I'll either be reading something very new or very old. It will be a surprise. Also, I'll be writing here a lot more. Double surprise!
For The Birds Collective & MFA Collective Works present:
a zine reading w/
Cindy Crabb (Doris and Support zines)
Cynthia Schemmer (Habits of Being)
Max Steele (Scorcher)
@ The New School - 6 E 16th St, Room 1107
8pm // open to the public // donations accepted
zine tabling by the readers and For The Birds
Cindy - dorisdorisdoris.com
Max - fagcity.blogspot.com
Cynthia - habitbeing.blogspot.com
Showing posts with label zines. Show all posts
Showing posts with label zines. Show all posts
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
HABITS OF BEING ON RE/VISIONIST
One of my interviews (along with some photographs) from Habits of Being has been featured on RE/VISIONIST, an online publication created by the students of the Sarah Lawrence College Women's History Graduate Program! Excitement!
You can check the article out here: Sister, Fear Has No Place Here.
You can check the article out here: Sister, Fear Has No Place Here.
Friday, August 6, 2010
THE BIG SHE-BANG NEXT WEEK
This is a week from tomorrow, next Saturday, and it's going to be better than ever! It's the first time it will be hosted in Brooklyn, which is really exciting, and there's a small chance, depending on my nerves, that I will be reading from HABITS OF BEING. No promises there, but I can promise that this is going to be a really good and important time!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
HABITS OF BEING ZINE
HABITS OF BEING is a combination of oral history interviews and personal writings that have a common theme threaded throughout. The idea is to blend the personal with the historical, to explore the past, and to compare our habits of being. This first issue includes interviews with three women from SuBAMUH (Ohio women's intentional community) and three related personal stories.
Send mailing addresses for a copy!
habitsofbeingzine@gmail.com
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
UNDER THE ROSE ZINE: CALL OUT FOR SUBMISSIONS
Under the Rose: A Compilation Zine on Unknown New York is an idea that's been floating in my brain for a while now. The post-industrial wasteland of the city has always been a romantic notion of home to me, but I wouldn't consider this zine city-centric by any means. I'm also interested in the stories beyond the tri-state area, the places you sought soundless refuge or idiosyncratic secrecy, that make up what you call home.
undertherosezine@gmail.com
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
TWO FOR TUESDAY
My post about Alison Piepmeier's book Girl Zines on the For The Birds blog was linked from NYU Press's blog From The Square. You can check it out here!
In the blue-black shadow of the backyard, a piece of gutter hung from the house like a hang nail. It bounced playfully in the wind at the top of the backdoor. Next to it leaned a ladder. The gutter shared custody of the ladder with the unlit Christmas lights that limply hung over the front of the house. He looked up at the house from where he had collapsed in the cool spring grass after trying to sucker punch his son.
“You’re killing her, Dad,” his son had said before the blow. “Did you see her on that goddamn ladder? You’re working her into the grave while you just hide in your office.”
His wife had little to say except to shake her curls at the ladder. His daughter ripped handfuls of grass from the ground as she sobbed. The gutter wailed as it was pushed away from the house by the door being opened and he walked underneath his inadequacies.
He dragged his suitcase, filled with clothes still on the hangers, into his office and slammed the door. He stared at the doorknob and cursed its absence of a lock. He thought of his daughter, constantly employing the lock on her bedroom door every time she walked through it. That sound of metal twisting on metal broke his heart daily. He opened his office door, but only a crack.
The clock read 2:29 AM when he heard moaning in the backyard. He got up from the computer and parted the blinds with one finger. The palpable shadow of his daughter was stretched across the yard in the wake of the motion censored light. She lay face down in the black grass, and as he looked at her the window pane seemed to be streaked with rain, but it wasn’t raining. He picked up a screwdriver from his desk and began removing the door to his office one hinge at a time, the sound of metal on metal like a sonnet.
* * *
The Dance
(an excerpt from a much longer piece I've been working on)
(an excerpt from a much longer piece I've been working on)
In the blue-black shadow of the backyard, a piece of gutter hung from the house like a hang nail. It bounced playfully in the wind at the top of the backdoor. Next to it leaned a ladder. The gutter shared custody of the ladder with the unlit Christmas lights that limply hung over the front of the house. He looked up at the house from where he had collapsed in the cool spring grass after trying to sucker punch his son.
“You’re killing her, Dad,” his son had said before the blow. “Did you see her on that goddamn ladder? You’re working her into the grave while you just hide in your office.”
His wife had little to say except to shake her curls at the ladder. His daughter ripped handfuls of grass from the ground as she sobbed. The gutter wailed as it was pushed away from the house by the door being opened and he walked underneath his inadequacies.
He dragged his suitcase, filled with clothes still on the hangers, into his office and slammed the door. He stared at the doorknob and cursed its absence of a lock. He thought of his daughter, constantly employing the lock on her bedroom door every time she walked through it. That sound of metal twisting on metal broke his heart daily. He opened his office door, but only a crack.
The clock read 2:29 AM when he heard moaning in the backyard. He got up from the computer and parted the blinds with one finger. The palpable shadow of his daughter was stretched across the yard in the wake of the motion censored light. She lay face down in the black grass, and as he looked at her the window pane seemed to be streaked with rain, but it wasn’t raining. He picked up a screwdriver from his desk and began removing the door to his office one hinge at a time, the sound of metal on metal like a sonnet.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
FOR THE BLOGS
The NYC feminist collective and distro I am apart of, FOR THE BIRDS, has recently started to up our blog game in a serious way. As most of us are in graduate school or touring the country, we can't commit to as many events as we once could. We'll still be out there, distroing zines and music, but we are also trying to maintain active conversation and visibility on the internet.
Today I updated the site with my first blog post, in which the author of the book I discuss totally commented! The internet is literally a tangled web, and a small one at that.
You can follow the blog posts I author here !
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