FORTH Issue 02 March - April 2009€¦ · 2009-03-02 · Think about it… You lose something, change happens. First you think it’s bad, then you realize it opens the door for

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Dining at the Abattoir:Journalist W.C. JenningsTakes Us Inside theInauguration

Passionate & Painful:The Best From Local Poets

Gorgeous & Gritty :Urban Photography By Guru Thapar

And More Edgy, Raw, True Art & Lit!

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Cover photography by Guru Thapar of Santa Monica. Thumb & Index.

E d i t o r ’ s N o t e The air’s growing hot again in Southern California, and the political climate is boiling to a degree it hasn’t reached in years. Unemployment is nearing 10%, layoffs and foreclosures are soaring, and there’s a new face in the White House—suddenly and surprisingly the new home of Hope. The nation has been screaming for change; we’re at the bottom of the barrel, with nowhere to go but up...gener-ally speaking. What a great time for new ideas! What a great time for a new maga-zine on the arts... What are we: Nuts?!

Indeed, and proud of it! Let’s kick off this new year, this new term, this new hope with a subtle brushfire in the streets of So Cal. It’s a time for losing yourself in order to find yourself, letting go of the old—even if it’s frightening and painful—and taking a hold of something new, of something yours, of something with meaning.

The great Indian philosopher and spiri-tual teacher J. Krishnamurti once told a crowd of his disciples the very secret of his mastery: “I don’t mind what hap-pens.” That’s it! That was the secret! Think about it… You lose something, change happens. First you think it’s bad, then you realize it opens the door for more space to do something else, to do what you really love, perhaps to do what you were put on this planet for. So, let’s go with the flow, create more! Do what you were meant to do, what inspires you! Come together, here, now! Let’s make L.A. a vortex for the national spirit, for the American artist, for the anti-establishment and the patriot party alike. Collaborate, create, write, com-ment, change… And send it all to us! Be strong, be you, go Forth into the abyss with your fears and your dreams and let it all go. Fuck it! Everything is important and nothing matters. Life is strange, and so are we. All of us, together. Ugh… Okay, there’s my rant. Like it, hate it, whatever. As long as you’re reading, we’re happy.

Jeremy Shawn PollackPublisher & Editor of FORTH

LiteraturePoetry

4 Language Pacifics by Cassandra Love

West Hollywood

5 Scalp Feminine by Wendy Sue Morris Culver City

4 Swagger Is a Woman by Cassandra Love West Hollywood

Fiction

10 Crash Into Me by Melanie Love

West L.A.

11 The Rate of Exchange by Joe Dornich

West L.A.

Science Fiction

7 The Far Touch (Part II) by Charlie Thomas

Regular Forth Writer

SubjExive Journalism

6 Dining at the Abattoir by W.C. Jennings


Art

Photography

4 Landmark #5 Black & white polaroid by Brian Nieman

Santa Monica

7 Circuitree. A Robot’s Vein. Digital photography by Adam Yasmin

West L.A.

C o n t r i b u t o r sArtists

Brian Nieman: Photographer“This image (in this issue) is from my current project ‘Landmarks Leave No Marks,’ docu-menting the demolition of craftsman houses in

Santa Monica and the Westside.”

Adam Yasim: Digital Photographer“Beyond the subject lies the obvious truth that everything and anything is but the sum of dis-

tinct symmetries and arrangements.”

Wendy Sue Morris: Mixed Medium Artist“The process of painting is very much like hav-ing a serious conversation with someone you love; it is always unpredictable… I allow each painting to tell its tale whether it be glorious or

grim.”

Daniel Peci: Oil Painter“The driving force behind my work is explora-tion, to see myself and the world around me with new eyes every day without any precon-ceived ideas, searching for an understanding and clarity in the complex beauty and logic of

nature’s design”

Ben Walker: Painter“Simplicity has been the basis of my latest se-ries, LOVE SEX DEATH: A Story About a Nobody. Singular drip figures flow off of the canvas in the most surreal, yet entirely human shapes.”

Guru Thapar: PhotographerCover art and featured artist for this issue of

FORTH. See page 8 for full bio and statement.

WritersWendy Sue Morris: Poet

“When I begin to write I never quite know what a piece desires to say. Eventually, a notion will shine forward and I will follow it down every path

until each word clicks perfectly into place.”

Cassandra Love: Poet“I find truth in fluidity, ambiguity, and the space

between spaces.”

Melanie Love: Fiction Writer“[The] story [in this issue] is of a split second, a moment in time where everything changes; and the Santa Monica sunset is as much a presence

as the two characters.”

Joe Dornich: Fiction Writer“I am drawn to the tragic, complicated heroes of Will Christopher Baer, David Eggers, and Chuck Palahniuk. I write stories that I would want to

read.”

RegularsW.C. Jennings: SubjExive Journalist

He gets his story anyway he can, often becom-ing the central character of the piece rather

than merely its messenger.

Charlie Thomas: Science Fiction The strange perspectives presented by Charlie offer the conflicts and curiosities of human kind through self-reflection and an alternate set of

eyes.

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All material © 2009 by Forth Magazine. Any reproduction of material contained herein without prior written consent is il-legal.

F o r t h M a g a z i n e13101 Washington Blvd., #222Marina Del Rey, CA [email protected]

Publisher & EditorJeremy Shawn [email protected]

Managing EditorRyan [email protected]

Editorial AssistantCindy [email protected]

PR & EventsBeverly [email protected]

Art & DesignMelissa [email protected]

Marketing & DistributionStephanie [email protected]

Content EditorJasper [email protected]

Interactive MarketingHao [email protected]

SubjExive Journalism

6 Dining at the Abattoir by W.C. Jennings


Art

Photography

4 Landmark #5 Black & white polaroid by Brian Nieman

Santa Monica

7 Circuitree. A Robot’s Vein. Digital photography by Adam Yasmin

West L.A.

Painting

5 Splay #17

Abstract mixed media painting by Wendy Sue Morris

Culver City

5 Reclining Female Nude Oil paint by Daniel Peci West L.A.

4 The Stripper Acrylic paint by Ben Walker

Santa Monica

10 Suicide Acrylic paint by Ben Walker Santa Monica

Featured Artist

8 Gorgeous & Gritty

Urban Photography

by Guru Thapar Santa Monica

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Passionate & PainfulT h e B e s t F r o m L o c a l P o e t s

Language Pacifics By Cassandra LoveWest Hollywood

1.Canalino Elementary is two blocksFrom Carpinteria beach. Southern California PacificIs my learned English.Capitalize the beginning of sentencesAnd lines. Insert commas to separate thoughts, And subordinate clauses. Or, for dramatic effect,Like when Mrs. Lavigne would Pause just before she said the word, Holocaust. Use colons for lists of: People,Places, or things. Learning to be American on this coast:Capitalism, time progression on two dimensional lines, andStandard deviations of statistics for peopledeviating standards.US History class celebratesWhite European men who came ashore With diseases, guns, religion, andEducation.

2.Far East University is two minutesfrom Manila beach. Walking under an archway,signs remind me to “only speak English.”As if I can speak anything else. Welcome to my mother’s Pacificwhere Filipino students walk by silent.

3.Monica, our point guard,steals the ball, dribbles up the court, and passes to me sprinting down the sideline

past the center court logoof the Filipino Universitywhere tita virgie got her masters.

I finish the fastbreak layup as a girl on the other teamfouls me, and one.Monica motions to the teamto huddle in the keybefore the free-throw.

Resting on my knees,I breathe concern about their play ‘lundi pa.’ jackie looks confused, that’s not even a word.Well that’s what it sounds like…it’s a back pick for number 21.I’m just trying to be pacific

—specific

so we can stop their best player.

Next play down, I wince at an elbow in my back as their point guard shouts out the nameof their backdoor play.

4.Pacific tides rush sand over my feetexfoliating memories

these islandsare my mothersunintelligible prayersher absent minded smoke billowing cooking on the mainlanddetectors set offwailingfire engines just in time to help me help herfolded in a corner blade threatening tender

creases just below her palmif only I could tell themwhat she was saying

palms dance in the windplaying with my hairwhispering in a languageI can’t speak but have alwaysbeen able to feel

Swagger is a WomanBy Cassandra LoveWest Hollywood

Swagger is a preteen girlclaiming street with every step;legs long enough to bring out the pedophilein any hetero man with eyes.

She is the womanwho cashes in on that pedophilia;drinking his lust with those gorgeous stems.

She is my mother rappin’ ‘bout that dude hollerin’ at her around every turn of the Glendale Galleria.girl, she says,

Landmark #5. 4”x5” polaroid monoprint. Brian Paul Nieman of Santa Monica.

“Landmark #5.” 4”x5” polaroid monoprint. Brian Nieman of Santa Monica.

“The Stripper.” 20”x16” acrylic on canvas. Ben Walker of Santa Monica.

I


Passionate & PainfulT h e B e s t F r o m L o c a l P o e t s

you young things don’t knownothin’ ‘bout men.

Her stories ‘bout my daddyin his stetson and cowboy bootsat the beverly hills hotel while she workedthe runway and crest toothpaste photoshoots. She is my homegirl from alabamatellin’ her NFL boo,motherfucker I don’t NEED you,I just want youright now.End of story.

And when she finds a kappa brotherwho is cute enoughto take homebut not smart enoughto call back.

She is me on those daysI run game on every foolwhose tongue licks his lipsat the sight of my ass.

My quick temper when I remind my exI only go to himwhen I need to taste his want.

She is every unmarried womanwho travels, shops, parties,raises children,waits on tables,runs a business,runs for office, and wins.

She is youon the nights you get leftand on the nights you leave.

She is the laughter behind his back as he tellshis homeboys, yea, that bitch wants me;

she is the red mark across his facewhen he turns around.

She is

the voice that is silenced by assholeswho don’t want to be outshined,

the strength our mothersand grandmothers were scared to use,

the momentum of the citywhirling into night.

My sister glides into the café accepting every eye running over her long body.poor fools,don’t they knowswagger is a woman.

Scalp Feminine By Wendy Sue MorrisCulver City

I imagine Joan of Arc heard the same echo of horsesstallions galloping right up to her renaissance ear

flies abuzz with memories such as an unwanted cock in the mouth or the ass, it’s all the sameeither way I too have raised guillotine blades on materialized womanhoodsheared my hair brief for hoof-bruises, black eyesa filthy fly on the inner thigh

but follicles still weave tiny in hard female skullsknitting out manes long as forlorn centuries

stringing lengthy my very blondness and possibly for Joan a dance of auburn ribbons at her helmeted chin

though all this doesn’t matter reallywhat matters most is that we both fought gallantly as fuck with similar swords and I suppose exacting shields

however I must confess cause as a saint I know Joan can’tadmit to these yellow twines now growing out past my ears and how they muffle by degreesthe charging stampedes raging below another scalp feminine

“Reclining Female Nude.” 9”x12” oil on canvas. Daniel Peci of West L.A.

“Splay #17.” 32”x40” mixed media on heavy paper mounted on wood. Wendy Sue Morris of Culver City.


IllustratIon By MelIssa KojIMa

Forth DesIgner

artIcle By W. c. jennIngs

regualr Forth WrIter

Washington is chock-full of sociopaths, thieves, and drunks—and certainly mu-tant combinations of all three. But you probably wouldn’t know it by the looks of the well-dressed, old men, chatting and smiling in Statuary Hall just hours after the Inauguration. The Joint Con-gressional Committee on Inaugural Cer-emonies has hosted the post-inaugura-tion luncheon for more than a century, and by the general jolly ambiance of the crowd here at noon on a Tuesday, you’d think at the very worst you were at some two-faced, slightly twisted Bradbury-manifested carnival in rural Illinois. The truth of the matter is that most of Wash-ington is so far removed from the com-mon folk, they’ve forgotten what it’s like to bleed. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not an anti-statesman—not officially anyway. I love this country and consider myself a true, blue-blood patriot. But when the nation is led into a war for no good damn reason that actually exists, and when bank reps hustle people into sign-ing loans worth less than the ink of their signatures, and when some schmuck in New York with ties to the highest levels of the SEC steals 50 billion and no one bats an eye for ten years, I start to won-der about the fortitude of our free world. Perhaps that’s why I’ve bought into the crude national conception that our new Head of the Union can bring some “change” to the Capitol. It’s a long shot, but a real and decent American hope…

Or maybe I’m fooling myself into some new national pipe dream after a long and wretched double-term fuck up. God knows anything seems better than the last eight years. I figured the only way to find out was to get a private moment with the newly elected president, maybe shake his and ask him a question or two, and see what sort of energy I get in person, what his eyes tell me, what his three-piece, million-dollar smile has to say up close. It took me two months to sneak into the Inaugural Luncheon. All because

my shit-for-brains editor couldn’t mus-ter me a press pass… Again. (Thanks, JP!) No matter, though, I knew I’d get in somehow, even if it meant wearing a white suit with white gloves and a tiny bow-tie, which I absolutely despise. Design Cuisine is a small but prestigious catering company out of Ar-lington, and had the honor of catering the post-inaugural luncheon. I received this information in November, after which I traveled to Virginia and applied for a position as a server. I came up with a slew of great references and experi-

ence highlights: Three years serving at The Ivy; Two years in Sacramento at the Governor’s mansion; and so on and so forth. All fake, of course, along with my employment name and the social-secu-rity number I took off some report I stole from the local B of A (long story). After all, I didn’t care about getting paid, and I certainly wasn’t about to be hired with my criminal record… I just needed to get in, and this was the way, certainly. After three weeks of post-inter-view follow-ups, I was hired and worked through December for these busy bas-tards, serving at an array of high-country gigs from corporate to private, martinis and ties, from the Hamptons to Read-ing. Nothing better on a Saturday night than serving these ungrateful fucks, let me tell ya’… But I knew where I’d be on January 20th, and that’s what mattered. The traditional attire for the In-augural Luncheon was: White jackets, black pants, black bow tie, and white gloves. I imagined fifty years ago, with Kennedy sitting at his table being served by a team of southern black folk in all white. And now, we’re all switched up. At Noon, the entire catering staff gathered in the main kitchen to watch the Inaugural Speech on a small, 1984 television powered by antenna. In a lounge area one room over, a couple of Secret Service agents and cabinet as-sistants watched on a flat screen, not much larger than the old TV. As Obama began his speech, he dove deeper into the mess that was left of this country—a mess he’d have to clean up. Jesus, I thought. This bastard was shredding old Bush apart without even saying his name. (Continued on page 14).

Dining At the Abattoir: A N e w L i g h t F o r c e i n a n o l d D a r k H o u s e

suBjexIve journalIsM

I looked up and saw aSecret Service agent

eying me, stepping in my direction and radioing

something into his sleeve. I’d have to work fast.


DIgItal PhotograPhy By aDaM yasMIn

West l.a.cIrcuItree(l) 10”x8”. a roBot’s veIns (r) 20”x16”.

story By charlIe thoMas

regular Forth WrIter

Kendra hardly slept at all that night. Falling in and out of consciousness, her insides twisted with nervous anticipation, and liquid dreams brought her in and out of imagined crevices within the dark surroundings—a place of distant birds calling to one another, of small animal feet crackling twigs underfoot, of Top Fire only knows what else. No one ever spoke of what existed in the Surrounding of the Home. The Homers only ventured outside once in a great while, accompanied by the doctors and workers, and were told never to go more than a few feet away from the Home’s grounds, where the tree line started. But Kendra knew this is what she must do—she understood that Homers lived in the Home and that Far-Touchers went to the Far-Touch cities and lived among their people and in their strange world, whatever it may be. So Kendra waited for morning, when the Top Fire would be overhead, so she could stay warm on her journey into the unknown. Just as Kendra far-touched the first sliver of white heat beaming through the cracks in the wall vents, she rose slowly, closed her eyes once more and took a breath in to prepare. She affixed her outdoor slippers tight, wrapped around her shoulders a winter shawl, and leaned down to kiss Elle’s cheek before heading away, perhaps leaving her friend forever. Elle smiled awake very gently—a

sad smile. “Goodbye, Ken,” Elle whispered, feeling for Kendra’s hand to squeeze one last time. “Don’t be a stranger.” Elle’s smile faded, and Kendra looked down, sadly as well. “I’ll come back one day,” she said. “I promise.” Kendra kissed Elle’s closed eyelid once more, slowly and deeply, saying goodbye to her sleeping friend and farewell to the darkness she had always known. Kendra snuck quietly down the long entrance corridor to the Home, using only her touch now, for she knew the home better that way and the far-touch was confusing her. She found the outside doors to the Home, and with eyes still closed, pushed open the doors and stepped into the brisk morning heat of the Top Fire, which for the first time now turned the inside of her eyelids into a different temperature than that of her expected darkness. Slowly, Kendra squinted as her eyes opened into tiny slits, and… Great Top Fire, the most intense heat poured through her eye bulges like thunder through the walls! Her eyes became ablaze, her mind overcome with the sense of heat and stinging disorientation. This was almost too severe to far-touch at all. Kendra was immediately confused: Was she not meant to far-touch the outside? Was it too much for Far-Touchers to use their power under the Great Top Fire? But soon, Kendra’s new ability seemed to even out, to adjust, and the world around her gradually came into view. And Kendra—her mouth dropping into awe, her spine covered in shivers, tears welling into her eyes—fell gently to her knees, in total

paralysis of what could only be described as utterly and inconceivably divine. Kendra didn’t know what to make of this, how to understand what she was taking in, as though her mind had shut off and suddenly quit its central job of interpreting what the body sensed. Nothing was as Kendra had imagined.In her dreams of the outside world, in fantasies ignited by the storybooks and fairytales of distant far-touch cities, the Surrounding of her mind had been mostly bland shades and temperatures—more like the inside of the Home, where colors meant simple changes in heat and depth and shadow. But this place, the real Surrounding, the true outside... It was unfathomable! Everything was so vibrant, so different, so distinct from one another. This must be color! What the fairytales spoke of, what Kendra could only describe as varying degrees of hot and cold. So many different temperatures and shapes and sizes—some soft, some radiant, some large, some distant and small, some that cast large shadows about the ground, some throwing about sporadic veins of darkness like broken shadowed glass. Those must be the trees, the large ones with hundreds of arms and thousands of leaves of different spectacular temperatures. And behind the army of trees and bushes, Kendra found great arches in the land. They must be the mountains! But were they small or just far? She had no gauge of distance, but far-touching a path through the trees and out into the distance leading to the bases of the mountains, she could not sense their beginnings and so thought they must be extremely far away. (Continued on page 12).

The Far Touchp a r t I I

C o n t i n u e d f r o m I s s u e 0 1

scIence-FIctIon/Fantasy

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G O R G E O U S & G R I T T yT h E U R B A N P h O T O G R A P h y O F

G u r u

T h a p a r

FeatureD artIst

“Jazz”


“My inspiration has been this beautiful city of Santa Monica / Venice. I find this place so accepting and nurturing. Al-though not from L.A. originally, I have never felt more at home here. Everything about it feels familiar and known.

I had an office job for a long time and it was really killing me; I was sitting on the boardwalk one day and saw this girl taking pictures, which really motivat-ed me to start taking pictures again. Luckily, I had my camera and could capture my muse!” Guru Thapar

“Day and Night”

“Muse”


He took my hand as we crossed the bridge that led to the beach, lacing our fingers and squeezing tight, once, before he let go. I shook my wrist out and didn’t look at him. Across from us, the sand was white, shining ghostly in the light, and the cars passing along the highway below were hazy and distant as coins tossed to the bottom of a fountain. Chill air lashed at my cheekbones as our bare feet slapped cement and mottled with dirt. We cradled our shoes in our hands, and Zig wore my glasses, letting them ride the bridge of his nose. Without them I could barely see the air collect-ing before my face; everything was fuzzy and light, refusing to resolve into familiar shapes, and he wound his arm through mine, whispering, “It’s a different way of seeing things, like this,” his breath hot and smelling of cinnamon.

Zig was a fine thing, like he had been chipped from stone: His hazel eyes that turned to gold when the light bent right to them, his long, almost graceful fingers turning the straps of my dress to water that pooled off my body in rivulets. He had always been Zig to me, and though I knew that he must have some more acceptable name hidden somewhere within him, beyond the fantastic syllable that snapped off my tongue, I had never asked him, and he had nev-er offered it. We had been seeing each other for a few months, and everything between us still felt charged through with possibility, as if whatever we did could deliver us to a different destination, the future blowing out before us like smoke that stayed shim-mering in the air.

We were halfway across the bridge when Zig suddenly stopped, slipping his arm from mine and swinging his legs to stand on the lowest rung of the railing. The cars kept hurtling past, send-ing up coughs of exhaust. I drew my sandals to my chest and glanced up at him, shading my eyes from the glare.

He grinned, not looking at me, squinting out at the highway that ribboned before us, his eyes skimmed through with something: “I swear we could jump from here and take to the air. Just float away,” he said after a moment, his voice far away.

He stepped up another level, then lifted one arm off and leaned back, his hair blowing in the wind.

“Try it,” he called down to me.

“Get down. You’re going to kill yourself.”

“Come up here. I promise you’ll love it.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, I’m living. Try it or I’ll let go,” he said, and his other arm shot up in the air, hands dangling, only his knees wedged between the bars.

His upper body swayed like a door left unhinged, and finally I followed him. The railing was icy against my bare skin and I could almost taste the bitter metal. Clumps of wild-flowers broke through the cracks in the cement beneath our feet, pet-als rocking in the breeze that was heady with salt as it raised our skin into gooseflesh. Everything below hazed over before my straining eyes as I clung to the chipping metal, try-ing to see what he saw.

“Zig. I love you. You know that, right?” He didn’t turn, and I could hear my voice, small, lifted away on the air.

Then he smiled, lips catching on his teeth.

“I know.”

He looked over at me, and I saw my-self mirrored back in the lenses of my glasses that were still slip-ping off his face. “Would you fly with me?” My reflection, small and faded in the glass, dissolved away entirely when he blinked, turned his head away from me again.

I swallowed, salt stinging my throat, and said nothing. I was tangled as copper wire; you could strike my ends and I would short-circuit, sending up metallic flecks that sparked and faded quickly. I was all knots and frayed edges, and as I stood beside him, silent, I wanted him to unloose me, to tug me back to cool shining straightness. Sometimes I felt so alone when I was with him. When it was just the two of us sunk into his couch, and he’s got his knuckles pressed tight against mine, and I can see that flicker in his eyes: a yearning, dark as the shadow that cuts un-der a doorframe and blocks out the last light, some melancholy pitted deep where I could never reach, could never even try. (Continued on page 12).

C r a s h I n t o M eBy Melanie Love of West L.A.

FIctIon

“Suicide.” 20”x16” acrylic on canvas. Ben Walker of Santa Monica.


There are always clues. Sometimes it’s as simple as a new sound. It’s the clicking fingernails of a small dog scurrying against hard-wood floors, when you have neither. It’s the way the air tastes. It could be that the pillows are too thin, or the texture of unfamiliar sheets against your skin. But it’s always something, and you know immediately. Without realizing how you got there, or even opening your eyes, you know that you are in a strange bed, and it is unsettling.

What clued me in was the arm draped over the small of my back. In my bed, in my room, I sleep alone, and therefore free myself from the search of wandering limbs.

My eyes open, and I am mercifully facing a wall. Above my head is a window, partially covered by drab soiled curtains that look like they were used to wrap a wound. Rays of sunlight stream in, thick and unapologetic. They canvas the sheets and uncovered flesh, eager to illuminate how the decisions of the night have carried over. The light shines on the dust, floating around the room like a min-iature snowstorm. And as I lay there watching it fall, thoughts cross my mind.

80% of dust is human skin.

And.

Where. The. Fuck. Am. I?

Close my eyes again, as if that will make all of this go away. I am not ready to face this new rung of compromised morality. I see myself back home, crudely fingering the antique globe your mother gave us. Measuring it out. Cambodia, Phenom Penh spe-cifically, was as far away as I could get from you before I’d be headed back again.

I am staying at the Lucky Number 7 Guesthouse. The guidebook boasted of their budget friendly rooms and outdoor bar, both of which provide views of Boeng Kak Lake and its heralded sun-sets. Of course the lake and surrounding air are heavily polluted, so those sunsets are enhanced by the unnatural colors that oc-cur when man’s chemicals spill onto God’s canvas.

This arm draped over me now, this new touch, feels foreign. It is a pun I think you would enjoy. This buoys my spirits; knowing it is a new height from which they’ll eventually fall.

The streets here are lined with trees on crutches. Pieces of wood are fit under branches to support decaying trunks. The birds that nest in these trees line their homes with trash picked from the gutters. I watch these birds, living in their squalid homes, built on crumbling foundations, and already I’m thinking of us.

Young boys and girls compete with the humid-ity to see which can accost me first. All smiles and eyes, they jockey for my attention. Displaying their carts, and proudly holding aloft their wares, they hope to barter and make a sale. A modest contribution to their struggling families. They are children well versed in everything but childhood.

Lying here now, I find it amusing how fickle intent and desire can be. I’m sure during the night, protected by the shadows, I was overcome with a ravenous zeal when it came to touching and being touched. Submissive and pliable, nothing was out of bounds, no act or sentiment taboo. But now, awash in daylight, my passions faded with the moon, I do not wish to be touched. To be claimed.

Wanting to sleep with someone and wanting to wakeup to them, are unfortunately, rarely re-

lated.

Are you disappointed in my behavior, my predica-ment? How it is that I’ve wound up in a strange bed, without any recall of how I got there, or what I may have done in it. Is this unlike me, that I am not myself? Or is it that you hardly knew me?

The night isn’t a total blank. Disjointed images flash in my mind like a poorly edited film. I see the guesthouse bar, lit by beer signs in various shades of dying neon. I see moon- light reflected off polluted waters. Faces of young wom- en who patrol the bar. They hide in corners, or sit on stools, slumped and weary like broken dolls. Things once loved by a child, and then forgotten.

But every face holds the promise of a new memory. A history I can build which will be all my own. Something to cling to and counter with when you stomp around in my head, demanding to be heard.

One of these faces carries gentle eyes the color of weak coffee. Her name is Sophal. This I remember. We drink Tiger Beers and trade pasts. She is the mother of two young boys, each sired by a foreigner. A fa-rang. They no doubt came here eager for experience, fueling their desire with empty promises. A promise to save, to stay, to nurture. To pull out. And now their half-truths have manifest themselves into two young boys without the hope of a father. (Continued on page 12).

FIctIon

80% of dust is human skin.And.

Where. The. Fuck. Am. I?

R a t e o f E x c h a n g eBy Joe Dornich of West L.A.


Crash Into Me(Continued from page 10).

And still, I wanted him: His cheek pressed against mine, skin rubbing skin, and his fingers jammed in my mouth, wet and right and close, so close that I would nev-er need anyone else. But I knew Zig, with his eyes fixed on the skyline, wanted only air rushing past, all golden brilliant light -- to soar up into the stratosphere, to press off from the concrete and disappear.

His shoulder brushing mine in the slight-est of shivers, Zig balled his hands into fists and leaned his body against the met-al, not waiting for my answer any longer, if he had ever been. He was already gone.

I unclenched my grip on the railing, the air passing crisp through my fingers again. My hands were shaking from holding so hard, as I stepped down and caught my balance. He stayed there, his eyes brittle and still pitched away from me, and then I was gone too, feet firm on the cement as I slipped away from him. The dipping sun skimmed his shoulders, suffusing him in its glow until he became a blurred mass of skin and muscle and cotton, nearly blotted out by the sheen of it. And below, past us both, the broken glass bottles and car windshields and mica-streaked sand all caught the same last light, turned into a thousand small fires that sparked and smoked along the horizon: Burning bril-liant and alive before blowing off to dust and a final faded glint, to nothing.

Rate of Exchange(Continued from page 11).

Sophal suggests we go to another bar. She does not say where her boys are, and I do not ask. I see our table tucked into a corner. People appear and vanish into shadows. American pop music is extend-ed beyond comprehension into techno dance beats. Sophal eyes our collection of drinks, the pile of change on the table, then meets my gaze and offers,

“The exchange here is good for you.”

And I am foolish enough to believe she is referring to the money.

It’s been too long, and the raw feel of an-other has become unnatural, something to fear. Unaided by lust or alcohol, her hand is heavy and full of menace. And I know my head is crowded with words I can’t ignore, but this is not the touch of a lover. It’s the vestigial remains of a con-joined twin. Spiteful and cheated, he has watched my life from above, the decisions I’ve made. The gentle caresses of finger-tips on me are his, tapping out in Morse code along the knuckles of my spine -I could have done better.

Is this why you remarried so quickly? To save yourself from the trappings of alien flesh and misplaced sympathy.

The film cuts to a cab ride through the city. Our destination, unspoken, or unheard. In the backseat, her hands are on my thighs, my chest, cradling my head. More hands than seem possible. She climbs on my lap, her black hair tenting my face. Her breath is warm like the evening sun, and my senses are drunk on all the ways she is not you.

Then the blackness comes and swallows all.

Gentle footfalls are added to my menag-erie of unfamiliar sounds. Reluctantly I raise myself and find the gaze of two young boys. Inky black hair spills over their heads. Their eyes are a concoction of emotion. They are confused but curi-ous, wary yet hopeful. They do not know how I got here, so close to their mother, but they silently plead for me to stay.

And oh Amanda, if you could see me now.

contInueD

Far Touch Part II(Continued from page 7).

Facing up then above all the ground, above the great and distant mountains and into the sky, was a completely new color—a heat that seemed to exist nowhere below. The color was softer, but somehow bright, and there was no way at all to sense its distance or depth. The skies overhead were far and close all at once, as though she could touch it with her hand just by reaching out and yet never get close to it even if she could fly like a bird. Within the massive sky were enormous, puffy mountains of bright color, like the pillows under her head during the Sleeping Hours. And of course, high above beyond the soft and puffy bubbles, was the Great Top Fire—alive and hot and too intense to look directly at, but she could not help trying. Then, shutting her eyelids in its face, Kendra made out the imprint of a large circle fading gradually against the hot insides of her eyelids. Perhaps the Great Top Fire was after all a ball of fire, a sphere of some sort. No one had ever spoken of that. And opening her eyes again to far-touch the brilliant and luminous Surrounding, Kendra could somehow sense now that it was the Great Top Fire which may have been heating everything below, the very thing that gifted the world with all this color and depth and shade and…life!

Tears were streaming down along Kendra’s cheeks now, dripping into the soft dirt below her knees. Overwhelmed and mystified to the point of utter confusion, Kendra didn’t know how long she had been just kneeling and crying and far-touching the Surrounding. It could have been hours or just seconds, but the peace was disturbed by a gruff voice Kendra had never before heard, startling her mind and body back to life.

“When did it happen?” the voice said.

Kendra’s heart stopped. They would try to take her back into the Home, to force her into the darkness again, to take away her new life. She knew this even before she had turned to face the voice.

TO BE CONTINUED…


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contInueD

Dining At The Abattoir(Continued from page 6).

My God, what must the good ‘ole boy be thinking? I was almost embarrassed for him. I made my way to the front of the wait staff viewers and picked up the small TV, carrying it into the lounge without saying a word. That is, until one of the waiters asked what the hell I was doing. “Trust me,” I told him, and everyone followed me into the lounge. I set down the TV next to the other, adjusting the antenna for pic-ture quality, and tuned it to Fox News, while the flat screen remained on CNN. This way, we’d get a clear view of Obama speaking and the simultaneous reaction by Bush, as I knew Rupert Murdoch will have instructed his camera directors to focus on the old cowboy. I was right, of course. On one screen, Obama re-tracked the chaos and pledged to make a differ-ence. On the other, George W. Bush sat and winced, his face somehow pale be-neath the sun-cracked wrinkles, like he’d witnessed a murder just outside the fam-ily barn. There’s a sort of blank stare—a sense of blind, dumb ignorance—about Bush, as though he wasn’t listening, as though it was all too painful to acknowl-edge. And my only question was: Does he actually recognize what he’s done? Is he surrounded by so many ass-kissing, boot-wearing public defenders that he’s been shielded from the dark and sad legacy he’s left for the American people? By the look of his narrow eyes and bland grin, I’d say he’d about given up listening to anyone at all. And yet, every few seconds, looking at him—here among his people, his admirers, and his critics—I sensed something deeper: A feeling of defeat, tiredness, an acceptance perhaps as to what exactly he’s meant to all of us. And the rich, throbbing will to take off the suit and slip back into a pair of Levi’s and shit-kickers to play in the mud became clear in his face. I felt almost sorry for him. “For-give him his trespasses, for he knows not what he does…” Just another elite sociopath on the high road to “success.” Let the good ‘ole boy go back to Texas in peace, I thought. Let him mosey on back to the farm and drink what he drinks and play like he’s always wanted to. An hour before the President’s arrival, a new and mighty wave of Secret Service came in for one final perimeter sweep, dogs and anti-explosive equip-ment abound. They proceeded to pat the entire wait staff once more and throw us a lecture on how we “shall not stop and speak to the guests, especially Barack

Obama.” I was smirking behind my lips… These mustache-laden freaks were going to shit when I stopped to chum it up with ‘Bama like he was an old classmate at Har-vard. I couldn’t wait. Nerves were already building in my stomach, and I searched the room for the quickest exit route. At 1:30pm, the new President en-tered the ballroom at Statuary Hall to the tune of “Hail to the Chief.” The entire wait staff was lined up customarily of course, white gloves, white jackets, applauding as he entered, along with the rest of the room---a tradition I’m told stems back to 1953 during Eisenhower’s first inaugural. After a number of hugs and handshakes, everyone soon sat and began to eat. Only the best was served here: Seafood Stew, Duck Breast with Cherry Chutney, Herb Roasted Pheasant with Wild Rice Stuffing, Molasses Whipped Sweet Potatoes, and Winter Vegetables. There’s no such thing as a vegetarian in this neck of the woods. Shit, it’d probably be harder to elect one of them to office than it would a Black man. The smell of raw meat is like heroin to these people, especially wild and free birds. As the meal got underway, I watched the Secret Service from the cor-ner of my eye, who had dropped their guards only just faintly in the tightly se-cured room. Gradually, I made my way to-ward Obama’s table: Dropping a few rolls two tables away; filling up wine glasses one table over—even though it wasn’t even close to my designated wait area. And finally, chuckling inside in anticipa-tion of the hell-storm I was about to bring down from my manager and the Secret Service, I cozied up next to Obama and friends, refilling waters at his table. And then it went: “Mr. President,” I said, turning to him completely and stopping the water drill. He seemed immediately surprised though curious, as NONE of the other wait staff had once stopped to talk to the pa-trons at this gig. “I just want to say it’s a real honor, Sir, and congratulations.” “Well, thank you,” he said. I looked up and saw a Secret Service agent eyeing me, stepping in my direction and radioing something into his sleeve. I’d have to work fast. Look into his eyes, get an answer! “Sir, if I may, in your speech you addressed the terrorists by saying: ‘We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.’ Mr. President, it sounded an awful lot like our former Chief’s rhetoric.” At this point, Obama was looking straight into me, prob-

ably dumbfounded as to what was going on. “How do you expect to pull our troops out and keep up this notion at the same time?” I asked. “It’s not a bad proposal, but what’s the plan of attack here?” “Uh, are you supposed to be do-ing this?” he asked me, still smiling. “Excuse me, young man,” Vice President Biden interjected a few seats away. “You’re not supposed to be doing that.” “I’m an American citizen like ev-eryone else,” I said. “I have the right to ask questions of my leaders.” “But not in this setting,” Mrs. Biden complained. “Not here and now,” the VP said. “You have a job to do.” Things were heat-ing up. Yes! “It’s going to take a lot of work and optimism,” the President said then, laying a friendly hand on my wrist. I looked back at him and searched his eyes. “And good, hard-working Americans like you will keep this country on track.” He smiled again, sincerely. A hand grabbed my shoulder then. I looked back to see that it was, of course, a Secret Service Agent pulling me away from the table. Behind him was my manager. “What are you doing?” she whispered harshly, as the agent forced me around toward the kitchen. And suddenly, a commotion erupted across the room. Senator Edward Kennedy had collapsed, and the Agent let go of my shoulder. “Go into the kitchen,” he com-manded, quickly following Obama who was now rushing to Kennedy’s aide. I hated to admit it, as Kennedy is a decent guy, but his poor health certainly saved my ass. I made my way to the kitchen as the agent instructed, took off the bow tie, threw it in the trash, and kept walking right out through the back exit. I passed a few more agents along the way, who thank-fully didn’t care about some waiter that broke the rules. But I got what I needed: A touch, a feeling, a sense of the man in of-fice so I could sleep well at night knowing who’s in charge around here. Obama has a presence about him, a calm swagger in his easy eyes, wide grin, and deep voice. Like a cocktail of Clint Eastwood and Marvin Gaye—the perfect mixture of powerful cool. God, please let him not be a puppet, not some smooth-brow easy-talk molded into a world-class politician from the death cracks of a corrupt state. And if he is, please let us not find out. Strings aren’t so bad when you can’t see who’s pull-ing them; that is, unless the puppeteer is one more sociopath. Regardless, Obama


gives me the sense that he remembers what it’s like to be hu-man. That he’s not so rich or power-hungry or cut off from the people that he’s lost all perspective on the common hardship and loss most of the country is now feeling every day. But we all know how that Oval Office can change things for a man. Too much time in a big, White House tends to wash away even the most colorful of characters and pasts, leaving behind a bland, ashen memory of a soul now void of real human connection. The cavity was obvious in most of the old faces on Inaugura-tion Day; but Barack stood out uniquely in that room, and not just because he’s now the President. There’s something more to him. The idea that he’s now running the show is somehow easy to get used to. The guy is a fucking rock star—minus the drugs, long hair, and bad teeth. And yet, he’s comfortable—something familiar and fitting to slip into. He feels like home, and he’s defi-nitely in charge here. By looking at the man from afar and then up-close I could see why the American people get a feeling that the void won’t consume Barack Obama like it does to most, that perhaps he’s strong enough or real enough or just plain different enough to withstand the highly potent American legacy of stark-raving Imperialism. Or maybe he’s just too colorful to be washed away by the white. Whatever the reason, he’s here now and there is new hope in the old, dark house. I later discovered that Senator Kennedy had suffered a seizure at the luncheon and was taken by ambulance to Wash-ington Hospital Center, where he spent the night and was later released. I also found out Senator Robert Byrd of West Virgin-ia was taken from the luncheon early, apparently from fatigue, though his office insists his untimely departure was not health related. I don’t know what they put in those damn birds, but my advice to all those meat-lovers in Washington: Lay off eating things with a heart for a while… It may do you some good. God Bless America.

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FORTH Issue 02 March - April 2009€¦ · 2009-03-02 · Think about it… You lose something, change happens. First you think it’s bad, then you realize it opens the door for