also publish a Pussy Power zine, which seems like an awesome way to document your exploits. What does it offer to readers who are too far away to participate in your events? Sara: Thanks for bigging me up, Absent Cause! What my zine offers readers is more bafflement and amusement hopefully. The first issue was mostly picturesthe Pussy Power Annual 2008a full-color pictorial record of my first year in action. I showed the PP Annual to a friend who knew nothing of Pussy Power and asked him what he thought it was about, and he said, It seems to be about people celebrating something, but Im not sure what that thing is. The second issue in May 2009 was very much mixing up the zine format (music reviews, poetry, drawing and fiction from contributors) with the womens magazine vibe; Agony Aunt page, Society

News, that kinda thing. It also featured Peanus Pornmy transcription of the making of an Adult Educational Film at Warehouse B16, The Old Peanut Factory. Theres also some fab photos by David Kilian Beck of me acting ridiculous. Issue 3 will be a Fish Island Street Party souvenir issue. Ill let you know when Im in print with that. And if anyone Stateside wants to get their hands on copies of Pussy Power zine Issues 1 and/or 2, please send a Paypal payment in USD to pussy.power @mac.com. Prices: $12.00 for Issue 1, $8.00 for Issue 2, or $18.00 for Issues 1 and 2 (prices include airmail postageif you want multiple copies please email me before sending payment so I can give you a quote for postage). And if youre a zinester and want to trade, please email me for an address. Ok, enough with the hard sell. All that remains to be said is many thanks to Absent Cause and I hope your readers enjoyed this little window into my midlife crisis! Please drop by and comment on my pages on MySpace and Facebook, dear readers, it would be lovely to hear from you. Knickers across the Atlantic! May the Pussy Power be with you! Visit Sara at myspace.com/ pussypower_uk.

them (and I never have) why they made the porn bunting Im guessing they would answer because its WRONG. Wrongness is much admired, so Pussy Power has tried to be as wrong as possible since then, whilst always being in the right.

NO to that question! Some months ago she asked me wearily, How many peoples mums do stuff called Pussy Power? My older daughter (aged 18) does tell her friends Im a feminist artist and sends them the link to my page on Facebook. I believe they think Im weird. I dont involve my daughters in my art although they are always welcome to join inIm making art for me, not them, although motherhood is all about the Pussy Power of course. I think they are fine with it and are happy to see me happy, as long as I dont make an idiot of myself in front of their friends! redguard: You joke that you wanted to change the world but couldnt find a babysitter, so you had to wait until your kids were old enough to use the microwave. How did you cope with the frustration of not being able to work on your own projects when they were younger? Sara: Before I met my husband in 1998 I was a single parent and I just didnt have the time or energy to think of doing any art projects. I was totally focused on being the best mother I could be, which to me meant being with my kids as much as I could which inevitably means

The Snatchlings are the backbone of the Pussy Power art empire and the Snatched Back Pussy Power Cunt Bunting is regularly on display at community barbecues. redguard: Do your kids tell their friends that mom is Pussy Power? Sara: My younger daughter (aged 13) says an emphatic

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not having much money or freedom. It was my choice to bring these kids into the world so I just got on with it. During my second pregnancy in 1995-96 I developed Pelvic Joint Dysfunctiona very painful and debilitating condition which is much misunderstood and underresearchedand was so disabled by this at times that I couldnt have made art even if it had occurred to me to try. Happily I have found complementary therapies and ligamentstrengthening treatments used for sports injuries to be very helpful in recent years and am now much more mobile. And of course the support of my husband and daughters has been fundamental to my recovery. Renting a studio to make art was something I did in celebration of my increased mobility and has resulted in an explosion of creativity. Until I started making art I didnt realize how frustrated and blocked I had been for all those years. I didnt know what Id been missing and now Im making up for lost time.

redguard: Sex-positive feminism seems to be a topic that invites lots of serious discussion. What made you decide to do something fun and funny instead? Sara: Prior to the cunt bunting episode it hadnt even occurred to me to make feminist art. I had rented a studio in order to do some drawing and painting before returning to the writing I had been doing before. But Pussy Power changed all that. I decided there was value in advocating something as unfashionable as feminism to 20somethings who had no interest or obvious use for it, whereas I feel theres little value in preaching to the converted and no value at all in the slinging matches that often result from discussions of feminist theory. I was a teenager in London in the late Eighties when some feminists were fond of saying things like all men are potential rapists and Ive had a gutful of that kind of talk. I am absolutely serious about what I think and believe but I have no interest in imposing my beliefs on others in any serious way. Id rather impose giant
Continued on page 56

world domination will surely follow. redguard: As you mentioned, your studio is in an art space called the Old Peanut Factory, which just sounds too cool to be real. Do the artists who work there collaborate a lot? Do you all support each others public events? Sara: Why thank you! The Old Peanut Factory is very real and very cool. Were situated in a post-industrial area of east London called Fish Island, which is just south of an area called Hackney Wick. Both of these areas are adjacent to the 2012 Olympic site and are said to have the highest concentration of artists in the worldthough how anyone measures that is a mystery to me. Most of the buildings here are former warehouses and factories and in the 18 months Ive been here Ive watched the area fill up with people from every corner of the creative industries. There is nowhere else like this in London, and I guess in the whole of the UK (and the universe, apparently). Its still cheap here at the moment but I imagine that eventually Hackney Wick and Fish Island will go the way of

Shoreditch and Hoxtonthe artists will be priced out as the area becomes increasingly fash-

ionable. In the meantime were having a lot of fun. The ongoing collaboration between Pussy Power and SNATCH is only one of many working relationships forged in Fish Island factories. At the beginning of August we all pooled our resources for the second Hackney WickED Art Festival, a weekend of open studios and gallery shows with hundreds of local artists taking part. The Peanut Factory buildings were transformed into galleries and per-

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ers. I had thought it would be nearly impossible but Im delighted to say that I personally scored in my knickers at least half a dozen times that day and each time was as sweet as the first. Several other people managed to get their nuts in my knickers too and a very merry time was had by all. Later that evening the Cruiseship Dropouts had a (peanut butter and) jam session. On Sunday I led the Peanut Army up the road to Hackney Wick to see the rest of the festival. We marched, or staggered, under the banner of the Biggest Knickers in Britain. redguard: What kind of responses do you get from people on the street? Do you get hassled by the cops? Sara: Responses to my work fall into two categories: bafflement and laughter (usually both, in that order). When people ask me what Pussy Power is and I answer Pussy Power embodies feminism for women who love men and have a sense of humor they tend to wait for a but, but there isnt one. I have never had a negative response to any of my work and its not for the want of trying. The more ridiculous I get the more people seem to like it. The wronger I get the righter I become. This is partly because all the events Ive done have been in very safe environments

gallery shows, small festivals, themed performance evenings, raves held by my friends SNATCHand for that reason Ive never had to come into contact with the police. For health/mobility reasons I avoid demos and other situations where I could potentially be on the receiving end of unwelcome attention from the police. I did a lot of protesting when I was younger but Im not physically robust enough to take that kind of thing anymore. redguard: Do you have a most embarrassing Pussy Power moment? Or dont you get embarrassed at this point? Sara: I think Ive gone beyond embarrassment. I have pushed myself so far outside my comfort zone that I am no longer capable of being embarrassed by the ridiculous things Im doing. The only thing that really makes me cringe is seeing or hearing footage of myself singing and playing with the Cruiseship Dropouts. I just cant watch or listen to myself yet. Im sure Ill get over this in time. In fact, Im planning some Pussy Power TV shows for 2010 and hoping to host a Pussy Power Hour on Fish Island Radioactivities which will force me to watch or listen to myself. And of course once Ive conquered my foolish vanity and encroached into all areas of the arts and media, total

Eddie
By zowolf
Did I ever tell you that I
was a phone ho? Yup, I used to suck dick on the phone. I was so freaking good at it I was made night shift supervisor. Pretty fucking brilliant if you ask me. In addition to handling over fifty phone lines, we also had to monitor a party line. Mostly it was boring but sometimes it was crazy and very fun. With the calls you often get regulars and special requests. Its funny how many lonely men there are in New York City at about 2 am every night. I worked the 9 pm to 9 am shift. It was hard around 4:30, 5:00we were all just barely awake. Nothing worse then falling asleep while you are supposed to be having the best fucking orgasm in your life. But what can you do? We are only human. There is a rule in the phone-sex industry: Do not get personally involved with your callers. Well, I love breaking rules. I had been working there about four months when I got a call from a guy named Eddie and my gosh, he was a sweetheart. He called me back seven times that night. Except it wasnt actually me. It was Rebecca, a tall, curvy good-bad Irish girl from Park Slope with a head covered in auburn ringlets. I would totally want to fuck Becca, she sounded that hot. This kid Eddie all but fell in love with Becca. After a certain number of calls from the same number, we had to block the caller for fear of fraud. Because who really in their right mind would waste hundreds of dollars on phone sex? Anyway, it was our last call and I had already made him cum three calls before. So we were just chatting, getting to know each other. He sounded unbelievably sweet. If Im playing a role he must be too. So he gave me his home number and I just jotted it down. Now at the time of my phone ho-ing I was also working as a dresser at an OffBroadway theater. Ive been known to go straight from the phones to a matinee. It was very hard for me to sleep a few hours and then go to work. So sometimes I would just stay up the additional three hours between jobs and push through the day. Stupid, I know. It backfired on me many times. I have fallen asleep during a show and missed a bunch of cues. I have overslept and been

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really late to work. I just really fucked up a lot. My buddy used to let me crash at her house for a few hours before work. So one morning Im at Kates house trying not to fall asleep and I find Eddies number, so I call. Mind you, this is 10 on a Saturday morning. Hi, may I speak to Eddie? Yeah, this is Eddie. Hey Eddie, I dont know if you remember me Fuck! Rebecca, where have you been? Ive been calling for you and they say you arent there. I thought you blew me off. God! So there is this little (big) part of me that is so happy and giddy that he was looking for me. Im totally falling for him already. That wont end well. We talk for a while. Turns out he lives in Hells Kitchen, right around the corner from my theater. But of course he only knows me as Rebecca. Fuck fuck fuck, this can never go anywhere. Damn he is sweet he is tall smart funny with a head full of hair so he says. Just my type. Me, not the fake me. I call him every day for a month and a half, always at the same time in the morning when I get home from work. We just talk, no sex. He begs to meet me, wants to give me a ride on his motorcycle. What? This is just crazy, he is just too perfect. I have

seen his motorcycle in front of his apartment. I have yet to see him. I think Im afraid to see him. Because then I would like him and want to come clean about me. And I will get my feelings hurt because Im really not Rebeccafar from her. Around this time things in the real world started getting crazy. So I had to stop calling Eddie. I quit my theater job. I still sucked dick on the phone, but that bridged me into other things like beating up boys for lunch and going to auditions. Oh my crazy life. Almost six months later I actually found Eddies number again. I was bored so I said what the hell, Ill call. Surely he has a girlfriend and his life is fabulous. Hi, is Eddie there? What? Who is this? Fuck, what did I do, shit shit, he forgot all about me. Um, this is Rebecca. Wait a minute. The guy drops the phone and I assume he is going to wake Eddie up. Becca? Yeah. Fuck, I have been trying to find you. Wait, this is not Eddies voice. What the fuck is going on? Im Josh, Eddies roommate. I saw your name all over his book and I heard him talking to you before. But he doesnt seem to have your number written down anywhere. We

were recreating surgery to fuse the symphysis pubis and sacroiliac joints by hammering nineinch nails into a sculpture of a pelvis. This is more or less the surgery thats performed on women with Pelvic Joint Dysfunction. Its medieval and doesnt tend to improve pain levels or mobility; in fact, it frequently makes everything worse. Furthermore, if you screw a metal plate across the symphysis pubis, now where dyou suppose the incisions are going to be for that? Im VERY glad I refused that surgery. So, a serious point was made but we had a lot of fun with the hammering. To round off 2008 the allfemale Pussy Power Pancake Club hosted the First Annual Pride of Pussy Awards where I gave out Golden Pussies to individuals who had demonstrated Outstanding Services to Pussy Power. It was a glittering occasion and featured the burning of the Pea-Green Boat and a fireworks display. I cant wait for this years Pride of Pussy, its going to be fanny-tastic! During 2009, as well as putting zines together, Ive been broadening the scope of the Pussy Power art empire to include musical offerings from Pussy Power and the Cruiseship Dropouts, who, according to one source, sound rather like a motley end-of-the-pier assortment of drunks and deadbeat entertainers who can't even

get work on the cruise ships. Open jam sessions are held at PLANET SNATCH and to date have included all manner of contributions from performance poetry and toasting to Scottish fiddle playing and Turkish dancing. Theres always plenty of random action, people drift in from nearby parties or on the way home from raves and join in with the singing. Were 100percent acoustic and chords books are provided so you dont need much knowledge of your instrument in order to take part. There is no distinction between performers and audience, and we tend to go on all night. TURN UP! TUNE UP! DROP OUT! Mostly recently for Hackney WickED Art Festival 2009 Pussy Power pulled out all the stops. On Saturday, Aug. 1, I co-curated the Fish Island Gallery with the adorable Joe Lucey, and ran a beer garden from my vagina-flowered gazebo, wherein I premiered two pieces. Firstly The Snatch Mill, a cardboard model of The Old Peanut Factory (home of SNATCH), which contained a magical mechanism for converting random objects into peanut butter. The Snatch Mill was very beautiful and much admired but not very interactive and I do like people to get involved with my work. So my other piece was a Peanut Trebuchet where you had to use a miniature war machine to fire peanuts into knick-

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The Pussy Power Fanny Hammock. Hackney WickED festival my husband Mike and I performed The Owl and the Pussy Powerthat famous childrens poem by Edward Learin a Pea-Green Boat, with the giant knickers as a sail, playing ukuleles and attended by the Hula Bridesmaids. Theres nothing specifically feminist about this but it happened to be our wedding anniversary that very day and marriage is rather like being out at sea in a pea-green boat with another person and figuring out how thats supposed to work. And singing about it. Later in the summer SNATCH invited me to the Ode Festival and I needed an event that would appeal to young people on lots of drugs, something very wrong. I made a giant bloody sanitary towel an Always Ultra with wings and Velcro-ed it inside a hammock. To everyone who got in the hammock I gave stickers saying I made a proper cunt of myself in the Pussy Power Fanny Hammock. Fanny in the UK always means vagina, never ass! The young people found the hammock to be very comfortable and relaxing apparently there are Fanny Hammock stickers on bedroom walls all over southwest England. The most personal and political piece Ive done is the Pussy Power Pelvic Petrification for a Halloween event last year. Ed Snatch and I were orthopedic surgeons and we

were able to get in touch with everyone but you. What? Whats going on, did Eddie move? No. Im sorry to tell you this, but Eddie died about three months ago. He was riding his motorcycle on the West Side Highway and got into an accident. He was killed instantly. Im shocked and sickened at the same time. This is such a fucked-up joke. Really? Yeah, Im so sorry. Um, his family wanted to talk to you. Ill give you the number to call. You were close, right? I hung up. I couldnt do it. I was shaking and crying. Just thinking about it now makes me sad. What a mess I have made. I feel so stupid for having taken it so far, for making him that special to me, for ever calling

him that day. Stupid, stupid me. He died never knowing I wasnt real. I looked it upthere was a little blurb about the accident in the papers. Years later I Googled him. I found his picture. He was everything he said he was. He was perfectly sweet. He was not a liarI was. So Rebecca died when I found out. And Blue was born. She is Italian, from Coney Island. Her father is a cop. If he found out she was getting guys off on the phone, he would fucking kill her. Im a liar. Its what I do to stay whole. But I can honestly say that Eddie was the first friend who died in my life. Its fucked up but true. I wish I could say I didnt break the rules again. But I did.

zowolf says serious throat injuries do happen in the phone-sex industry, and thats another reason why sex workers need a union! Contact: zowolf@optonline.net.

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Body parts
By Natasha Norfleet
I never realized my thighs milky white, were never supposed to touch. I remember sitting in a dingy building, in a struggling camp of kids and captors, and a girl, in an orange t-shirt, showing her stomach off. I wasnt too young to feel insecure. Slender, my fingers never were and silent, will I always be, but a voice has slinked in, unyielding, blaming body parts and genes. I always felt out of place, unfeminine and pale, and even though I learned not to be afraid to wear shorts, My thighs still touch, and my curves still evolve, and I really dont mind anymore.

existed. It was a private prep school, heavily High Anglican and military: if we werent praying or practicing hymns we were running laps of the

flowers and festooned with knickers. I invited him inside but he hesitated, saying he was nervous of the knickers. So, after 30 years Id got my own

The Biggest Knickers in Britain take a pounding. grounds. Girls had only been attending for a couple of years before I arrived and we were in a small minority. We were not welcomed by many of the male staff. The message that girls were inferior to boys was loud and clear, but as I looked around me at the evidence I knew it couldnt be true. The status quo was obviously nonsense. Dear old Jock S Trapp was one of those horrible little skirtlifting boys in that class back in 1978. He came to visit me at a recent event where I had a gazebo painted with vagina-like back on him, vile little boyI finally showed him my knickers and he was intimidated. The knickers have won the day at last. redguard: Tell me about some of the other events and performance pieces you do. Sara: Gladly! During 2008 I conceived several performances and pieces which SNATCH helped to birth. The Biggest Knickers in Britain was the first (and Ed Snatch was the first person to get in my knickers), then for

Natasha Norfleet says: I am 22. And I still do not have a career or a college degree, but I'm starting a family, of myself and my fianc Miles. I'm the biggest geek ever. I am a gamer girl and I consume more books than food. And I've never been happier. Check out her photography and paintings at bloodislikewine.deviantart.com.

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PUSSY POWER
Continued from page 12

Breaking isolation
By Leslie Feinberg
Remarks given at Leslies 60th birthday celebration on Sept. 5, 2009, at ArtRage Gallery in Syracuse, NY. It also marked the release of hir latest book, Rainbow Solidarity with Cuba. jury to one is an injury to all, for a long time now. I feel some personal pride in being a survivor at age 60, but I also know that its not merely a personal accomplishment. Being part of the forward social movement of history has brought me from isolation into mass social interaction with people struggling for economic and social justice in the U.S. and in countries around the world. For me, the pinnacle of my lifetime trajectory from marginalization to social activist connection was on Oct. 21, 2007. I was in San Francisco to speak about finding common ground where communists and religious activists could be in solidarity in the struggle for social transformation and liberation. The San Francisco mayors office had named that day Leslie Feinberg Day. The California State Legislature and the city and county of San Francisco sent official congratulations. Im not tagging that day to boast or claim personal prestige. But thats the day in my adult life that I was pulled down like Kudzu after three decades of undiagnosed illness.

underwear on them in a fun way. redguard: Speaking of which One of your performance pieces uses the Biggest Knickers in Britain. If I visit London, can I get in your knickers? Seriously, though, what does it say about the way women are classed and labeled as sex objects based on their size? Sara: Yes, absolutely, you and all your family can get in my knickers at once! Everyone is welcome in my knickers. I realize that knickers meaning ladies underpants is not a word in common usage in America here in the UK knickers is a friendly, comical word that evokes the 1970s of my childhood. I first used the giant knickers in May 2008. An art gallery had asked me to participate in a show with a fairground/country fete theme and giving people rides in a pair of giant knickers was literally the silliest thing I could think of. The event wasnt done specifically in reference to plus-size women, but afterwards I remembered that my dear friend Jock S Trapp commented to me some years ago that knicker-size was inversely proportional to attractiveness in

women, i.e., the smaller the knickers, the more attractive the lady. He says these kinds of things to needle me, and things that needle me become inspiration for my art. Big Knickers = unattractive? Really? Hes given me even more reason to fetch out the Biggest Knickers in Britain at every available opportunity. To fully explain the significance of the knickers I use in my work, I have to take you back to 1978 when I was 9 years old. I had just arrived back in the UK from Australia where I had attended a girlsonly school. On my first day at my new co-ed school I walked into the classroom, the teacher wasnt there yet and it was bedlam, the boys were all chasing the girls and lifting up their skirts to see what color their knickers were and the girls were shrieking their heads off. A boy ran up to me and asked, What color are your knickers? I was totally baffled why would anybody care what color my knickers were? To avoid getting my skirt lifted I answered him, blue. Luckily for me he was deflated by my honesty and took me at my word. That school turned me into a feminist years before I had any notion that such a thing

I recall only one other

birthday party in my life. It was at the height of the Cold War anti-communist witch hunt, which demonized dissent and difference. I was a masculine girl-child of about 5, living with my family in the Bell Aircraft Factory housing projects in nearby Buffalo, NY. My parents had set up a cookout grill and invited neighbor coworkers. I remember surveying the crowd of people in the neighborhoodthe children, the adultsand I had this cold, icy chill of realization that I didnt have any words for at that time, which was that nobody looked different like I did. And so I assumed I wouldnt grow to adulthood. Now, here at age 60, Ive outlived the life expectancy that seemed to loom before me as a gender-variant child. I made a decision a long time ago that it was more important to me how I lived than how long. Ive lived by this truth, that an in-

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I had to cancel my first visit below the equator. I returned from the airport in a wheelchair and was hospitalized for five days in New York. In the almost two years since, illness and resulting disabilities have kept me at home, mostly alone in dim daylight, or in the comfort of darkness before dawn, virtually incommunicado. When it came time to build a communications hub as a lifeline, I could not have broken that isolation alone. Ive begun to understand that I have to give up on old ways of trying to reach each person one at a time, and I need new forms of connection and communication. How that marginalized 5year-old girl at hir birthday party in Buffalo would have been heartened and strengthened to know how much change ze would be a part of, and how much ze would be welcomed by other strugglers against social and economic injustice, and that it could be done as a revolutionary, without bending principle! Im still losing weight for unknown reasons, and at this time Im not responding to antiwasting medications. Minnie Bruce and I have had to make two round trips to New York City in the past week for urgent diagnostic testing, and my doctor says she thinks there may be even more going on than just the late-stage tick-borne diseases and other infections that

have already been established. Ive had to spend days and weeks on the telephone fighting my way out of insurance and pharmaceutical red tape and battling federal discrimination. I ask my loved ones to forgive me for not naming you thats a lot to ask. You planned and bore the cost and effort of traveling to be with me at a moment in my life when support becomes a material force. You made this milestone in our relationship possible. But its not just a consideration of how much time it would take to acknowledge; its that state discrimination against same-sex love, denying us of over 1,000 life-and-death benefits, also robs us of language for relationships outside of blood ties and heterosexual marriage. My love draws no boundary between blood family and chosen family. Theres also a beautiful word for another powerful relationship in this room, and thats comradeship. Its a bond forged in struggle between freedom fighters: those who strive to struggle against each others oppression as hard as they do against their own, those for whom there are no borders in the workers struggle, those who understand that no human being is illegal, who wont stop struggling until every battles one. I have comrades in this room that Ive been with shoulder to shoulder at the barricades

By Diane Carroll
The battle-lust inside of her grows A fire in her eyes Those who stand against her know too well Its time for them to die. Her blade shines bright, piercing the sun The bane to all who live. She cuts them down, one by one. The field grows deep with pooling blood, pure red. Theres nothing left to kill. She sees a child walking without care through the battlefield. His eyes lost that lust for life, she mummers he shouldnt be here. Seeing all this blood and death. She fights to save her lost loved ones, for the ones she cares for. She walks up to the child and he stares at her empty eyes. She can feel he wants to run but where will he run too? She shivers her sword and offers her hand to his little one. He stands for a few more minutes before burying his head in her belly. Tears flowing like time, she a warrior picks him up into her arms And walks away from the running river of blood. Shielding his small eyes from this battle, shielding his mind from this time. Hoping he will not remember, hoping for this war to end soon.

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for more than 35 years. Also in this room are new friends, who I welcome as warmly as my lifelong friends. As Che Guevara wrote, At the risk of seeming ridiculous, a revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love. This event is powerful for

your help in translating them into other languages. This is the work I did just before beginning and for the first few months of antimalarial treatment. Now, taking photographs may be beyond me. Ive digitized more than 10,000 taken during this period

Vampire Days by Leslie Feinberg me because it brings together my last political written work and my new political photographic work. I brought 85 photographs to share. All were taken in the last year, with the exception of three that I took in historic Palestine in spring 2007, when I was invited by Palestinians. I will start uploading these photos onto the web. Youll find the link to my photos on my web page. I ask for that I may be able to begin tagging with metadata, which I can continue to web-publish. Im working to aggregate the tools of digital web communications in case I have to move again so that I wont be out of touch. In the upcoming days and weeks I will be focusing my attention on trying to write more about why its so important to defend the Cuban Revo-

We All Turn To Earth by Diane Carroll See more of Dianes artwork at beachbead.deviantart.com Copyright 2009 by Diane Carroll

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lution from here, in the belly of the beast. Wall Street, agribusiness and the banks have been literally waging warfare, overt and covert, against the Cuban Revolution, much the way that slave owners in this country massed armed assaults on Maroon communities of African descent who had broken the shackles of enslavement. The economic blockade is just one of the illegal acts of warfare which aims to strangle the population. The blockade also denies us an understanding to witness what it actually takes, the process to eradicate prejudice, not just through mass education, but by being able to dismantle the economic institutionalized oppression. You may not know this, but today the Cuban Revolution is blazing trails for the world in transsexual, transgender and same-sex rights, and all Cubans are guaranteed a job, a home, free health care, free education, and no loss of job or income due to illness or injury. How could a revolution in five decades bring about so much change in ideology that was institutionalized by five centuries of colonial and imperialist rule? I think youll find in Rainbow Solidarity in Defense of Cuba that revolution is a process, not a single act, and that the process of solving the problems left by class rule is the forward motion of revolutionary change.

These are hard times for simple celebration. In his novel set on the eve of the capitalist revolution in France, Charles Dickens eloquently summed up the contradiction of danger and opportunity in the same historical moment: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. Thats why this gathering is themed on the interaction of love and struggle. Im with you in that struggle. Im proud to be living here, in what today is referred to as Central New York, in Syracuse, which working people here call with pride a union town. I look forward to writing more about why. Theres a long liberationist history in this region, from sovereign Native nations to the Underground Railroad, Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman,

Like Weeds #1: Depression Elimination by Brandi Lee $1 plus $1 for postage Also available: fat grrrlz! 1 & 2, $2 each c/o Kill Yr Fears, P.O. Box 1568, New York, NY 10276 fatgrrrlz@gmail.com

Available at Leftbooks.com

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Asphyxiation
By Amberly Mason
Falling eternally folds of darkness caress valentine touch extinguished breath sweet the touch of fingertip impressions upon sultry swan's neck beauty lost in depths of starless eyes watching far beyond the soul Endless decent unraveling silk breathless ecstasy enshrouding death pervasive cold hands constricting ethereal ribbons evasive silence pleading never to return to gravitys force Elusive dreaming transcending feathered reality hushed still evanescence captivating serenely relentless restriction savior in icy touch suffocating beautifully free within boundless illumination
Amberly Mason says: My poetry expresses the essence of myself, and much of it incorporates my spirituality, worldview and personal philosophies. A lot of my poetry deals with my relationship with Darkness, and what it personally means to me to be dark and the importance of the balance in all things. I also write stories and enjoy sketch work, painting and photography. I am currently working on a zine called Liber Nox. Contact her at WhimsicalWarrior@aol.com.

The Jerry Rescue Memorial in Syracuse, N.Y. John Brown, Jocelyn Gage, Mary Walker, the first womens rights convention in Seneca Falls these were all our neighbors in struggle. According to the Preservation Association of Central New York, by the mid-1850s slave captures were clearly not welcome in Central New York, and Syracuse newspapers openly advertised support for the Underground Railroad. This was Abolitionist country, where a multiracial crowd of thousands helped a man of African descent free himself from the custody of federal agents, an action remembered as the Jerry Rescue. In describing the lessons of the rescue, the Rev. Scott Smith Taylor said, We dont have a moral foundation if we dont fight racism. As Transgender Remembrance Day approaches this fall, it offers an opportunity to white anti-racist activists to take great care in how we use the word we. In Syracuse, Leticia Green lost her life. Her loved ones are grieving. A young Black man is behind bars. I express my solidarity with community organizers of all nationalities who are building unity. But in the politics of solidarity, context is everything. When white activists referred to the trial conviction of the young man who shot Leticia as a victory for us all, it strips away the acute conditions of racism to draw that equal sign. Until there is jus-

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tice, there will be no peace. There is no justice without decent, good-paying union jobs, affordable housing and health care, food and transportation, education and recreation. There is no justice when dreams are still deferred. For white activists today, the words of Dr. Martin Luther Kings 1967 speech, one year before he was assassinated, are still an orienting lesson for not getting misdirected. Dr. King called the U.S. government the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today. When Dr. King was writing, Pentagon war was still an artificial stimulus for the capitalist economy. Today economic suffering is widening and deepening because capitalist production, driven for profit, outstrips consumptionpoverty because of

abundance. Banks and corporations are raiding the public treasury while demanding a blank check for war and occupation. The contradiction is sharpening the class struggle, and with it, the historical battle of ideas is generating new consciousness. In times of economic and social crisis, old ideas no longer circulate as good coin; new ideas gain currency. As the revolutionary Lenin once observed, Sometimes decades go by and nothing seems to happen. Then weeks go by, and decades happen. Where are todays freedom fighters? Who will lead the way to liberation? I recall the succinct eloquence of the late Black poet June Jordan: We are the ones we have been waiting for.

Leslie Feinbergnovelist, journalist, and revolutionary activistreceived the Lambda Literary Foundation's 2009 Pioneer Award. Ze is the author of Stone Butch Blues, the groundbreaking novel of transgender oppression and resistance, as well as Transgender Warriors, Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink or Blue, and Drag King Dreams. Leslie is a managing editor of Workers World newspaper on extended medical leave. For links to hir writings, videos and photographs, visit transgenderwarrior.org.

any dead women in advanced stages of pregnancynot an uncommon thing in that time and placebut I never saw anything so extraordinary again until long after my death. I slept in a cramped apartment inhabited by a dozen other men in the slums about a mile from the death house. Although I could run there quickly through the quiet streets, I hated the place and had little incentive to hurry. Instead I walked through dark alleyways at a leisurely pace, always looking for something alive to distract mea stray dog or cat or a horse tied to a hitching post. One night I heard whimpering, of a puppy, I thought, but when I followed it to its source I discovered a girl. She was a tiny thing with yellow curls, dark bags under her eyes, and a swollen pregnant stomach. I shared some bread with her and she told me her tale of woe. Her name was Janna and she was but 15. The man who had taken advantage, who I took to be her father or stepfather, had turned her into the street. How ironic, I thought, that I should spend my days obsessing over the improbability of rescuing a baby from the pregnant dead, only to cross paths with this waif, very much alive and in need of help.

I did the only thing I could think to do; I married her. Of course my erstwhile roommates would not accept her into their flat. One of my shift-mates, an energetic necrophiliac named Johann, arranged temporary accommodations for us in his brothers woodshed. A city bureaucrat married us with them as witnesses. Though I was loathe to be a party to the girls torment, she insisted that I consummate the wedding vows. I did so without pleasure in spite of her plentiful charms. Unknown to me, the brutal man who fathered her child had heard of our wedding and tracked us down. When, two weeks later, Janna gave birth, this man had her killed and the child taken to be raised by him. I returned home from my shift to find our hovel empty. The next day, having ascertained the circumstances of Johannas disappearance, I bundled up my few possessions and left Vienna, never to return. *** Hugos eyes, sparkling just minutes before, turned dark. He fell into an uncomfortable silence for several minutes. I could see that he hadnt thought of this girl for many years, and remembering her story pained him.

redguard (a.k.a. Gregory Butterfield) is the creator of Absent Cause. Contact: redguard@gmail.com

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had been working at the facility since its opening, was caught engaged in an act of necrophilia when a prosperous businessman paid a surprise visit to his dead mistress. It was not the first time this boy had been caught doing the evil deedin fact, I was assured, it was common practice among the boys and the masters as wellbut in this instance the facts could not be concealed. I had seen many odd sexual liaisons on my journeys, and participated in some for that matter, so I was not appalled to find my co-workers engaged in such acts--only baffled at the attraction. Later it seemed clearer to me that youths trapped in close quarters for such long periods will find an outlet for their sexual frustrations wherever they can, especially if they are afraid to find it with each other. Do you not agree? And there was a sort of class vengeance to be found in such acts as well. It was only the rich and powerful who could afford the privilege of the houses of the newly dead. There was a strange catharsis to be found by an impoverished youth, with no political guidance or hope for the future, in a post-mortem act of revenge on a wealthy mans daughter, mistress, or society matron, however heinous the act may seem to us. The beastliness was not completely one-sided, however.

I was witness to the greatest scandal to befall the place, when a lord known for his cruel dalliances took up a brief residence. As I was preparing to leave for the night, a fellow runner and I were pushed aside by a mob of angry women and girls whod been taken advantage of; from their garb, mostly of peasant stock. With kerchiefs covering noses and mouths, they braved the charnel house and soon found the object of their rage. In short order they rent the noblemans body limb from limb; his manhood they tore away and brandished like a banner. It wasnt long before I saw the foolishness inherent in this macabre place. If by some miracle a newly dead person were still alive before coming there, its overwhelming stench would surely kill them. Nevertheless, I became obsessively fascinated with the idea that new life might emerge from the decay. One day a woman was brought in who had died in premature labor. The following day, her bell went a-rattling with more force than usual, and I rushed to her slab. Her decomposing body had expelled the fetus, and it lay between her bloodied legs. It was dead of course, but I wondered if it might be possible for an infant to be born under such extreme circumstances. From then on I carefully tracked the intake of

Artwork by Carl Alessi Carl Alessi says: I am a self-taught artist and like to follow my own path and tell my stories in drawings. Now, more or less, I live in a small wasteland town as a type of modern hermit. His work has been displayed at Gallery Gachet in Vancouver. Contact him at 26 S. Front St., St. Clair, PA 17970.

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I am only a girl
By Walaa Quisay
But I was only a girl, and now Im long gone Beneath the hard breath of tobacco, and behind the sun I was only a girl, and now Im long gone The flowers blossom and then the spring does die Horses scream, the heavens have yet to cry Aiyana heard the sounds and felt the echoes She smelled the rum, saw the green eyes and the freckles Attempted to run out of existence but still existed He grabbed her with knobby hands and persisted Fifteen hours killed fifteen months, fifteen years of joy A bullet stole her life but it was his right for he was a cowboy She was lying dying by the gutter crying like a sick dog She was only a girl, with feathers in her hair, but now shes long gone But I was only a girl, and now Im long gone Search and destroy, to kill and ploy I was only a girl, and now Im long gone An saw the light, a soft serene music a muse with peace But her soft clear paper was tainted by chemicals and soldiers unease Her hair so dark, mysterious, lie sixteen inches one for every year A hard cough and a spit with blood at her door and eyes filthier but blue clear Ans door was knocked and her soft serene music faded with the screams He grabbed her hair and knocked her on the ground, the heavens cried today as it seems Moans and cries haunted the ground and with one shot she passed Passed in the brutal heat, unburied and blood crawled out of her each time she gasped She glimpsed the face of death, surrendered to his eyes and as a beauty she died She was only a girl, a peasant, but now shes long gone

put a wad in his cheek and sucked out the blood, then spit the remains into a corner. Disgusting habit, he mumbled, then sat down and resumed his story. *** I fell into my duties in the charnel house with youthful abandon. To be paid regularly was a pleasure no matter the profession. After a few weeks of continuous retching, I adjusted to the stench of death, an adaptation that would prove useful in later years. My master sat in a round stone chamber in the center of the immense two-story structure. He monitored the crude alarm system for signs of life from the presumed deceased. Strings were tied to the corpses index fingers and big toes and looped over wooden planks descending from the high ceilings. On the other end of the strings were small bells. If the string moved, a bell would ring in the central chamber, and the master dispatched me or one of the other runners to see if the individual was in fact alive. This system kept me running almost continually during my 12-hour shift. No one was rescued from premature burial during my time there. Yet the dead were continuously stirring. Most times the bells would sound as the corpses decomposed, their mass and gasses shifting, their

organs liquefying. Occasionally I would find the source of disturbance in an unwelcome guest such as a stray cat or a rat, though great efforts were taken to keep pests out. But the bell system plagued us and our stomachs. There was only the most rudimentary ventilation within this realm of the dead, since any breeze would set every bell within its walls a peeling. Those who worked within could not help but develop a

No one was rescued from premature burial during my time there. Yet the dead were continuously stirring.
morbid fascination with the tenantsthose who did not have one already, I should say. The change they displayed was constant and physical. My curiosity never extended as far as some others. Shortly after I began working midnight to noon, I was unexpectedly promoted to the coveted day shift. I soon learned from my coworkers what had happened. One of the other runners, who

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lucid moments they debated philosophy and great political events. It was the early 1840s and the winds of change were blowing. Of course we had no notion of the upheavals only a few years away, least of all a nave village boy like me. There were several followers of Kropotkin, the only of the many strange names I recognized. One fellow, quiet when sober and remarkably boisterous when drunk, had been to England. I bothered him endlessly to tell me his stories about the followers of Ludd, factory workers who used their tools to destroy the machines that enslaved them. I had never seen a modern factory but could conjure the most fanciful images of monstrous machines devouring men. Within two years of my joining these wanderers, their ranks had diminished considerably. A few died in drunken brawls; others met local maidens and settled down. Most simply tired of the endless travels and resolved to return to their native soil. My own modest wage was cut each time a soldier left the band. Finally, when we neared Vienna, I struck off to track down a cousin of my mothers apprenticed to a carpenter there. I remember little of the cousin save that he was none too thrilled to have me as his guest. At the time Prussia and the

neighboring kingdoms were gripped in the fear of premature burial, and this was one of the few areas of employment opportunity for an ignorant youth of hardy constitution. Through my relatives efforts I gained employment and boarding as an assistant in the citys great house of the newly dead, what they called the waiting mortuary. Here the bodies of the well-to-do and other respectable citizens of the empire were laid out for a minimum of three days and watched round the clock in case they should stir and prove to not truly be dead after all. *** The progress of Hugos tale seemed to jar his senses to the smell of death surrounding us in the crypt. He jumped up and grabbed an aerosol can from the high shelf behind his chair. A weird mixture of rose petals and rot stung my nostrils as I waved the spray away, motioning that I didnt need it. He put the can back on the shelf and shrugged apologetically. I used to use Lysol, but that was even worse, if you can believe it, he said. The old vampire pulled a flat, circular can from his pocket and opened it. It looked like the snuff men chewed back home. But as I watched I saw it was something else: finely chopped strips of raw meat. Rabbit, he explained. Hugo

But I was only a girl, and now Im long gone The prayer mats lay on the floor, its curfew, well pray at home today I was only a girl, and now Im long gone Babylon culture as art hung loosely on the crooked wall Abeer had heard her sister crying, echoing the fear with a silent crawl She smiled and sang an old folk song of some sheep that gave in Hugged her sister with a maternal smile when her windows were broken Punched out fourteen times one for every year they let her live Now with brute, they have decided to take from her what she wont give Her sister cried and screamed and with more than a hundred bullets Life terminated from the house and the crooked wall cracked and the art cut After her body was taken she glimpsed death kiss her sister, it was destiny to submit She was only a girl, with a prophecy that a gun fulfilled, but now shes long gone My mother she cries beside me, when the flashbacks come I was a girl, a young girl but I am much older now, and my heart is numb Three years have passed and gone and his large hand still suffocates me Pasillo music plays my tune of a melancholy tear and a somber plea But I was taken and beaten, touched by the devil till the lights in my head did sleep And I was bruised and cut and cried but my voice became mute And I was lying on the ground waiting for the minutes to die When my own kind gave me the gun, I couldnt help but cry I cannot utter the words my sigh is condemned But my rapist is free to spread his weapons in my earth, my land

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And now in sympathy the sky may sometimes cry But her piety is also condemned They say there are no roads broken to mend So I must watch him spread like a disease I must nod and smile as he walks at ease But I was only a girl, I am only a girl And my people have let my voice be gone Dedicated to the girl raped by U.S. soldiers in Colombia and all the women and girls around the world raped and killed by American troops. Egyptian student activist and poet Walaa Quisay was interviewed in Absent Cause #2. Contact: sweet_devil_925 @hotmail.com.

Hugos story
By redguard
[From a forthcoming novel about Darwin, a half-vampire/ half-human boy. In this chapter, an old vampire named Hugo is telling the youth about his life before he was turned.] We youngsters agreed the village was dying. People were leaving to seek jobs in the big workshops opening in the cities of the north and west. I left when I was not more than 13. Such things were not uncommon in those days. I fell in with a band of decommissioned soldiers. I fetched supplies, peeled vegetables and otherwise aided their cook. They were ruffians, really, a strange lot of Hungarians, Magyars and French who once served Louis Bonaparte. We wandered through the countryside from village to town like scavengers of old. They would drink beer and carouse. Sometimes in their drunkenness they would pillage the homes of innocents. Other times they would latch onto some local unfortunate with a tale of bitter woe. A sentimental call to arms would go up and they would rally to find a solution to their friends problem. Usually this involved trouncing a despicable landlord or merchant. I found the latter pastime gratifying and so turned a blind eye to the former. They were rough men but intelligent in their way. What do you say worldly. In more

One thing you must understand. After the strigoi rises, it becomes hard for him to remember his living days. I know not the year of my birth. Quite likely I never knew even in life. I believe it to be sometime before 1830. My home was a days travel from Budapest. I remember making the long journey sitting in my mothers lap on the back of her brothers horsedrawn cart. I do not recollect her face. My father I am pretty certain I did not know. We were often hungry. That much I remember well. My mother was sometimes a teacher to the village children. She could read and write not only Hungarian but German, and she taught me both of these. Few other children were literate. For a month or two during the winter my mother struggled to teach them their alphabet. But at home they had no books or newspapers. This caused her much frustration.

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od I od tahW
Federal, state and local law enforcement have a dark history of targeting radical and progressive movementsand their toolbox is full of dirty tricks. Todays activists must know and understand their tactics. Key security practices can help you protect your right to dissent. Visit ccrjustice.org/ ifanagentknocks to download or order a copy.

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to kick him out for what he did to me u didnt get very far and i tried to run as far as i could and how come i see him everywhere like in my gramas house smoking pot while my grampa is laying in the hospital with tubes in his body and he tells me about the well like its his house and tries to load my grampas gun like its his house how come you dont understand he still does coke with my friends she told me he tried to sneak into her room one nite when she was sleeping and when those tires rolled off your car "my friends" did that cuz YOUR BOYFRIEND ripped them off a lot of money continuously you should hear what they call him ... and how come no one notices me until my shirt dips or i grew my hips or my pussy tightens around their dick or for my dick sucking lips or my raunchy mouth how come Im not allowed to be that girl that girl i want to be that girl that girl Boo can be reached at pinksparklies@hotmail.com http://boo-pop.livejournal.com.

Watching people die

By Andria Alefhi
RP is even more detached
than he was when I met with him last month. In the waiting room, I speak exclusively to his wife. His eyes are vacant, and even though I try to make eye contact in between his wife's conversations with me, I see that he feels himself slipping away. Their lives are not the same. They had to cancel their trip to Florida. His wife is disappointed and still seems pissy about it, and I wonder if she is just trying to go on through life normally, with normal expectations and emotions, even though she sees the writing on the wall, or is she not getting it that her husband is dying of cancer. When I had first started interpreting for them, it was seven months ago. At that time, I really enjoyed their company. One son was always with them, and we would all talk, and it felt like we were all family. RP would value my opinion about gun control or my traveling experiences. I liked his signing style, and I liked that they thought I was Jewish like them. (Everyone does. Thats another essay). Back then, RP only had cancer. Now, I can see that he is dying of cancer. The tumor has grown. He has lost weight. He now gets talked about, and not talked to. He has aged. I do understand. I have seen this before. The sick person starts to let go of what and who is around them. How they used to love their Tuesday bowling club. They still go but now RP just watches while the others bowl, and I can read his mind from here. When they go into the consultation room, he still smiles and puts on his most polite hello to the nurses, emphasizing that he is fine, but then changing it to I'm OK. I then go on to ask him the standard questions: Are you vomiting? Do you have pain? Do you have medication for the vomiting and the pain? I get through this assignment and I am shocked that only one hour had passed. It felt like a five-day bus trip with no heat and bumpy roads. I have them again on Monday and I wonder, if I just stopped coming and a new interpreter picked it up, would their lives be any different? If he does die, would I be invited to the funeral, or would I interpret the funeral? Is it strange

http://dominionradio.net
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that my mind has already gone there? I guess he is not doing that badly, it is not as though he is confined to a hospital bed. In fact, he drove himself to this doctor visit. Then I look around and realize that in fact, holy shit. Everyone here has cancer. It's a fucking cancer hospital. So if my guy lives, the bald guy eating a salad with his wife over by the window could die. In July of 2003, those Iranian conjoined twins underwent never-before-done surgery to separate them at the head. Remember that? My mother was dying at the time herself, and I was in the hospital watching it on TV. I was so shocked that the twins did not make it. Truly shocked and let down by modern medicine and the power of the media. It was on TV, wasn't it? Lots of people were rooting for them. Top surgeons from around the world had flown to Singapore to do this 24-hour operation, and they both died. That same month, another family was in the waiting room hanging out night and day with us. They had at least 10 family members at any one time in the

waiting room. I guess the father had recently had a leg amputated and other health issues, but now had fallen out of bed and as a result was in a coma. They were waiting for signs of recovery, just as we were. At that time, my mother appeared to be slightly improving. Their father did not, and they had to pull the plug because he was completely brain dead. Again I felt shocked, and in an instant the bond between them and us was broken by life and death. The camaraderie, the sharing, the hope was all gone. I felt guilty, like a winner, and I knew she felt it too, the daughter who I was talking to. We never saw each other again. We don't know who the fuck is going to make it and who is not. In fact, Christopher Reeve died just a few weeks after my mother, in October 2003, and I cried about that too. He was fucking Superman, for Christ's sake. For what we can and cannot control, and for nothing else to believe in, I am reminded that the will to live means everything. Everything. RP passed away on 5/21/07.

Andria Alefhi lives in New York. She is the editor of Well Never Have Paris, a zine devoted to all things never meant to be. She also makes cool clocks! Visit her at www.neverhaveparis.blogspot.com.

i remember you were my hottest friend but you wouldnt kiss me just all the other preppy girls which i could never be no matter how hard Ive ever tried just so i wouldnt be skanky. and how come Im sitting here on the internet jilling off to emo girls on my best friends laptop on the bathroom floor of this sleazy motel were living in barely living just breathing i guess a guest in gods fucked up world no i dont believe but sometimes i find myself beginning to pray like i did when i was 9 when my dad who Ive never seen sent me a birthday card and a used sheet of stickers a glossy 8 x 10 black and white photo but no love ... but no love but no but no i still dont understand why you told me that when you came back one of us had to be gone cuz i didnt make my blow up mattress on the kitchen floor and your boyfriend spit in my face 3 or 4 times the nite before i was just trying to stand up for you "Leeann, come here so i can beat you" he didnt know i was in the bathroom and how come u just stood there like a douchebag crying when he got in my face and called me a whore and a slut and asked me why i just didnt dance for money and i thought he was going to hit me right there in front of you this morning you woke me up to tell me you believe in second chances last nite u told me u were waiting for a chance

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Untitled
By Boo
and what if i dont like anything!? what if i hate everything and think its just a version of myself ongoing and hopeless with no shoelaces or blood cuz Ive bled a fucking nuff for you and for everyone goddamn else Im decomposing from the inside out please send help Im sorry i fucked you as soon as i liked what was in your eyes and i knew you stopped taking me seriously so i said "Im not that girl" cuz Im not but Id fucking like to be and i know youre pissed cuz you fucked me in the room with those russian chicks and they saw us naked on the floor Im sure and now they wont fuck you and theyre in miami and now your lonely too but u dont write "i miss you" on my facebook cuz i fucked you ... and that sex was amazing in your chalet on the waterfall in the glacier mountains how come girls play games and wont fuck right away and how come girls cant just get drunk and fuck me

13 ways of looking at an urn

By Quinn Collard
I. Stuffing an entire life-holder Into tiny tarnished Glorified bowl II. Etched flowers. Why do we kill something beautiful To honor another dead? III. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust Remains to rubber bands. IV. Lid not quite fitting Waiting for an escape V. Darkened shelf Box of cinders Puppy leash VI. Yankee Stadium scattering Pieces swirling in the sunset VII. Being cremated For fear of being buried alive Then being thrown away 29

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VIII. Burn, urn Burn. IX. The urn is cold The body was cold Until they burned it. X. Sad to abandon it But absurd to save Something that's really nothing. XI. Was, for something broken down Now, for something to keep things together. XII. He pulls up the little handle To make sure They are still there XIII. The urn spills And spreads Pieces of Grandpa All over the nightstand.

Killing me
By Sylvia
Ill go play in traffic, If youll hold my hand. Ill take a dip in shark-infested waters, If youll come and watch me swim. One day lets take a razor to my carotid, Drive a pickaxe through my skull. Ill take a swing on a big ole pendulum, You can come and dance along. Cause its good when you do these things, babe, And its good when youre killing me, Oh, Lord, those things you do, hon, Damn near petrify me. Lets feed me the exhaust of a 93 Audi, Pry the answers from my cold dead hands. Then we can chuck a toaster in my bath tub, Dose me up with Oxycodone cause we can. One day lets go to the zoo and bait some lions, I love it when they roar. We could try our hand at strangulation, Get me better acquainted with the floor. Cause its good when you do these things, babe, Yeah its great when youre killing me, Mercy me, those things you do, hon, Damn near stupefy me. Damn near crucify me. Damn near murdering me. Sylvia is a singer, a pianist, a feminist, a crazy bitch. She was probably ruined for honest work by the film Labyrinth as a small child, and then by artists like Amanda Palmer and Robert Smith as a bigger one. She writes short stories and novels sometimes (about bad guys, good guys, scary monsters, and overcoming spousal abuse as a fairy tale princess). Other times she writes songs and tries to record them. Contact her at thatsinkingfeeling@hotmail.co.uk.

Quinn Collard publishes Ephemera, a literature/art zine done entirely on a vintage typewriter, and Plaid Skirts & Converse, a passionate perzine from a peculiar girl. Visit her at museumofidiots.com.

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cant really scoop one out of there if its a part of the story. redguard: Musically, whats the progression from past recordings? Dave: There are some Black Metal moments, but theres very little Black Metal on this new CD. There were critics who listened to Woods III and said, Woods of Ypres is a Black Metal band, its cold riffs in a minor key, its blast beats, and its black vocals youre a Black Metal band. This time, to me the production is better, and we develop a lot of our doom element. And by developing I mean maximizing the feeling there. Were really careful when we choose our paces and our instrumentation, to get the most out of the right chugging pace. Theres experimental stuff we did in there. Theres Type O Negative influence, theres some Crowbar influence, a couple songs really reflected my admiration for latter-era Sentenced, the Finnish band. Towards the end there are five songs that are all themed on survival, renewal, reflection and reinvention. Then it ends on a positive but dark, ironic note. redguard: I love how Woods of Ypres melds real life struggles to those musical styles in a new way.

Nude death
By Christine Stoddard
Claire trudges up the
stairs, dragging a stretched canvas with her. She is naked, except for the small knapsack covering a patch of her back. At 40 years of age, the color in eyes has started to fade from mountaintop azure to a softer, sea level mist. Wrinkles frame the sides of her mouth. Her fingers are knobbier than they had been. But age alone cannot account for Claires melting beauty. Her sister blames Claires chain-smoking but that isnt it, either. Its the disappointment swelling in her chest. Claire is a classically trained artist, but for the past year she has not sold a single painting. When the first month without a check passed, Claire shrugged her shoulders and continued painting. She figured it was a sign to focus on a new series of hers, one concentrating solely on dogwood trees. She holed herself up in her apartment and drank inhuman amounts of coffee. After the first week, Claire had already become a recluse and an insomniac. Her only desire was to paint and occasionally sneak in a mouthful of chocolate or a bite of a bagel. But as the months droned on and her savings ran dry, Claire soon had no money for her rent or even food. After starving herself for three days, she realized she needed to find a steady job to survive. So, going against every will in her body, Claire applied to teach day classes at the local community center and night classes at the nearest community college. It was the beginning of Claires journey to the depths of her depression. Every minute Claire spent in class meant another minute away from her work. Every minute she spent critiquing a students piece meant one minute fewer for her to reflect upon her own paintings and how to improve them. It meant less time submitting her paintings to competitions and galleries. Claire hated her students for robbing her time and forcing her to stare at their inferior interpretations of countryside homes and flower gardens. Claire loathed the students poor forms, their crooked contours, their off-colors, and their shoddily stretched canvases. Everything about their work sickened her. And since she spent so many hours teaching to pay her bills, she found herself

The Woods III-era band. Dave: A lot of metal bands that are in our genre, who tend to get named with us, deal with a lot of historical themes or Viking themes or fantasy. If we ever had any of that it might have been in the first record. But for me, for what we do, I feel like what we write about now is relevant to the world that we live in, it is more about real-life stuff. Thats the listener that Im trying to connect with. Thats the type of listener wholl really appreciate this album. redguard: The band lineup has gone through a lot of changes since the last album. Is that a matter of people moving on with their own lives and proContinued on page 63

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feeling sick more often than not. Teaching makes her stomach literally churn. For the last few months, she has been suffering a serious malady. In order to end it, she has to die. She neither sees nor cares for any other solution. This evening, Claire has just returned from teaching a lesson on watercolors. The red wisps and smears of paint one of her students used to depict the sunset startled her. They were the same shades she expected an innocent bystander to see on the sidewalk only a few hours from then. The same shades you expect to see when you first notice her fall. But you are a stranger and know nothing of Claire yet. You are still at home, preparing for your evening stroll. You cant find your sneakers and suspect maybe your dog buried them in the yard again. The garage is nearly empty. At most, ten cars are parked in the lot designed for 100. It is so hot that Claire wonders if the cars felt like sweating. She puts the canvas down on the ground for a moment and wipes her brow. Anyone looking on who knew Claire planned to commit suicide within the next few minutes may have assumed she is rethinking her choice. But she does not. Claire just doesnt want her wet skin to make her any less aerodynamic as she glides through the air.

You spot your sneakers peering out from under the kitchen fridge. Apparently your dog discovered a new hiding place for them. You pull out the shoes and slip them on, finally ready to get your exercise of the day. Claire stands against the garage wall and peers down at the street. All the people are gummy bears and the cars, gumdrops. She whips out her brush and jars of acrylic and paints her last view of the earth. At least you thought you were ready for your walk. Now your dogs leash has disappeared and you have to look for that, lest a policeman write you a ticket for letting your dog run loose. You search the whole house. Claires strokes come out in dashes. She works speedily. The painting is impressionistic. Soon all the people and cars emerge from the dashes. Claire wants to finish the painting fast. The leash is right where you left it, hanging on a hook in the coat closet. Your eyes had jumped right over it. For some reason, youre distracted, nervous. You sigh, call the dog, leash him up, and head out the door. The humidity hits you immediately so you roll up the sleeves of your T-shirt. The paintings done. Claire scans it and hastily signs it. Then she tosses it over the edge of the garage and watches it flutter down to the sidewalk,

do this through what I think is going to be our prime in the next few years. But its a struggle, man. What worked last year doesnt work anymore, and on a daily basis were trying to find ways to do our thing creatively but also find ways to make these little increments of money here and there to keep it rolling. redguard: You just finished recording Woods IV: The Green Album, which youve said is about rebirth and renewal. How does it fit into the thematic progression of the earlier recordings, which seemed to grow increasingly bleak? Dave: I think the end of the third album is the bleakest. It ends with The Dream is Dead. I think the third one was written in a way that, if we only ever did those three records, then that would be a fitting end for Woods of Ypres. This idea of renewal is the only place we could start this next one. To me the first three albums are mostly Black Metal influenced records. Woods I is a winter record, Woods II is a summer-themed record, and Woods III is again a winter, Black Metal-themed record. The band kind of dies there. You can only go so far down a path of everything being bleak before you have to decide one of two things: either

youve learned nothing from your journey, thats all you have to say, and I think that in itself is a bleak place to be; or you work through it. Woods IV starts pretty bleak and gets brutal, and then works its way out of that. It ends in a pretty good place. To be effective, you have to have both sides. redguard: The balance is a little different this time. Dave: I dont know if its even a balance, but this whole album is working out of that place. And I think if theres one word to describe this album, its organization, in the way that the songs are laid outthis song ends on this note, and the next song begins in a perfect place, in my opinion. There really is an awesome flow to the record. There will be a total of 18 tracks on the album. Its going to be around 74 minutes or so. Thats a lot, but it comes from a really inspired place. Its not like we were scrambling to come up with 18 tracks. More like, we ended up with 18 tracks in our lap that we thought were really good, and we didnt want to have to cut anything. Woods IV is a concept record, similar to Woods II, where the songs flow into each other. To me, every one of those tracks is like a brother or sister to the next track. You

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zines are gone! I find that since those things have happened, a lot of negative folks have smartened up, where there might have been a lot of negative sentiment a year ago. Since weve been dealt these few blows losing Adrian and losing all the magazines every single time that weve gone on the road or to some metal function, or gone to Toronto to see a show, I feel a different vibe there. All of a sudden its become a friendlier scene, whereas a few years ago there was kind of an ugly period. redguard: People are seeing that if the scene is going to survive, they have to pull together. Dave: Thats exactly right. redguard: Fortunately, Woods of Ypres makes really good use of the Web for promotion. It seems like youre firing on all cylinders there. Dave: For us its really weird. I think around 1999-2000 was the time that bands first started getting band web pages. I remember not being in a band for those first two years. The whole world was doing this and I was feeling stressed, like oh, Im missing out. I wanted to be a part of that. When we started Woods of Ypres in 2002, you couldnt

imagine free MySpace pages, so we just had a dot-ca page. It wasnt until 2004 or 2005 that we had our first MySpace page. There was a period last year where we were signing up for something every other week! At some point you do kind of scale it back. A lot of these things prove to be a big waste of everyones time. I think Facebook is a great tool, we are learning to use that more. MySpace is still a great tool for bands, though if I didnt have a band I probably wouldnt have a MySpace page. You have to do those things. Last week some kid on Last FM sent me a message. Would you be upset if I downloaded one of your albums? And I wrote back and said, No, its inevitable. But the truth is were an independent band. If everyone just downloads it because they can, then well be done a whole lot sooner than Id like to be done. Thats just it me being the band manager and accountant looking at this, we do have to be able to pay our bills to make it happen. He writes back, Ive only ever downloaded any of your stuff, and he was kind of volunteering to say Yeah, youre right, I should really buy them, but He really likes the music, and thats great. But these are things that we think about now. Im 29 going on 30, and Id like to be able to continue to

which it touches with almost no sound. Youre downtown with your dog, feet and paws beating the pavement. Up ahead, you catch sight of something rectangular resting on the sidewalk, right at the start of a hill. You ask yourself what the object is. As you come closer, you realize that its a painting and you wonder where it came from. Naturally, you look up. Claire dangles a leg over the garage wall. She starts humming a tune she made up herself but wavers. She pulls her other leg up and dangles it over the wall, too. Claire just sits there and hums like HumptyDumpty. You first note that the woman is nude. That observation stuns you so much that you almost forget to question why shes teetering so precariously from the top of the building. Then it dawns on you. Images of splashing blood haunt you, even though theyre only in your mind. Lady, dont jump! you shout, as you frantically wave your arms around. You hope that she can see and hear you. Your whole mouth goes dry so you swallow and try shouting again. Claire spreads her arms into a graceful T and throws herself forward, but she only falls about two feet before she begins to float in the air. You squint your eyes until

theyre no more than slits. An army of fairies as delicate as dandelion seeds has seized the woman, illuminating her naked body with a soft silver light. Her face grows indescribably serene, as if shes reverted to some kind of momentary childhood. Gently, the fairies escort the woman to the ground. They release her the moment her feet touch the sidewalk but remain next to her, quivering their tiny wings.

Claire spreads her arms into a graceful T and throws herself forward, but she only falls about two feet before she begins to float in the air.
Claire asks, Is someone there? You nod but then see her eyes, milky and blue. She appears to be blind. Im here, you say. Who are you? II was walking my dog when I saw you jump. I wanted to help but Its alright. The fairies

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rescued me. We made an agreement. An agreement? I could live if I gave them my sight. You gulp, not sure how to respond. Is this your painting? you eventually ask. Yes. I painted it before Ijumped. Its very beautiful. No, its not. Its shit. But Im out of practice, anyway. Ive been teaching for so long. Wellnow that youre

blind, will you be able to paint another? The fairies said Id learn. And I will. You reach into your pocket for your checkbook and buy her painting for a weeks salary. You fold up the check in her hand. She clenches it and thanks you. Then you kiss her lightly on the forehead. She mutters something but you have already turned around, set to continue walking your dog. Its such a hot, hot night.

Woods of Ypres:

What we write is relevant to the world we live in

I was introduced to Canadian band Woods of Ypres in early 2008 through Unrestrained, a slick metal magazine with the heart of a fanzine, published by the late Adrian Bromley. Adrian's enthusiasm for the band and its album, Woods III: Deepest Roots, Darkest Blues, convinced me to give it a spin. He wasnt kidding: Woods III used the Black Metal form to create a masterpiece of anger, sorrow and struggle by artists rooted in cold isolation. But it seemed my discovery had come too late. Dave Gold, the guiding voice of Woods of Ypres, had moved to Seoul, where he was playing with the Korean band Necramyth. To all appearances, WoY was dead and gone. So I was thrilled to learn this year that Gold was back in Canada with a new version of WoY in the studio recording Woods IV: The Green Album. I spoke with Gold just after the recording sessions wrapped in August. redguard: Like many fans south of the border, I was introduced to Woods of Ypres by Adrian Bromley through Unrestrained magazine. WoY played at the tribute show in Toronto last January after Adrian passed away. Its tragic and also the loss of an important publication. Dave: So much has changed in this last year: losing Adrian, and its only fitting Unrestrained goes with him. Then in

Christine Stoddard is a writer and interdisciplinary artist in Richmond, Va. She loves dragons, pasta, vintage dresses and traveling. Visit her on the Web at christinestoddard.com or email her at stoddard.christine@gmail.com

Also available at http://redguard.etsy.com Absent Cause 1 & 2 Mentally Ill 1 &2 TUMS: a smut zine On Loving Dracula For trades: P.O. Box 1568, NYC 10276 redguard@gmail.com
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Canada, Brave Words & Bloody Knuckles magazine is now finished as a print magazine. Metal Maniacs is gone. All of a sudden the whole market for the metal press has changed. Here we are getting ready to do a new record, and all our maga-

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Jaimie Hashey writes a crappy-ass zine called ButtRagMag and makes an ass of herself regularly! Often feels like a friggin zombie! Weet! Contact: Buttragmag13@gmail.com. Cullen Fuel Industries 9/21/99 by Melissa Farber Melissa Farber writes: My piece is about death, and what happens to someone after they die. When you die, people almost immediately forget what a scumbag you were. Dying fixes a person, it's the best form of rehab, and this idea can be dangerous for someone like me. Dying doesn't fix anything. But sometimes when someone is taken away, your feelings about them change. You may realize you were more like them than you thought. This is a story about it. See more of her brainbending work at cullenfuelindustries.com/melissa/001.htm.

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