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AQC Release for Tuesday, September 14th, 2010


AQC
DUENDE
$11 + Shipping (234 pp. ~ 7x10)
ISBN 9781451560145

AQC: DUENDE



:: Click Here to Preview the DUENDE Issue ::

"All through Andalusia. . . people speak constantly of duende, and recognize it with unfailing instinct when it appears. The wonderful flamenco singer El Lebrijano said: ‘When I sing with duende, no one can equal me.’ . . . Manuel Torres, a man with more culture in his veins than anybody I have known, when listening to Falla play his own ‘Nocturno del Genaralife,’ made his splendid pronouncement: ‘All that has dark sounds has duende.’ And there is no greater truth. These dark sounds are the mystery, the roots thrusting into the fertile loam known to all of us, ignored by all of us, but from which we get what is real in art. . . . "

"Thus duende is a power and not a behavior, it is a struggle and not a concept. I have heard an old master guitarist say: ‘Duende is not in the throat; duende surges up from the soles of the feet.’ Which means it is not a matter of ability, but of real live form; of blood; of ancient culture; of creative action."

~ Federico Garcia Lorca
La Teoria y Juego del Duende - The Theory and Function of Duende

Words: Vickie Fernandez, Denise Falcone, Rebekah Bergman, Cole Nowicki, William Michaelian, Peter Bebergal Reviews Dave McKean’s Cages, Guillermo Yáñez Tapia, David Mcmullan, Dominic Rouse, Matt Sven Calvert, Stephen Mead, WM Mason, Carl Scharwath, Chipmunx, and Jim Lopez interviews Raymond Salvatore Harmon.

Visuals: Geirrod Van Dyke, Liliana Silva, William Michaelian, Dariusz Skitek, Qendrim Hoti, Ian Ward, Dallas V. Duobaitis, Alice In Dead Land, Oliver Lehmann, Pier Darel, jenO, Robert L. Tyrnau, Estaban Duran, and Horacio Bustos.

Films: De Artificiali Perspectiva, or Anamorphosis (1991) 1/2, Portrait of a Bookstore as an Old Man Beginning, John Berger and Sabastio Selgado: Spectre of Hope, Henri Langlois Cinematheque Francaise, and I'm Almost Not Crazy - John Cassavetes

[ previews and content links below ]

 

Tuesday, September 14th, 2010

Works by Geirrod Van Dyke, Liliana Silva, and William Michaelian.

Little Deaths

By Vickie Fernandez


It’s dusk, the sky is the color of fresh bruises and Laura Branigan hums from a boom box, “I, I live among the creatures of the night I haven't got the will to try and fight.” I ache to be outside with my friends. Instead I sit at my wicker desk and pine. I can’t go outside because I’m sick. Mom keeps taking my temperature and calling my grandmother.

“Ma, the fever isn’t breaking. She won’t eat and when she does she throws up. I don’t know what to do. I need you to come over.”

Mom hangs up the phone not realizing that the curly, yellow chord is wrapped around her waist. I reach out to her from the wobbly kitchen chair as she presses her cool hand against my flaming forehead. 

Mom isn’t good at taking care of me when I’m sick. That’s my grandmother’s job. This is the first time we’ve lived without her. When mom’s job takes her all over the world with friends, grandma rubs Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest and makes me warm milk with sugar when I can’t sleep.

Mom’s new husband, Arturo, sits on the couch watching soccer while she paces back and forth wringing her hands waiting for grandma. I feel terrible but I’m more worried about the look on mom’s face than I am about my aching chest.

Mom met Arturo at a nightclub in Argentina. He’s tall with feathery brown hair and green eyes. I guess he must’ve been really nice to her in Argentina when she’d leave me with grandma to spend holidays and weekends there. Here in New Jersey, not so much.

Mom and Arturo used to fight. Now, he doesn’t even talk to her. It’s gotten so bad that mom hands me notes to deliver to him that she’s written on perfumed stationery. I read them as I walked from the kitchen to the living room where he’d sit with one hand down his pants, his face gray in the glare of the TV.

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Mervin Coin

By Denise Falcone

 

Mervin liked to pass the time watching the card shills take the tourists for a ride. He’d high-five the pickpockets mingling incognito in the crowd and although it was late in the afternoon, he’d good morning the whores by name. Sometimes a certain type of family, their naiveté ticking like a time-bomb, would compel him to follow them up close on their safari so he could imagine he belonged.
    
     “Well, look what the wind blew in! Holy Moses! How’d you get so big?”
Uncle Pierce could eat ten cakes in one sitting and still hide behind a microphone. Drum roll please. Badaboom. Or stick his tongue out and look like a thermometer. Baboom. Or stick his tongue out and look like a zipper! Badaboom!
     “Your uncle brought you something,” gasped his mother through the thick of a phlegm-filled hacking cough.
     Edna Coin hardly moved from the overwhelmed cracked vinyl lounge chair perpetually parked in front of the television, which because of the rare arrival of her brother was thankfully taking a breather.
     “Here Mervin,” announced his uncle with an air of sad nostalgia, “I want you to have him now,” and pulled from a faded canvas duffle bag the limp body of a boy decked out in formal dress.
     The little shoes were cute but the midget tuxedo was frayed and thin, the garish ruffled shirt a nicotinic yellow. Mervin was struck by a pang of revulsion when his uncle inserted what looked like a lecherous claw into its back and suddenly a thick black painted-on eyebrow jerked up.
     “Hi Mervin! I’m your new friend Larry!”
      The ratty toupee, the thick raw meat-colored lips, and the sleazy pencil mustache made Mervin think the thing was created for a joke.

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Tic Tac Toe

By Rebekah Bergman


The party ended in a dozen popped balloons and a bloody puddle on the floor.  The balloon destruction had been a festive, joint event.  But the blood was Tac’s fault; she’d gotten over excited, and scratched Toe across the face. Collapsed on the Oriental rug, Toe howled like a sick coyote.
            “Where’s Pip?” Tic asked, poking a sibling in the side with unnecessary force. 
            “Who knows!” Tac said, playing with a foot.
She leaned down to pick confetti from her brother’s hair and piles poured out like rain.  Tac threw a handful upwards and Tic blew them with a wet breathe into her face. 
            “Certainly hope we aren’t too noisy.” 
            “Oh no, we’re perfectly quiet. Angels really!”
She punctuated the irony with a pull on Tic’s hair.  Tic screamed and laughed and they fell to the floor and laughed and laughed and laughed.  Tac punched a jawbone.  They laughed some more. Toe coughed blood onto the carpet.  They laughed until their ribs cramped up and Toe got the painful kind of hiccups and then they napped off their amusement in a pigpiled sibling heap.    

Impish voices carried up the narrow staircase to the attic where Pip paced anxiously. Below her a dozen pops had just fired in rapid succession.  She stuck her index fingers deep into her ears, concentrating on the noisy scrape of nail against mind.  Charlie slept on her pillow.  The children had wrought chaos since they arrived.  That was on Saturday. 
            “Mister Charles, what is the date?” 
            The tabby rolled onto his side, and purred.  Brown saliva poured from his mouth. 
            “Mister Charles? MISTER CHARLES, I am speaking to you. Do you at least have the time?” 
            The cat opened his eyes, farted, closed his eyes again. 
            Pip sighed and tried to read the grandfather clock.  It had stopped ticking.
             “Move over, Charlie.” She pushed her fat pet, “I would like to rest too.”   
            Tic, Tac, and Toe.  A mouthful of tongue-twists for an ancient woman like Pip.  She couldn’t even keep their nomenclature straight; though their names were something rather fluid to be sure.  Pip was convinced that the tykes swapped identities (one of their nastier pranks) so that Tic became Tac and Tac to Toe and the whole cycle moved up a notch (or sometimes 2!) every day.
            A momentary quiet downstairs.  Pip nuzzled her face against the smelly cat and the 2 of them slept like bears.  Noises in the kitchen permeated her dreams.

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My Street, Your House

By Cole Nowicki


He had never really been upside down, even as a child. There where scant few trampoline embellished front flips and even fewer meters traveled by hand, but; as the extra-large Latina woman held him upside down and shook him by the waist outside of the organic grocery store, his nose knocking on the crotch of her jeans, he felt oddly at ease.

He thought she was yelling something about a porterhouse, but many months later, as he tried to recover something out of the rum sodden wonton of his brain capable of wooing a blonde bartender, whose egregiously hard nipples held on valiantly to keep from exploding out of her top, it hit him in the face like a limp mackerel: 
“Get those quarters out.”

That was what she did. He couldn’t understand her through the silver rain of pocket change pocking the sidewalk in cents, but he got the gist of her intention.

A crowd had started to form.  He could see them congregating between the four Filipino men serving as her legs. A bag boy still holding a loaf of organic bread wrapped in two layers of plastic gawked, his jaw hanging so low a raven could have stolen his tongue.

The perimeter of spectators filled out. Small boys laughed, an old man winked, and a bald woman with a sunburn on her head took pictures with a cell-phone.

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Today the World

By William Michaelian


Today the world spit me out and I landed on the sidewalk on my head. An old whore coughed and said, “You wouldn’t have a cigarette,” and I said, “Baby, I don’t even know what day it is.” I clawed my shirt pocket and held up a mangled generic.

“Gotta match?”

I tried to shake my head but groaned instead.

The whore laughed. She slid the cigarette between her bright red lips and knelt beside me. She massaged my pockets and everything else, while her sunburnt vinyl tubes dangled in my face like a pair of gassed bananas. She found a plastic lighter with two drops in it and my expired driver’s license. She lit up and and read my name. “Hiya, James,” she said.

“Hi,” I said. “How’s business?”

“Oh, so-so.” The whore’s nostrils flared and smoke came out. She stared down the street. It was hot. My back was burning through my shirt. There was a broken beer bottle by my head smelling sour like spit and lies and broken promises.

I tried to think, but it hurt. The whore whispered obscenities to my cigarette. “How long you going to lay there,” she said finally. I told her I didn’t know. I told her I couldn’t make up my mind to go or stay, one way or the other. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” I said.

“I guess not,” the whore said.

“What about you?” I said.

“What about me.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Well, James — I thought I’d make sure you’re all right, then go home and make a nice spaghetti dinner for my good-looking husband the stock broker and our three happy, well adjusted, clean young children with bright futures. I cut them out of a magazine this morning. They’re still fresh.”

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Works by and Dariusz Skitek, Qendrim Hoti, Ian Ward, and Dallas V. Duobaitis.

Peter Bebergal
Reviews Dave McKean’s Cages


When Dave McKean’s comic Cages was originally released from 1990 to 1996 (and collected in hardcover in 1998), there was very little discussion of comics as literature. A genre that is now regularly featured in The New York Times Sunday Book Review would rarely, if ever, make an appearance. When comics books became serious, they were only taken serious to a point. Readers of Art Spiegleman's Maus were either people who already read comic books, or people who did but didn’t read any other comics afterward. But it was good evidence that under the right conditions, the comic book could be seen as serious literature. 
                                                                                                             
Today, even some superhero comics can merit being called serious as well, though it often takes a feature film to generate interest in a new generation of comic readers that have long been exposed to books like Blankets, Epileptic, and Fun Home. In its day Cages was sadly overlooked by McKean fans and all but the most serious comic reader. Only now, after the cognoscenti has decided comics can be taken seriously, is it getting a much deserved, and affordable, paperback release from Dark Horse Comics in September.

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Teoría de la imagen: Apuntes para una ontología del sentido en la imagen técnica digital
Part 2

Guillermo Yáñez Tapia


“La clave para entender el estatus de la realidad virtual hay que buscarla en la diferencia entre la imitación y la simulación: la realidad virtual no imita la realidad, la simula a base de generar una semblanza de realidad. En otras palabras, la imitación imita un modelo real preexistente, mientras que la simulación genera la semblanza de una realidad inexistente: simula algo que no existe.”
                                                   ~Slavoj Žižek


La cuestión de la imagen técnica digital:

Por otro lado la imagen técnica posee cualidades que la hacen escapar de dicha definición genérica. Esto radica en la manera en cómo se configura el referente al interior del sentido postmoderno de la imagen y de la técnica. No es la técnica lo que provoca esto sino el sentido dado a la técnica. Veamos.  El soporte digital logra llevar a término el proyecto modernista: transforma la visualidad (percepción) en información  que puede ser sometida a cálculos (programa) que derivan del texto científico (abstracción como sentido de mundo).  Esta digitalización de la imagen  reconstituye el mundo  en una especie de mundo paralelo, de otro mundo que no necesita del original para poder constituirse como tal -a eso apunta su sentido. Algunos ven en el desarrollo de la imagen simulada digitalmente el inicio de lo que se ha dado en denominar popularmente postmodernismo. Se piensa que en su característica de producto posindustrial se esconde un suceso que termina con las intenciones del proyecto modernista: hacer del mundo un modelo inteligible. Es  precisamente en este proyecto donde se encuentra  el logro de desarticular el mundo en un nuevo orden codificado de manera abstracta y manipulable. El mundo reaparece bajo la forma de imagen, pero no es más que la visualización de las matemáticas; se logra disponer del gráfico de la abstracción lógica (programa) que se realiza con las señales obtenidas por sensores. Se hace del mundo sensible un mundo abstracto, graficado, almacenado en paquetes lógicos de información. La razón moderna se vio en la necesidad de recurrir a la desaparición del mundo para reconstruirlo más fielmente, más cuantificable (triunfo del número como medida de toda la realidad).

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Works by Alice In Dead Land, Oliver Lehmann, Pier Darel, and jenO.

Nature Boy
David Mcmullan


I stare at a photo of you
Stood in a kitchen,
Your long jeans draped on the floor,
Little bare toes twinkling
Out of each leg.
I sigh.
Those toes were enough
To remind me
To fall in love
Each time I saw you.
Those toes were all I needed.
But now I look on just as
Sad ivory keys end and
Track number 8 kicks in:
Nat singing
Smile,
The 1961 version.
His voice is a ghost.
Smile, he sings,
But it’s harder than
He’ll ever realise.

[ end ]



Morning Glory
David Mcmullan


That moment when the dream stops
And reality punches at your skin
That last lingering confusion
That lost madness fading
Everything waiting on you

So you pour coffee and
Have a smoke
And you go to your desk
Your notebook
Your typewriter
Your keyboard

And your fingers
Well
They know what to do

[ end ]

Waiting for the Past
Dominic Rouse


I open my sewered mind unguardedly
And rats the size of childhood fears
Rummage through empty cupboards
Lined with the past's unhappy news.
Truth, that bastard of eternity,
Drips from a rusty hanger; mothballed,
Outmoded, death-trapped and creased,
Do-goodingly given to the needy.

Through the airless grill I can clearly see
The narrow path that leads to the summit,
Mist-hidden from the fading sun,
And lined with the crucified fools
Who have tempted me with rack and ruin
Wrapped prettily as fame and fortune.

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When The Liver Beats Like A Heart
Matt Sven Calvert


it was only six days ago i felt you smile
heard your fingers spell the words.
    saw you say,

you forced me to stay in love with your memory
like the soda machine at the fire station
"if you walk upside down on a cloud," she said.
"you could look right over the edge and talk to god."
    saw you say,

move your heart to stay up there with those clouds
floating high above our sleeping bodies
our cotton candy corpses, close to him

"Your MELD score is still low. You're doing well."

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The Hair Cut
Stephen Mead


Some music is visible,
Growing slowly from roots.
So, a movement, your hair grew to you.
Was going around like that
near to towing an orchestra?
Or was it more an extra limb,
Breathing legacy's braids?
It's not that I see you as Samson.
For one thing, the sex is wrong.
For another, even if bald you'd be
melodious.


Call me nostalgic.  I still love how
the tied beads, as if by training,
swung round from your pig tail
to strike me like a meteor.
I know it was accidental but, going back,
did you find it hard to be
recognized always by long locks?

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In Orbit
Stephen Mead

Turn, turn, I know this lamp,
how it made waves move,
a lighthouse blink & ships
come in on my parent’s dresser
at the bottom of my childhood
W
where the dark sprang to life.

Sitting on shoes, on clothes piles,
model planes, the radio
gave a theme & those days
became a space ship
hurling through worlds
by closing the door.

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I Have No Doubt
WM Mason


thru the shimmering heat
Summer insinuates herself
leaving the frozen fastness
of winter unimaginable
as tiger swallowtails 
follow trails invisible to irresistible nectar
the first monarch has joined the dance
as the last hollyhock has opened
the drunken throng
enamored of such bounty
regal fritillary form clouds of 
winged ecstasy
slippery curves of buddleia 
whose periwinkle 
holds tiny eyes
of brilliant oranges, reds, yellows
a carolina wren cracks open
the morning 
penetrating the sky

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Pathway Exploration
Carl Scharwath


I explore this path
Meandering barefoot in childhood
With innocence
New confidence
Anticipating what lies
Beyond maturing hills
In the soil opulent
Emancipated hearts
Of deep canyons
Embracing errant dreams
Every new born breeze
From everywhere

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Works by Robert L. Tyrnau, Estaban Duran, and Horacio Bustos.

Free Sample: delivery of death

Chipmunx - 2010, July


Free samples! Who could resist the temptation to receive a beverage or snack for free. The unemployed in America during the Great Recession had been so beaten down that a free sample was tantamount to receiving a handout from God. Therefore, any suspicion of malice or malfeasance would not enter into their minds. True, many did not trust the government, but here they lined up month after month for at least two years to receive money from the government. And at the same time, on the same day, were nicely dressed young white boys and girls, who were very Aryan and Christian giving samples of a new product to the unemployed and hungry. Why the simultaneous distribution of these free samples by blond hair and blue eyed young adults? To reduce the suspicion of these free samples being nothing more than a free sample, the distributors had to be translucent in their embodiment. African-Americans with black skin pigmentation, dressed up in urban hip-hop clothing speaking a prison dialect would meet resistance. Poorly dressed, dirty migrant Hispanics who entered America illegally who could not answer questions in English would also be unable to disguise the truth of these free samples. And Muslims from Saudi Arabia would after the fact create a suspicion of a terrorist plot. However, these young white adults recruited in their Sunday schools by church pastors to serve their community by volunteering to give out free samples of a  product made by God's people would veil the secret mission behind the entire project 19. Church leaders did not know either. Boxes of a product were arriving and were to be distributed according to the instructions. The synchronization had to be precise as well. The locations were already plotted. Even the local police were informed because a white truck cannot just arrive in a school parking lot and give out free samples of drinks or snacks for this very reason. This could be an attempt by a lunatic to execute by a mass poisoning. Yet a church group feeding the homeless, hungry, and unemployed in the name of God is less suspicious. And the product had already been tested on prisoners. About twelve prisons owned by the private prison industry, the Corrections Corporation of America, the CCA is publicly traded on the New York Stock Exchange, is in the industry of punishment for sale. They charge tax payers about $300 a day for each prisoner. The Criminal Justice System was unaware of any experiments being conducted on prisoners.

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Interview with Raymond Salvatore Harmon
Part One

by Jim Lopez


Jim Lopez: I had to sit down and get baked to watch all your films (your movies tend to demand attention) and I didn’t make it through all of them.  I did watch all your mtv’s, doc‚’s and 1/3 of your, with breaks to fill my glass and roll another spliff, of your films posted on www.raymondharmon.com/motion_main.html.  

Your films are difficult to watch but then your name may be difficult to pronounce.  They’re not fluid to the English speaking.  They force a person to listen, annunciate correctly and pay attention; otherwise, people just don’t bother.   There seems to be no middle ground, you’re either in for a definite five-to-twenty minutes+ moment (moments are usually understood to be shorter in duration) or you go fuck off to the bar;. Actually, your films ignite insightful, but belligerent, discussions.  What does ‚’duration’ mean to you?  Are you a meditative person or medicated person, both or neither?

RSH: My filmwork tends to fall into a couple of categories. Some are made from the point of view of creating a cinematic experience, especially my early film based work. These can take the form of music videos like "Risperdal" the Magik Markers video, or abstract short films like "Les Fantomes de Lumiere." The other part of my filmography has a more specific intent in mind than entertainment. The longer works like YHVH or Tree of Life/Tree of Knowledge are much more contemplative and often challenging films that are meant for a meditative kind of practice. They are made using subliminal content and specifically chosen strobing color frequencies to trigger psychological reactions in the viewer. This part of my work is exploring something beyond the cinematic format, often referencing ritual transcendentalism. Within the context of this kind of work longer durations are required for the effect to really begin to manifest.

Jim: Your videos tend to have intense shots of light in them.  Why?  What metaphor, if any, does light play in your mind, your thinking, experiencing, interpreting your environment?  The tone of your films are like meditative chants occurring in technological ancient gompas.

RSH: All cinema is essentially just light, its illusory framework of motion an architecture of form and color. When I started making films with 16mm projectors I was first dealing with the film as a physical object. But as I began to expand the process into something performative its expressiveness revealed a complexity in controlling the manifestation of light, especially in a live setting. As I gravitated away from celluloid in favor of video signal paths and feedback I became aware of the algorithm dictating the shape of the light itself. The path through the electronics that was shaping the unfolding imagery.

This evolution of light revealed something akin to a transcendental experience. Almost accidentally I had discovered a kind of conduit through which to access certain meditative concepts. Within this conduit I experimented with subliminals and found the effect to be exactly what I had been searching for; Something like an alchemy of light.

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Showing: De Artificiali Perspectiva, or Anamorphosis (1991) 1/2, Portrait of a Bookstore as an Old Man Beginning, John Berger and Sabastio Selgado: Spectre of Hope, Henri Langlois Cinematheque Francaise, and I'm Almost Not Crazy - John Cassavetes.

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