The Feeler: Matt Mullican’s “That Person and That World” at The Kitchen

Prose

Matt Mullican’s two-part performance at The Kitchen this past Friday and Saturday, “That Person and That World,” was a powerhouse production in two major respects: its presentation of an alternate consciousness, i.e., the “he” who inhabits Mullican after hypnosis; and Mullican’s post-performance acknowledgment of how little this alternate consciousness is welcomed in the art (let alone “real”) world.

A Playworker’s Journal by Morgan Leichter-Saxby

Prose

Fantasy. Dressing up. Toys. Sometimes, talking about play can sound a lot like talking about sex. Or rather, our adult vocabulary for sex is suffused by the language of childhood pleasures. People who have a lot of sex might be called players, while those who want more sex read "The Game."

An Interview with Maria Alvarez of Jigsaw Youth, An All-Girl Feminist Punk/Grunge Band from NYC

Prose

I believe in unity; racism, sexism, religious differences, etc etc, those are all things used to divide us but if you take a step back and see that none of it is real, we're all just humans trying to survive, you'll start to feel this unity... I want people to know that we'll always be here for them, fighting for them and loving them and writing songs that they can scream with their friends to and if you ever come to our shows, we are your friends and so is that random person next to you. 

11 Pulitzer Prize Winning Poets Walk Into An Auditorium by Josh Lefkowitz

Poetry, Prose

But back to the mother’s astute observation: somewhere along the way we seem to have decided that to be a poet is to be a Poet, as in some sort of seer or like a wise prophet, someone who lives among us but is able to Feel Bigger or Live Better, and so I suppose in this case, at The Pulitzer Centennial Poetry Celebration, held on Thursday, October 27th, 2016, at Cooper Union in downtown Manhattan, a parade of eleven of the finest and best Livers and Feelers, if you believe all that, were being presented on a public stage before an audience, to be lauded and adored.

Get the Look: Damsel in Distress by Hobo Scumbag

Get the Look by Hobo Scumbag, Prose

The truth is that I didn’t know what a damsel in distress looked like. I had to go out and find one. This is how committed I am to my fashion blog fans. I went to the park. I went to the grocery store. When two cars crashed at the intersection, I hurried over. But it was only a fender bender, and the women shook hands in the insurance exchange.

Trafika Europe Corner by Andrew Singer featuring Michael M. Naydan

Prose, Trafika Europe Corner

Even after his visit to Ivan the Ghostseer, Nicholas had more skepticism than any real belief in the legends and myths that so many shared with him (from scientists and scholars to street cleaners and check-out girls), though it was all in fun. There was a consistency in what they said with small variations, a kind of collective mass awareness of the subject. One incident shifted him a little closer toward belief – a visit to the Castle at Pidhirtsi with his friend Vira, his actress friend from the Zankovetsky Theater.

An Interview with Author Jack C. Buck and an Excerpt from His Forthcoming Book, “Deer Michigan”

Prose

There’s a great flood happening so the prostitutes and drug dealers have come to seek shelter in the bookstore. Meanwhile as this is all going down it’s the last Tuesday night of the month, so we are reading. You can see all the employees running throughout strategically placing buckets on the carpet floor to catch the rain that’s coming in through the roof. They respect our time, our sharing. This is a safe place.

The Celebrated Clogs from Calabasas County by Hobo Scumbag

Prose

...in which Kendall had demanded that Man Repeller help her design the most perfect set of high heel clogs, a pair of shoes with wooden platform scaffolding designed to alleviate the discomfort of an elevated ankle, and make proper aesthetic use of faux wool and suede, but which was altogether offensive for Man Repeller’s brain to even think about, more offensive than having to leave New York to work from the Kardashian home in Calabasas, and which inspired Man Repeller to pissily challenge Kendall that if she could show her a clog, any clog in the entire motherfucking universe, that didn’t make everyone want to vomit, then she would give in and design this pair of clogs that Kendall wanted so much...

Times Square, Then and Now

Multimedia, Prose

A comparison of Jan Staller's portraits from Times Square in the 1980s, as recently highlighted by "The New York Times," with current shots of Times Square mascots by OE's Donnie Boman.

How To Climb Out Of The Bad Hole by Frances Waite

Prose, The Process Column

If you do it right and you do it long enough, eventually something tiny and great lands in one of your shitty, embarrassing drawings. It winks at you and says hey, remember me? And then you want to cry because you finally got your pieces back, but you don’t cry because now you can draw about it instead.

An Interview with Walter Robinson in Advance of his Retrospective at Deitch

Amy's Journal by Amy Fusselman, Ohio Interviews, Prose

I can tell you that loafing in my studio is lots more fun than clocking into an office every day. Amy, you want a serious answer? It is interesting. Critics are the only honest people left in the art world, yet they're immersed in ontological doubt -- as my kid once said to me, "you get paid for looking at art?!" Artists labor under their own kind of contradiction, in that they embody creative freedom yet are all but required to produce the same kind of thing over and over.

On Writing and Criticism: An Interview with Jerry Saltz

Multimedia, Poetry, Prose

For me all art is contemporary art. From Cave Painting to now; it's all in play everywhere at the same time. I think that our current teleological system of art history based on progress and art is mainly measured by formal moves "forward" via techniques, tools, etc. This system is already dead; it just doesn't know it.

On Marie Kondo and Children and Play by Amy Fusselman

Amy's Journal by Amy Fusselman, Prose

The core of her book is less about tidying, in my view, than the power of imaginary play: to take an object, feel it, and then decide its fate, is to become the all-powerful parent who can disregard, or even “discard" a child—(for a newer model, perhaps)—or not. Kondo's brilliance is in creating a ritual in which the “parent” who has this terrible power—and mind you, this is every parent—is imbued, via her script, with only a loving consciousness.

The End of Carolyn’s Corporate Career by Jim Meirose

Prose

Then Carolyn—Carolyn walked somehow she didn’t know how her head was still bursting and the lights above were going by overhead like white lines on a highway hung facing down above; my God the building is all upside down.

Trafika Europe Corner by Andrew Singer featuring Bogdan Suceavă

Prose, Trafika Europe Corner

For a long time, people believed that the mysterious apparition may have been an escaped circus or zoo animal until, one evening, the blind old wife from the village of Evil Vale shared with the others what only she could see clearly: “It’s not about only one bear, there’s a lot of them. They haven’t accidentally drifted here, they are meant to bring life back to these mountains."

Buttoned/Unbuttoned by Lila Allen

Multimedia, Prose

I think about my own modern dressing, about the overalls my mother gave me when I was the same age as the boy in the painting. The metal hook-and-closures were easy, accessible to my tiny hands and their limited fine motor skills. I handed them down to my brother, who is three years my junior. Much of what we wore couldn’t be categorized by gender. They were garments intended for transfer.

An Interview with Alabaster Pizzo, Cartoonist

Multimedia, Ohio Interviews, Prose

Being a woman in any industry is tough, especially one that is typically dominated by men, like comics. Last year the Angloueme Comics Festival in France made a list of 30 "lifetime achievement" cartoonists which didn't include a single woman. On the extreme end you have to worry if the male strangers who are super-involved in your social media are stalking you, on the low end you have to hear your work compared to that show "Girls."

MDwM #30 by Gilmore Tamny

My Days with Millicent by Gilmore Tamny, Prose

Stuffed birds, small cat; Ramona waits for news of Millicent’s looming trial, Lucy (Helvstead housekeeper) comes to London, and the mystery of the body in the cellar and ignominious truth of the story behind it are revealed; illegal production of cheese; the mystery of the postcard writer is discussed and remain tantalizingly insoluble; Millicent and Ramona meet.

Two Poems by Marcus Slease

Poetry, Prose

Did you play the one armed bandits I ask. I played many one armed bandits he says. They give you free cocktails when you play the one armed bandits he says. Before you know it your eyes are cherries, lemons and sevens he says.

Variations on Panini Shop, fiction by David Moscovich

Prose

The furry trout is the scapegoat, the victim, the source of all mysterious disappearances in Panini Shop. If a six-months aged Manchego goes missing, if a prosciutto is misplaced, if a bottle of organic cold-pressed extra-virgin olive oil discomfits, Julio tells Shanice it must have been the furry trout. It has magical powers, Shanice. Its fur can hypnotize you, Shanice. Stay away from the furry trout—cuidado señorita, el furry trout viene para comer te. And why do you think a girl wants to hear about a hairy fish? Lovely Shanice.

What Happened to Humboldt and Marty Upon Arriving in New York City by Scott Navicky

Prose

Humboldt was in awe of the city’s BIGness. No, its vastness. No, its peopleness. The city was a big, vast peoplefarm. Nooo, its pigeonness! The city was a big, vast pigeonfarm! New York City: the peoplepigeoncity. As Humboldt watched, the city transformed itself into a gigantic, concrete birdcage full of peoplepigeons. These strange creatures spent their days foraging for food and desirable reproductive qualities, while continually defecating on each other.

French Vanilla, fiction by Donnie Boman

Prose

I'd known one other house that smelled like French vanilla coffee creamer. But this is the one that troubles me. Every house has a smell. But you can't smell your own house. You smell it, but it doesn't register. Garbage and roses and spoiled milk and curry and dirty diapers and bleach are smells in your house, but they aren't the house smell, which you don't know. If you think you know your house scent, you are mistaken.

The Woman Road, nonfiction by Anne Foster

Prose

It wasn't until the third of fourth day that I started to notice the change. No one told me that I was brave anymore. No one said I was bold. No one called me a whore, either, which was nice. In fact, no one really talked to me at all. People talked to Sam. They asked Sam where he was from and where he was going and then they smiled at me and made on their way. Now that I was traveling with a man everyone stopped making a fuss about me. It proved what I was only just beginning to grasp from my time on the road alone—a claimed woman was a safe woman.

G is for Grief by Andrew Bomback

Let Me Tell You What Your Book Is About by Andrew Bomback, Prose

Helen Macdonald mentions D.W. Winnicott in H is for Hawk, but she does not relay the pediatrician’s famous line, “It is a joy to be hidden but a disaster not to be found.” Training the goshawk is a way for her to go into isolation after her father’s death. Lisicky pores through his friend’s old emails. Alexander lies in bed, after her sons have left for school, and dreams of her husband. Eventually, they all want to be found, which is why they’ve written these books. Likewise, I suspect my patients feel the relief of being found when they unburden themselves to me in the safety of my consultation room.

Fall by Zoë Ruiz, with a photo by Alexander Gilbert

From Her Notebooks by Zoë Ruiz, Prose

In the backyard, the tree is bare and my father is still alive. The man is skeletal. His translucent skin hangs loose from his thin bones. Each of his ten fingers are crooked and bent, and he holds them in the air, above his sunken chest. He has little lung capacity left. He opens his mouth, his teeth are rotten, and he says, Help me. His voice is a whisper, and repeatedly, like a prayer, my father says, Help me.