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Originally created to accompany the event What They Could Do, They Did in Edinburgh 2006, it then grew alongside the art collective the event gave birth to. It features artworks, poems, fiction, games, comics and recipes from members and associates.

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Edited by

Mira MattarMichael ReidKathryn CorlettEmily Fletcher-Stuart

[email protected]

www.theydid.org.uk

© copyright individual artists 2009

Editorial Michael Reid

Zeppo the Peep Hestia Peppé

Proposed changes to the English languagesProfessor Heidi Glümläärd

Meat and Plastic in the Lost HourShubs Golder & Kathryn Corlett

because the MoonAlbumen Records

The ListenersAlexander Velky

Girl With Fan 1922Emily Fletcher-Stuart

Lyrics from The Duchess & the DemonH

(A response to a sketch by H.)Tom Moore

AfterMiami Crowning

Garry Sykes

Crossword A Dream & Large Hatchling

Amy Smyth

Kate Hughes

OctopusAlice Saint

Kate Hughes

FiveRonald Reagan Drawn Whilst Nauseous

Norma Jean Her Body Became Her PrisonTom Moore

West Norwood Cemetery, London 09/2008Julia Hodgson

Acherontia; Extract from an Entomologist’s MemoirsMira Mattar

Julia Hodgson

You have been ...

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Edito

rial What is this thing that we have been doing?

It started as a project arising from an event thatitself arose from a burgeoning online community.It was first intended to accompany and documentthe event but ended up supplementing it withwork that otherwise wouldn't have found a homethere. The event was named What They CouldDo, They Did, and took place in Edinburgh inSummer 2006. The name of the event becamethe name that many of the online community hadwhen they decided to face the world. Thismagazine They Did was part of that facing, part ofthe exoteric (some preferring the term'exoterrorist') production of our esoteric conflicts.

The difficulty of this word 'our'... It has neverbeen easy to account for the parts that thissupposed whole encompasses, or to account forthe whole that these supposed parts produce.

When all this began, I wasn't living in England.The community allowed me to grasp the work ofothers from the distance of my quietenedlanguage, it gave me a forum for which tofalteringly speak myself. I began to write for it,record for it, observe things for it - although neverquite sure what 'it' was.

There was then, and is still, a conflict betweenthose that (openly or not) wanted the communityto be harnessed under a particular aim and thosethat (lazily or not, naively or not) wanted to avoidimpositions and directions. I was firmly in thelatter camp. The community is made up ofsingular subjects; mutant amalgams of sweetness,authority, fear, insight, love and self-abasement.Some voices cry louder and attract more orbitersbut it never seemed to me that there was a unifiedpurpose. I loved it without purpose, or rather witha purpose quite different to a constitution - to 2

house many conflicting monsters (some roaring,some whispering, some listening), but not todictate their forms.

The rules of this house extended to both WhatThey Could Do, They Did and They Did, whichhave had always had a certain formlessness aboutthem, or rather a diverse and sometimes freakishcollection of forms.

This issue of They Did is no exception. It featuresa fairytale disintegrating in memory, a self-portrait-as-clown disintegrating into reality, acollection of dirty love songs, an excerpt from aforthcoming collection of unsolicited email, achildish and grotesque comic poem-comic,romantic photographs, distorted portraits, adream with undertows, and more, and more.

This unlikely mixture has brought me muchpleasure and I'm proud......

But there is a new mood of concentration. The'we' that produces They Did want to becomesomething new, something just beginning to formitself. We want a new seriousness. Yes, really. Wewant to build houses just for the literature, just forthe pictures. We want concentration. We want tostart fights with the deplorable state of the wordand the line. We want to prime our weapons.

This will be the last They Did to come in thisformat. Future publications using this name willexist as per the original intention - to document theactivities of What They Could Do, They Did. Muchof the work that so far has belonged in this magazinewill appear in very different publications in thefuture. And we intend many. We want to publish.

Ghostly as we may yet be, we wanted to introduceourselves, as yet unnamed, as a new line, whichwe hope you will follow... 3

Life is a hideous thing, and from the background behind what weknow of it peer daemoniacal hintsof truth which make it sometimes a thousandfold more hideous.Science, already oppressive with its shocking revelations, willperhaps be the ultimateexterminator of our human species- if separate species we be - for itsreserve of unguessed horrors couldnever be borne by mortal brains ifloosed upon the world.

from “Facts Concerning the Late Arthur Jermyn and His Family” H.P. Lovecraft

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English was my second of two languages and before I’d even heard it Ifound it unspeakable and secretive. Having concluded, in my oft-citeddissertation on the history of the English language, that its origins arelargely unlikely and its general use fundamentally incorrect, I maintainmy rights as both a linguist and a foreigner to put forward some changes.

Motion one:From here on out the prefixes Mc and Mac will be replaced by theprefixes Nc and Nac. For example, Kyle McLachlan becomes KyleNcLachlan, Macdonalds becomes Nacdonalds and so on. The reasonsfor this change are obvious; given that the prefixes Mc or Mac arederived from the old French for pimp or procurer that is, maquerel, tobe a Mc or Mac meant, literally I am the pimp for people with thefollowing surname… e.g. McNeil, Mc + Neil, I am the pimp of any mannamed Neil. The substitution of Mc and Mac with the less provocativeNc and Nac is in favour of sexual freedom for men, or women withmen’s names.

Motion two:The idiom put a sock in it, meaning to sheathe one’s sword will bereplaced by the new idiom, stick a cod in it for the following reason:when testing for fish allergies patients must submit to an Oral CodChallenge; whereupon a small cod is inserted into a slightly larger codand immediately and thoroughly rubbed onto the neck, wrists, armpitsand unmentionables of the curious patient. If the patient passes thechallenge he or she may begin introducing cod into their diet. If thepatient fails they will most likely die or be killed. Thusly, telling someoneto stick a cod in it means I wonder if that person suffers from a possibleallergic reaction to the fish, cod; or, I hope that person drops dead soon.

Incidentally, cod allergies have been on the rise in Western Europe,

Proposed changes to the English Language Prof. Heidi GlümläärdDept. of Linguistics, University of Turin

causing a severe shortage in cods. It is a shame that you need to kill a codto check it can’t kill you. This is what is called in English, the circle oflife and charmingly, where the phrase it’s a cod eat cod world originates.

Motion three:Given that all objects are named after the Earls that invented them e.g.the mug, a common drinking vessel, was named mug because the Earlof the small Northern town, Mug, decreed that hot drinks drunk fromhandleless glass cups proved hazardous to hands. After scolding himselfonce again over a game of backgammon (named after the Earl ofBackgammon, a village in Wales, pronounced Bgwackgalhmon) the Earlcried out in pain and demanded his tea be brought to him from henceforth in a clay cup bordered by two U shaped handles, (which of courseare the work of the Earl of Handle).

The proposed motion therefore is simply to add the words Earl of …beforeevery common noun e.g. Might you pass me the Earl of chicken salad?

Motion four:

A proposal for the addition of the phrase that’s my kinda horse to theEnglish language. Etymologically speaking this gem comes from the oftwrongly alphabetised film Three Men a Little Lady: on being presentedwith a picture of a horse the little lady of the title, Mary (RobinWeisman), is told that the she will soon be receiving the real horse.However, the illustrator character, Michael, played by none other thanideologically Oscar nominated Steve Guttenberg, looks at the pictureand states that’s my kinda horse, suggesting that should he be facedwith the actual horse, or object, he would not be as happy. This phrasecan thus be used to express preference for the 2D image of an objectopposed to the object in its 3D reality.

If you have any further suggestions please feel relatively free to sendyour proposed changes via standard electronic mail technology [email protected]

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Date: Sun, 1 Mar 2009 15:44:49 +0000To: [email protected]: “Albumen Records” <[email protected]>Subject: RE: because the Moon

Dear Sir/Madam,

Further to our recent discussions, please find enclosed a small sampleof works from our forthcoming anthology of unsolicited new writing,“because the Moon” (ALB016). The full collection will shortly beavailable on audio cassette, read by H. Adams, with an accompanyingdigital release on our website:

http://www.albumen.org.uk/

We trust that this will be suitable.

Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any further queries.

Best wishes,

Albumen Recordshttp://www.albumen.org.uk/

because the Moon

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need f*ck buddy? by Mac

So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole,and at last he got in.NEED F*CK BUDDY?_C.L.I..C.K_ _H.E.R.E_“Is your heart, then, a hand-organ?” asked the Pumpkinhead,curiously.

What are your plans for lunchtommorow:-) D.Zby Eusebia Trujillo

furman.infima.But Before I get to that I just wanted to add a lil something from mylast post. I won the battle of who was getting rid of all the tree limbs Ihad to cut....Well lets just say I don’t own a huge truck with aclaw.....hehehehe.3

Can We Let You In On A Secret?pyrex is birdseed eggplant.

Hopeby Samaria Mattie

Oh you builders,Summer bees were saying Would their world not remain comfortablyBefore those virile women!Coextensive with everything? How could they know?IX. After the Great Northern Expeditionat balls hit again and again toward her offspring.visitors’ dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop Upon from the right by far trees, that white placeThis perfection, this absence.By what it seems to have moved toward. In anyTo mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and PèreLife, or only joy, that stands outThat rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteIts consciousness of my white consciousness,visitors’ dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopthey sit with their wives all day in the sun,Against this sky no longer of our world.V. The Dutch in the Arctic

This will be secret by Dwight Gannon

old, but it had to break up into smaller groups,saddle, he carried the inspected his patty melt, which was meltedBis? Can’t you feel jigsaw of irregular slices, ofbecause the Moon Bob Arctor considered as he cautiously

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Once upon a time there were three young princesses. These princesses livedin a large castle in the middle of a forest. Or somewhere rather near themiddle, at any rate.

Inside the castle, the three princesses grew up in seclusion: theirs was a lifeof simplicity and relative contentment. They never once had a concern inthe world until one morning, when there was a heavy knock on the bigwooden gates of the castle.

The seven princesses lined up in the courtyard as... what? Oh, did I saythree? Sorry. There were definitely seven of them. And they all had names:Arabella, Bernadette, Cynthia, Desdemona, Eloisa, Francesca and... ohdear, it was something beginning with ‘G’. We’ll call her Greta.

Arabella was the oldest, but she was also the ugliest; each new sister hadbeen born prettier than the last, so while Arabella resembled a slimmer-than-usual troll, little Gertie was quite the model princess: golden locks,alabaster skin, sparkling blue (or possibly green?) eyes and a set of perfectlyformed limbs.

Between the youngest and oldest there was quite a difference then, butbetween some of the middle ones there was so little difference as to makeidentifying them quite a task – this was why they each wore a differentcoloured dress: one for each hue of the rainbow.

Anyway, there was a knock on the door (or gate) wasn’t there? Yes; they -the seven princesses – lined up in the courtyard, from oldest to youngest,tallest to smallest, ugliest to prettiest, and – as they had no parents orhousekeepers – Annabel took it upon herself, as usual, to answer the door:

“Go away” she said to the door. “We don’t want you here. We are contentas we are.” Her voice was shrill and quivering, but hardly loud enough torise above the gale.

The knocking noise came again, and the thick, flaky snow continued tospiral down from the impenetrable slate-grey sky.

Gerta shivered and whispered to Francesca next to her: “Perhaps it’s mamaand papa come home to us.”

Francesca turned a disdainful eye to her younger sister and hissed: “They’renever coming back. If we’ve told you once, we’ve told you a million times.”

The knocking grew louder and was joined by a voice:

“Is there anybody there?” it called.

“Did you not hear me the first time?” said Anabella, glaring at the wooden door.

The Listeners

Belinda stepped forward and took her sister’s arm:

“Sister, perhaps he’s in need of help.”

Anabella quickly shot her a look that made her remove her hand and fallback in line with the rest of them.

“Is there anybody there?” the voice called again. It was a timeless voice,which – I suppose – must have echoed with mystery, as it certainly didn’tbelong to a princess.

The seven sisters stood and shivered as the rain fell hard on the flagstonesand soaked their gowns to their shoulders. Diana sneezed and Cynthiashushed her.

“Bless you,” whispered Esmeralda, clasping her cold hand around her sister’s.

“Come on,” called Annabelle, “Back inside with the lot of you.”

She ushered them all in as thunder rumbled overhead and the downpouraccelerated, peppering the courtyard with needles of icy water.

But little Greta remained behind, escaping the group unnoticed; sheducked around a corner, watched her eldest sister slam the door, andhurried towards the gate.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *The sun… no… the moon hung unblinking and frighteningly low in thesky, illuminating the grey-green pines whose ragged tips stretched into thedistance. Were they pines? They were evergreen, certainly. Though it wasspring, so it’s hard to say for sure…

The princesses huddled wordlessly around the presumably-dusty window,peering down at the courtyard below. It was some seven years since theirlast visitor and they were now all so old and grey that there was barely adifference discernable between them. But they still wore the same dresses,so they still knew one another’s names.

Seven? Oh, of course! I forgot to mention – it was seven years in our time.I’d been around the world by then; I’d seen the northern lights and thesouthern ice shelves: played chess with spider crabs in Mariana and sippedgreen tea with Buddhist monks in a cabin in the Himalayas. At least, Ithink they were monks, and I think it was tea…

Anyhow: it was seventy years of their time, and they’d been waiting in thecastle all that time. Nowadays they stood clustered at the highest window,peering out all day long, scanning the horizon for news. Their seven agedfaces, had they been visible from below, would have looked like the bark ofa gnarled oak, encased behind grimy glass.

There was no door to the courtyard now – just an empty arch that led

straight to the castle. I say ‘castle’, but it was hardly big enough to warrantthe word, and being covered with ivy from head to foot, it was far fromgrand. Not how I remembered it at all.

Again I knocked in the wind and the rain (or possibly the snow), for whatseemed like forever, just waiting for somebody to come down – somebodyspecific this time.

Nobody came at all: not even my little Greta, or Gretel, or Gertie, orwhatever her name was. I got on my horse, or camel, and galloped, orcantered away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It was half a century later – fifty years to the day – when a withered oldcrone in an embarrassingly-bright blue dress stopped me in the street andopened her toothless mouth, raised her hand and pointed a twiglike fingerat me, gasping, grasping for words.

The way her mouth hung open I thought she (or I) might die of shock rightthen.

“She’s dead,” she said, and I had no idea what, or rather whom, she meant.

It turned out Greta died of a broken heart that second time I visited. I’dforgotten about those visits of course – dismissed it as a childish fantasy ora strange dream. I was barely a man when I last found the way to theircastle, and now I am as old as they come.

Have pity for poor Esmeralda though; she spent fifty years on my trail in thisworld – fifty years in which she aged just six: there’s no explaining that.She was the only one who Gretel told it all to. And why was she so eagerto find me, you may ask?

I was the only one who ever came to their castle (or cottage or cave –whatever it was), so they all fell in love with me in their own ways. ButArabella forbade them to admit visitors – she was afraid that she, being theugliest, was the last who would be desired for a bride, so she always kept thegates and doors shut if she could help it.

“Tell them I came, and no one answered,” I called to Eloisa, as she left.

I think there were tears in her eyes, but it’s hard to say. I can’t evenremember little Gertie’s face that night (or was it morning?) when Ipromised to return for her.

I’d sooner not tell that which I don’t remember properly, but if I did that,what would be left of the story?

Of course, I now realise that all of Eloisa’s sisters must have died long ago.

Ariadne

Who will follow?Who will I follow?Who will follow?Who will I follow?

Those eating chimeras with flashing eyes, those pursuing bullets andbreezes in the grog, those that will lead you by your hard-on to a placewhere schmooze won't coruscate you, where no friends will gather toconsole you, where you unravel the circles on an earth chewing-gumscarred. Those dreaming the storm...

They dream the storm and the storm dreams me, they dream thestorm and the storm dreams... A stranger, a shepherd, a fugitive, ashade, who I will follow with a tape recorder in my hand, with a taperecorder and a smile in my garter...

I will drink you like poison and wake up outside.

Beatrice Palmato

Late night I follow my perturbations second to second. Rest. Turnpages in my sleep; heat and reprieve. Some dreams of police, someinsatiable mouth I cannot feed.

Thighs soaked with sweat. A negress chiming in my head. I’m givingyou head, the regress of a prayer on my breath. I close my mouthwhile you come on my face.

Your cameras make the ruins passable. Your cameras make my bodypossible. I feel your eyes working on me (so much pleasure I shiver)making me disappear.

Some god is telling me which position to squat in and I’m looking formy body, daddy, but you’re the most demented of mirrors.

Lyrics from The Duchess and the Demon 20

What's the reason for love if you can't lose everything?

'What's the reason for love if you can't lose everything?'

‘She keeps the cold disdain in my heart.'

I could be your living tomb... chewing on misread tattoos. Muse,provider, self-destroyer- give me my voice for a little love song...

I'm just trying to catch a tear from weeping spur sores in her flanks. Ithought for a second there she sutured me to my dream.

I can hear a second pulse somewhere outside me (beat beat) torn ofits service (beat beat) throbs of light on stained glass windows (beatbeat) pangs of focus (beat beat) pulse of infection (beat beat) wantedto kill her (beat beat) plugged up my ears but but but quakes of a tell-tale heart (beat beat beat) beat

Come freshen your wound (draft)

Come freshen your wound, come freshen your wound, we are spit and lemon juice, come freshen your wound. Come renew thetrammels of lostness.

Become only the choice of what you see, become only the choice ofwhat you see - the knife-hand, the scaly paw, the twisted leaf. Thechoice that fastens what you see... I saw an eyesore.

Come quicken your fall, come quicken your fall, gulps to swallow thestorm, come quicken your fall.......

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Two parties:The celebrated Work HorseAnd the brass banded Mass.

The song being at once the attemptedseduction of the Horse but also it’sinescapable prison. The prison defines theHorse but beyond definition the Horse iscompletely divorced from the prison. TheHorse works. The Horse in prison works.The Horse in prison works because of theprison. The Horse works before the prison.The Horse works. The Horse works beforethe reason of the prison. The prison is thereason why the Horse works. Before reasonthe Horse works. Beyond reason towardsthe Heart the Horse works.

All Singing, “ComeFreshen Your Wound”,And One Can But Listen.(A response to a sketch by H.)

Rain. That’s all there was all day. It started before I woke, it woke mebefore my alarms and continued and continued. The sound of watersplashing and spreading on various surfaces was soothing and morewelcome than the screeches of sun-bugs and crickets. It relieved us allof the sticky heat of the past few days.

When I got home I could only hold myself for a few minutes before Iretreated to my room, lay face down in bed and cried. It had been awhile. Does this kind of weather affect people in this way? Is it just me?I feel sad. The grey skies and strange beauty of things veiled in mistmade me feel sad. I felt pathetic; comparing how I lived to the things I’dseen through the rain. The sound of the rain, it understood. I couldn’thelp myself. The sound of the rain is comforting, like a clumsy friendwho tries to cheer you. It somehow reminds me I am loved by somethingunknown. Or reassures me that it’s meaningless but important, that allthings are the same, that all things are like this hollowness - affected andsomehow unable. I feel like I’m washed away. I used to like the rain, Iused to smile in the rain, used to run and sing and play and dance in therain. But today I was unable. I held an umbrella over my head outside.I shrunk under shelters where I could. I closed my eyes so I didn’t haveto look. The roads that curved around the hillsides next to the sea feltlike long barren roads to death since the sea and the boats and themountains opposite had been smudged by the rain. It was like a scenefrom a movie, post-apocalypse.

Now that I think about it, it makes a lot of sense to draw thesecomparisons and have these thoughts. There’s been a weight over mefor a while. I wonder... the sun must get taut from having his happythoughts for so long. Maybe the clouds get sick of seeing him smile andthey call him a hypocrite when he sleeps. Does he ever sleep? Theclouds, they make sense too. Silly little clouds, impatient and rude andhonest. There’s been a weight over all of us recently. Though I don’tlike to use these phrases and talk about these things, it’s true.

It keeps going, it keeps going. I’m ticking off things on a list, I’m fillingout boxes and walking on, just walking on. Keep going, keep going. Howlong can you keep it up? I look with this question in mind at the peopleI love, the people I think I could love: How long can you keep it up? I

After

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hope. It feels that way, I don’t know what for.

I can’t just let go and I can’t understand. I’ve sectioned everything in mybrain, this part for family, this part for friends, something for lovers and ...nothing fits together. I can’t place this sadness or be a comfort to others.There was something lurking around our feet for so long, the rain iswashing it away but before it goes completely we’ll have to swamp aroundin it. We’ll all have to look down at our feet and scrape the mess from oursoles and look around at each other and see the trouble we’ve been in. Ican’t see how to end it quickly, it’ll have to be drawn out. People sayingwrong things at bad times and picking up on pointless things because noone knows how to deal with this darkness. I feel heavy and pointless.

I forgot to wear a jacket today, my clothes got wet and inside the air-conditioning made me shiver and the water in my hair froze my scalp. Idon’t know why but I was surprised I felt it though I’m not dumb to thescience. People say it’s so romantic when it rains, or people say it’s sodramatic when it rains. Is it just that the sound beats little rhythms into youthat you wouldn’t normally feel? Beats little thoughts and little thoughtfulreflections into your mind? It makes me feel like I’m alone in a foreststanding under the canopy with rain falling heavily on the leaves, weighingthem down and dripping off them. It makes a bubble that surrounds me. Idon’t know what to think about it, don’t know where to begin. Logicallimitations don’t apply and I’ve lost my intuition; there are too manyunknowns. I feel cold but there’s a small rock of heat in my heart thoughI can’t let it out because it’s a secret. Because of time? Because we’ve beenpreparing for so long? You can’t prepare for loss, it’ll only find you when itcomes. Her iron mouth angers me, with those stubborn eyes and thewrinkles that have formed around them. Her lips are rocks and her tongueis a viper. But I know rain can seep through rocks, it’ll wash her mouthout of all the sadness she hides. As I was walking through the promenadein the park today I thought of this. I watched my feet pacing forwardsslowly, close to home but not wanting to arrive.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(You want to cry, I saw you. Your face scrunched up showing the linesbut it was the shape of your mouth that killed me. )

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The Smiths Need You!1 2

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ACROSS1 Could life ever be sane again? (5)4 Ask me why and I’ll spit in your eye

(5,3)9 Oh the alcoholic afternoons when

we sat in your room (5,6,4,4)11 There is a better world (6)12 Do you have a vacancy for a

back scrubber? (4,1,6)13 Prudence never pays (4,6)

For answers visit:www.theydid.org/magazine

DOWN2 In my heart it was so real (1,4,3,4)3 This is the fierce last stand of all I

am (4,1,6)4 Tonight will be your very last night

(6,6,8)5 And passions just like mine (8,5)6 Has the Perrier gone straight to my

head (1,4,5,3)7 Scratch my name on your arm with

a fountain pen (8,8)8 Let me get my hands on your

mammary glands (8,5)14 To a buck-toothed girl in the

Luxembourg (3)10 Do you think you've made the right

decision this time? (6)

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Due to a prolongedperiod of abstinenceMorrissey has forgottenthe names of some ofThe Smiths’ songs. Can you help himremember them?

(Obviously the lyrics arepermanently etched intohis soul.)

A tortoiseshell vase: cut from something vital, thinned, and placed ina shadowed nook. In a pit of beauty: all my things and odours are downhere with me. I’ve scooped vestibules into the mud-walls, so with blackhands I can arrange my trinkets. Several photographs, an alarm clock,a pair of red tights. I am hopeful. Perhaps I am hoping that you are myonly heaviness, and the reason I live in the ground.

You won’t come down here, will you? I’ll have to place my feet in thevestibules, and haul myself out to you. “Why aren’t you helping me?” Ishout. Why do you just stand there, staring? I realise I am wearing brightred tights and you are looking at my legs. As I struggle, falling back andpulling out gobs of mud as I go, you sort through some photographs,laying them on the ground around your feet. I worry about the depth ofthe circle you are making. Suddenly, we are in a ruined amphitheatre.You are in the pit, performing everyday tasks with a few props. You arebright and picked–out in the white, hot sunlight. The dusty ground andtiered stone seats are bleached, and the sky is brutally pale, as thoughwe had just come from a dark room into the light. My eyes don’t adjust,and sometimes you make mistakes and drop things, so I know you’re alittle blind too. I sit up on the second tier, watching with my notebook,clapping occasionally, vigorously. You don’t acknowledge me. Idesperately want to tell someone what I see, but there’s no one elsethere. So I step down into the pit and orate to the empty tiers. Myopinions come out as nonsense- single, florid words, with no continuity.And when I can’t think of a word, I whistle tunelessly, a morning song.Back and forth I pace, insisting that THIS IS JOY.

A Dream

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I am cold and thin and you have gone. The red tights are too long- thefeet drag on the ground and I wear no other clothes. As I tug themupwards, the tights- old now- tear off softly in my hand. I am aware thatsomewhere behind a door in the side of the pit, there is a bull. I tie thered rag around my left arm. I am very frightened. There are only twoways out of the pit: up through the tiers, or through the door where thebull is. I hesitate and wring my hands. I grow desperate as a momentahead looms, and a decision beckons. I unwind the red tights fromaround my arm and tie them around my neck. This action is amomentary tonic and I take a breath and square my shoulders. Then Isee you: at the edge of the pit, you have dropped into an easy crouchand have been watching the spectacle, vaguely amused. I look at youand my shoulders drop- they are warming in the sun. The red ragaround my neck is limp, and I’m beginning to sweat under it. So I takeit off and go to hand it to you in a ball. As you take it, I see yourfingernails have black dirt under them, like you’ve been digging withyour bare hands.

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September:

Up

On the white ridge

Open

Tongued

One word

One word

Where

Is

She?

Flute-blustered

Sit in light

Point

Small positive

Amongst a

Nest

Of

Boulders

O

O

July:

Look

Names fade?

They do

Visit promised

Will you remember?

Or will I be another

Smiling

Roundness?

Like you

But not

Yolk left

Dry now

You are your own

World.

Large Hatchling

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He sees at once that she’s dead, and he’s irritated. A spectacle, and ameagre one, lying under the car there. Her most graceless trick yet, andit must have taken some doing – to step out onto a road where nobodygoes and hit the only car for miles.

There is no one else on the road, so he has time to collect himself, buthe doesn’t need it. People have been here, of course, this has beenreported; that’s how he knew where she was. The men have gone onfoot to fetch the machine to hoist the car – a beautiful, sleek old car, allcurving lines, you can barely see the edge of it, your eye glides over inthe sunlight – and very soon they will be coming back. It’s a lot oftrouble to go to, since she’s dead already, but then they can’t leave herthere, he thinks, or drive the car back over her.

He can tell she is dead because her body’s awkwardness is no longer itsown – her arms splay, an elbow here, a knee just at the wrong angle –she’s gauche as ever but unmoving now. She should be sprawledbeneath that car, bloodied, knocked flat, but there’s no such looseness,no mess, and she’s not relaxed even now, he thinks, well, even in hersleep she always looked uncomfortable.

If any part of her has been damaged by the impact, he can’t discern it.It’s as if she’s slid herself under there whole, thrusting her big joints inbetween the wheels, tight-limbed and thin in her dress and the glovesshe wears to cover the reddish skin around her knuckles. Those gloves.As if she’s on her way to visit someone. As if there should be a sad littlehat to match.

The men are back. They don’t look at him as they get out of the truck.He stays where he is on the verge and watches her while they getstarted. Her legs are blotched with freckles. At last the car swings up inthe air and floats above her: she looks a little blue in the shadeunderneath. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and none of them know wherethe owner is, but the car is overhead still, casting its graceful shadowover the girl on the ground, and then, slowly, the shadow moves. Thecar sways to one side and is lowered onto the flat bed truck, and thereshe is, beached.

Octopus

Her neck is skewed slightly away from him, as if she were alive andavoiding his eyes, knowing it’s not the first time she’s embarrassed himin public – but this time, perhaps, will be the last. Her jawbone hides therest of her face from view: he can’t see if her colourless eyes are open.Her dress is faded, with buttons up the front like a child’s; a few aremissing at the top, and the stark bones of her chest emerge from thedank cotton. Her disjointed little body looks just the same as it did inher hard thin bed. She’d looked painful to him always, born into thewrong element: moving as if it hurt her; walking as if she’d nearlyforgotten how; struggling under him on the mattress. Touching her waslike trying to hold a frightened bird – you had to choose betweencrushing it and letting it go. It startled him the way her bones jumpedand ground in her, threatening to burst through, and twice he had toremind her to breathe in.

He summons this up from memory, but knows the men operating thewinch must be imagining it too. And now, though no one speaks, theycan all see what she has done, it’s no illusion – he’s often prided himselfon not having any and now here’s another he hasn’t had; perhaps thatthought should console him, that’s what the awkward girl might tellhim now if she had anything left to say. She wasn’t crushed – it neitherhit nor ran, the immaculate car, just sat empty and waiting – shedropped down and slithered under, a limbo-crawl: picturing the sinuousmotion it would take, he can scarcely imagine her capable of it. Shearranged herself that way: wrists upturned, back to the road, cheek inthe dust. She’d even gone so far as to loosen the fastenings of her shoesso that when the men carry her body along the road in a few minutes’time first one then the other will drop away from her.

They’re looking down now, deciding how to lift her. The air hasthickened a little, and there’s a haze around her as he watches themraise her off the ground. Limbs falling down all around her, her bellycurves to the sky; her body slips open like rubber.

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Computer Jargon

1. blit2. glob3. xyzzy4. wango5. nibble

Unusual Colours

1. heliotrope2. cerulean3. ecru4. cosmic latte5. bole

Compound Words

1. hereinafter2. nonetheless3. forthwith4. whomsoever5. thereupon

Measures of distance

1. ångström2. furlong3. astronomical unit4. barleycorn5. parsec

Reduplicates

1. flim-flam2. mumbo-jumbo3. shilly-shally4. zig-zag5. flip-flop

Fivefrom daniel joneswww.five.noise.org.uk

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Note Values

1. breve2. minim3. crotchet4. longa5. quasihemidemisemiquaver

Rarely-Celebrated Festival Days

1. Dubious Wednesday2. Thank Fuck It’s The

17th of April3. Spitting At Owls Day4. Christmas Eve Eve5. Weekend Of The Spatula

1. John2. Joan3. Ann4. Bill5. Susie

Potential Names For Inter-Meal Eating

1. Lunchfast2. Dinnfast 3. Brinner4. Breaktea5. Dunch

Audio Connectors

1. XLR2. Large Jack 3. Small Jack4. Phono5. Speakon

Fivefrom edward gillettwww.five.noise.org.uk

39

Actor Siblings From the Cusack Family In Descending Order Of Celebrity

44

Having tired of my own species - their predictabilities, their unendingneed for safety and their emotional hungers - I turned my mind duringmiddle age to entomology. Nowhere else could I find a moreconcentrated stream of unstudied and resolute life. Nothing issuperfluous in the life of insects, not their colours, shapes, exoskeletons,scents or poisons.

My particular obsession is the Death’s-Head Hawkmoth, theAcherontia, of which there are three species: atropos, styx and lachesis.My collection consists of some fifteen or twenty specimens, pinned,mounted and labelled behind glass. I study them as often as I can toburn their shapes into my mind, dormant and beautiful. Sometimeshowever I enjoy removing my glasses - I have suffered from bad eyesightsince I was a boy - and observing my moths through a thick haze,making their structures dissolve and blend into amorphous blankets.The configuration of their thick, velvety but still fragile wings canappear to transform into entirely new and different creatures. Thereliability of even illusory change comforts my mind.

When it comes to archiving however my methods are less romantic, mynotebooks devoted to all scientific, evolutionary and mythologicalcharacteristics of Lepidoptera are stacked vertically in chronologicalorder over two shelves in my workroom.

What fascinates me most about these insects is not the skull shapedpattern of markings on the thorax which gives rise to the satisfyinglydeath-related etymology of their names, (in Greek mythology Atroposand Lachesis are two of the three Fates, the apportioners of life, fearedeven by the gods, and Acherontia stems from Acheron, a branch of theriver Styx, which names the third species of Death’s-Head). Nor is ittheir position in superstitions around the world – a wandering deathbird for the Polish, carriers of blinding dust for the French and more

Acherontia; Extract from an Entomologist’s Memoirs

frequently than not an omen of death – but another capability of thiscommon creature; the Death’s-Head Hawkmoth is able to emit a loudshrill squeak by forcing air out of its pharynx. There are many reasonsfor this moth to make such a sound, like many animals (though notusually insects), this moth squeaks when irritated or attacked,suggesting the sound is reflexive and instinctual.

The most telling reason however, and that to which I and many fellowresearchers have devoted much of our work, is that the Death’s-HeadHawkmoth squeaks in order to mimic the pre-swarm noise made by theQueen Bee in a hive. Having a shorter and stronger proboscis than mostother moths means that my Death’s-Head cannot reach to take thenectar from flowers but it can pierce the hexagonal honey cells of beehives and suck the honey out. Its biological method of survivalnecessitates venturing into danger, for existence depends on sweet andintoxicating pleasure.

I heard the characteristic squeak for the first time when I was very small,unable to attach the strange sound to where it seemed to be comingfrom. I have ever since found myself drawn to this phenomenon.Considering I am a man with few memories, human life for the mostpart having disappointed, I remember only the most ephemeral orbrutal. Each memory stays permanent and fresh, as loud as in everyrecollection of it as it was the first time. I presume this accounts for thehaunted look people see when they look at me.

Another sound of this ilk has recently been added to my violentmemory: at the funeral of a distant friend I stood opposite a woman Iassumed was his wife. An uncontrollable sound scratched its way out ofher like an animal she was struggling with, caught in the air, grabbed andtwisted into illiteracy.

Perhaps it too had some purpose.

45

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... Hestia Peppé - hestia.noise.org.ukHestia Peppé is a tamer of lines, a clown, a governess,a polymath, an early adopter. See her lines roar.

Professor Heidi GlümläärdHaving been mocked since childhood for her parents’over-enthusiastic placement of umlauts upon hername Heidi Glümläärd has made it her purpose in life to promote and defend the rights of over or underrepresented accents, etymologies and idioms. She is agraduate of numerous institutions. In her spare timeshe pickles amusingly shaped vegetables.

Kathryn Corlett - kathryncorlett.blogspot.comDesigner and Illustrator based in Herne Hill, SouthLondon, graduate of Falmouth College of Arts,Graphic Design BA. Kathryn currently has a souldestroying job, however in the not too distant futurewill hopefully be indulging solely in free-dom-lancework. She is one of the founder members of SouthLondon based arts collective What They Could Do,They Did and the yet-to-be-named small presspublishing company which produces this awesomevolume. Kathryn has an incredibly healthy obsessionwith pandas.

Shubs GolderShubs Golder fears his anguish, personal and artisticwas all in vain as his existence is only confined to theflawed imagination of Michael Reid. Damn youbastard. Damn you bastard for not making me writelike Juan Rulfo, and making me short, brown, angryand curly haired.

Albumen Records - www.albumen.org.ukAlbumen Records is an online and offline facilityproviding access to an ongoing archive. Described byWikipedia as a "UK-based record label" †, its logicaloutcome has yet to be determined.† "Albumen (disambiguation)," in Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia;(updated 1 March 2009, 16:02 UTC); available fromhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albumin_(disambiguation); Internet; retrieved 3 March 2009.

84Yo

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g ... Alexander Velky - thesvenhunter.blogspot.com

Alexander was afraid he was a god from the momenthe was conscious and has since been graduallygetting used to the glory of being entirelyinsignificant.He tries a bit of everything but mainly he writes.Alexander’s chief areas of interest and influence arefairytales, feminism, postmodernism, black metal,collage and the cruél indifference of nature.

Emily Fletcher-StuartEmily Fletcher Stuart is an ailurophile, costumedesigner and kleptomaniac. She is a foundingmember of WTCDTD, graduate of WarwickUniversity and soon to be graduate of Wimbledoncollege of arts. Emily looks forward to re-joiningimpolite society in June 2009.

Michael ReidMichael Reid is and is not H, a man of letters,songwriter, editor, liar, adulterer, autodidact, flatterer,masochist, enthusiast, fool.The albums The Duchess and the Demon andSkeletal Trash are forthcoming and will be availablefrom www.theydid.org.uk

Tom Moore - www.tommoore.euTom Moore is an artist, film producer, songwriter andmaker of monsters. He is a founding member ofWTCDTD. His laboratory is in the leaky dungeon ofa long ruined castle, perched atop a jagged rockyprominence, under a crack of thunder and a bolt oflightning, in South London.

Miami Crowning - mimi-goitre.blogspot.comA former - artist recently reborn in cake and cookiesamidst kangaroos and feral horses in the Australiandesert. An observer of stars and the Milky Way.Tomorrow is a new day of sweat, cute dog and baking.

Garry Sykes - www.gravenimages.org.ukGarry is not what he used to be.

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... Amy Smyth - [email protected]

Amy Smyth is an artist and poet who lives and worksin South-East London. Currently using wood, fabric,words and light, she intends to create a chiaroscuroof focus: the twitch of a muscle, the approach of afriend, the earliest memory.

Kate HughesKate Hughes is the first Cosmonaut in Un-space.She is colonising things half-known and part-remembered using pictures and words. She is also acardio-thorassic voyeur.

Five - www.five.noise.org.uk

Alice SaintAlice Saint's day job involves pedantry, free drinksand the hoarding of Bloomsbury's finest reviewcopies. Her writing has appeared (under apseudonym) in the TLS and the New York Observer.She also sings with the Capsized Smiles.

Julia Hodgson - www.juliahodgson.comJulia Hodgson is an artist who creates images byrecording radiation and light onto sensitized surfacessuch as film or sensors. Light reflected or emittedonto them activates a chemical or sensor during atimed exposure, these films or sensors then store theinformation which she then transfers onto paper.

Mira MattarMira has a recurring dream in which she is followedby a group of children chanting Educator! Liberator!Facilitator! She aims to realise this absurdity throughthe manipulation of words, What They Could Do,They Did and the distribution of ideas through a yet-to-be-named publishing emporium. Having acquiredmeaningless letters after her name from unpleasantand far-away places Mira now lives, works, schemesand expresses relief in South London.