CARVED VOICES 4 Challenging Sensibilities: Poetry 8 Artwork: Crying Stone by Debashis Saha 12 Minimalist: Doodles in Black
22 Surrealism in Modern Art 31 Distopic Neorealism: Short Story 43 Carved Letters: Letters to Great Artists
道Дༀ
• T H E M E •
Challenging Sensibilities and
CARVED VOICES Vol. 1 Issue 1 May 2016 Founder Sonali Mohapatra about.me/shineshons Co-Founders: Shantashree Mohanty about.me/shantashreemohanty Purujeet Parida about.me/Purujeet Chief Issue Designer: Sonali Mohapatra Editorials: Shantashree Mohanty (Chief Editor Issue 1) Sonali Mohapatra (Editor) Purujeet Parida (Editor) Chief Web Designer: Purujeet Parida Featured Cover Art Title: $Tr_{H_\pi}(A^3|\Psi><\Psi|)$, 2015 A part of “Spiritual Transformations” series by RPK(道Дༀ) (Find more of his work and the accompanying text in page 22. Featured Cover Art By: Ryszard Paweł Kostecki (道Дༀ) Check out his website : http://www.fuw.edu.pl/~kostecki/spiritual_transformations/ © Copyright 2015 under CC BY-NC-ND license facebook: https://www.facebook.com/carvedvoices/ twitter: @CarvedV instagram: https://www.instagram.com/carvedvoices/ Subscriptions Visit: carvedvoices.wordpress.com/2016/05/04/Subscribe/
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CARVED VOICES
1. Notes from the Editors
9. POETRY: Just a little taboo by Sonali Mohapatra
4. POETRY: Nothing here to see by Purujeet Parida 6. POETRY: ALIVE by Madhura Duttagupta 8. ART WORK: Crying Stone by Debashis Saha 11. POETRY: Dubious Coherence by Saswat Samantaray 12. ART WORK: City of Joy by Arunava Ghosh 14. POETRY: Barbie's Hymen by Shantashree Mohanty 16. POETRY: The State of NHS by Vicky Grantham
by Saurav Dutta
31. SHORT STORY: Mathew Miller by Shantashree Mohanty
44. CARVED LETTERS: A Letter to David Bowie by Andrew McPherson
20. ART WORK: The Poppies of Sylvia Plath by Dipanjana Dalui 22. ART WORKS: 'Nafiz' & 'Deep Dive' by Ryszard PaweĹ&#x201A; Kostecki 25. POETRY: A Closet Slut by Sonali Mohapatra 28. POETRY: Modern Martyr by K. Towne Jr. 30. POETRY: Blue Elixir: Intoxicated! by Archismita Misra 42. A Letter to PRINCE by Karen Withecomb
Photography: Where innocence lives by Pritish Nayak
EDITOR'S NOTE: Art is perhaps the most subtle way of persuasion and the most abrasive one too. Art is about giving words to what lies behind or giving music to what lies beyond or giving colors and shapes to what we can only hope to visualize. It is a subtle play on the human psych and a cry out from the depths of the masses to take a closer look at the human condition. "Carved Voices" began as an effort to make poetry and art mainstream.The myth of the ‘struggling artist’ has perpetuated into reality through romanticism and deprecation while we struggle to put the myth where it belongs. Art is found in the most mundane of things and beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Why does that stone garden look so beautiful and why do the trees look like they are dancing? What is the purpose of our existence? Art makes the quest for answers to these fundamental questions, lucid and bearable. And then there is Poetry. The most beautiful form of expression. In the words of Adonis, “Making poetry is like making air, like making perfume, like breathing.” With a form that is fluid, abstract and malleable, it is perhaps not strange that poetry becomes something personal for every individual reader drawing on their thoughts, memories and emotions. Poetry and Art pollinate ideas and permeate truth. It is amazing to see how something as abstract as a singular thought, could bring about the biggest of revolutions and the most tangible of results. As I see it, "Why do we need to tie ourselves to the tangible when we can have all the infinite abstract to ourselves?" We at “Carved Voices” strive to make the world a better place where art floats freely from people to people, from mind to mind and is found at all the most mundane of places we could imagine. Yours in Imagination, Sonali Founder and Editor, Chief Issue Designer, Carved Voices
EDITOR'S NOTE These are strange times. Going out, trying to engage in a dyadic conversation is too much to ask of people. The shared cosmos has long been replaced by a shared web of anonymity. With all of us wanting to matter with varying degrees of restlessness, we need art and literature more than ever. After all, they are the greatest mediums in the earnest search for inner truth.
The essence of human interaction, must always be observed, documented and disseminated in order to preserve and nurture our civilisation. The uncountable facets of the human spirit and emotions must be relentlessly explored and perceived. Life is, in and of itself, incredibly beautiful and sad at the same time. I believe, it’s important that we talk about it to each other, in order to appreciate what we already have and accept the inevitable with utmost dignity. It is a social responsibility to channel genuine voices and bring them to light. To give a platform to people who have something relevant to say. Our magazine ‘CARVED VOICES’, is a humble manifestation of our desire to share this responsibility. Shantashree Cofounder, Chief Issue Editor, Carved Voices
EDITOR'S NOTE It is incredible to see the World around us survive on the flimsy subtleties of imagined power waxing eloquent from masses of pulpworthy, paperwasting media thrown at our faces. A healthy disdain for things seemingly unimportant is important in freeing up valuable mental real estate to devote to actual subtleties of our World.
I was recently having a discussion about the transience of the “Why question” with a friend. While trying to answer that question in its myriad forms may seem to be the goal of life itself at times, I believe that in the end, the nature of the “Why questions” put an unwarranted strain on our mental faculties when they could be more productively engaged in figuring out the “How questions.” For example Why am I here? Why is there so much poverty and pain in the world? Why must the girl wait for her turn? In trying to answer these questions, venturing into the seductive world of philosophy is almost unavoidable. Moreover, there is a certain undeniable solitude in the inwardlooking pursuit of these questions. According to me, We would be better served in trying to answer the “How’s”. How is poverty such an ingrained truth in society today? How is a girl made to aspire to seemingly “good” attributes, conveniently created by a grossly patriarchal society? How is regular monstrosity of hypocrisy, politics and business managing to stay frustratingly benign in the eyes of the seemingly fastawakening society? How am I staying ahead of the curve and contributing to change? Purujeet. Cofounder and Editor, Chief Web Designer, Carved Voices
Nothing here to see. By Purujeet Parida The festivities, parades and functions I knew as a growing child in my small town, oblivious to diwali pollution and holey pandal scams, smiling away from dawn to dusk, running about, giggling and cackling, with neighbourhood kids, Adoring, teasing, screaming and sometimes, crying, Those are the days I remember guiltily, Every time I miss crackers and fireworks, made by children working in hellholes, rangolis made from toxic colours, devi puja in the colony, a marriage in the community.
.
Newspapers, tugging at my conscience silently, with stories of unabashed leaders and shameful comments, Reports of poisoned low caste wells, occasional honour killing, victory ads of elected criminals, unheard angst of arrested students, extremist oneupmanship in politics, make me squirm. Nobody to help me understand, vying for attention, all, Baying for each other's' blood, all, choosing sides before knowing, all Or is it? Perhaps, could it be?, Shouldn't it be? that benefit of the doubt is deserved and things aren't as desolate as they seem to me?
No one man, or woman, the messiah of the commons, here. I miss the simpler days, when ignorance was bliss, Or perhaps... I was younger and naivety brought confidence in all the latent shit the system peddles us, all the misinformation, manipulation and bigotry besides. So I light one lamp for Diwali and feel guilty for it. while the cream wilfully default and go abroad for it. So I stay at home when blackfaced goons strut about streets on Holi, looking for female targets, and feel guilty. While the police comes by later, shooing everybody "Go on. Move Along. There's nothing here to see."
Still from the movie The Sweet Hereafter (1997) by Atom Egoyan
ALIVE
By Madhura Duttagupta ‘Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.’* Except, I did. Because robbing a child of its innocence is akin to smothering; Not that I knew it then, But it defined me, the dying. I made a choice and stifled my own voice. Learnt to bottle up my feelings and shove them into a closet Unwilling to emote, I lied to all who mattered From puny lies like, “Yes, mom I had my meals,” To the colossal, “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine.” Little did I anticipate the domino effect! Years later, it has now snowballed into a vicious cycle: Escapism, hand in hand with joyous reverie.
‘Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters’* Except, they did. Because abandonment is as bad as dying; not knowing why, is even worse. Not that I knew it then, It too defined me, their dying. On a childish whim and without much reason, I waited patiently for many, many seasons. Learnt to win laurels, meanwhile, and let them define my worth. Wish, dream, and above all, hope were important words for me, Until the bubble burst and I added another to my vocabulary: ‘Futile.’ Scared of building new bridges, I chose to become a loner. Standing alone, on an island at sea, I watched them all. People. Smiling, waving, enjoying. Happy people. I’m tired now. Tired of lying, tired of waiting, tired of running, but mostly tired of dying. Now is the time to live those umpteen dreams that have enticed me for ages. I refuse to give up. As the sun rises, flooding me in sanguine hues, I plunge headlong into the open sea. Life awaits, on the other side. But will I make it against the tide? *This particular line is taken from another poem of the same name, by Edna St. Vincent Millay. This poem is a product of the desire to refute the said line.
Crying Stone (Graphite on A3 paper)
By Debashis Saha
Just a little Taboo By Sonali Mohapatra I always wear my watch with the dial on the lower side of my hand It started with being a good girl which my relatives taught me to be. Once i wore jeans to my school and my teacher called me aside and told me not to wear inappropriate slutty clothes to school I was 10 and i was wearing a jeans and a loose tshirt it was green in color I remember I remember the humiliation after which i created a huge hue and cry to buy salwar suits. I was 11 and was going to judo class there was no other girl who used to come on puja days i stood out uncomfortable in the male banter and the slangs, and then this guys ten years older than me, hit on me and sat on the same swing i was sitting and tried to put me on his lap i stopped going to martial arts to protect myself But the fees had been paid so unknown to me, my mom went to learn in my place my friends mocked me about it in school and because i did not know, I was left confused.
I was 6, i was playing in my garden my neighbour came over and sat me on his knee he started talking to me about stuff and started caressing me, I felt uncomfortable, all the more when his hands entered my pants, I stood up with a jerk but could not say anything because i had been taught not to be rude. I was 8, we played with my neighbors kids sometimes, we went into their house they had this uncle he pretended to rape everyone making everyone go into fits of laughter he took me into a room, and started to take off his pants, i screamed and banged on the door and he let me out. I was 4, my relative was visiting, he took me into a room, brought out his thing and asked me to rub powder over it, i felt uncomfortable, but i did it anyway, cz he was an adult and adults always knew best!
I was 19, 20, 21, 22, 23 i travelled to places far and wide studied in a different State averted my eyes when random men on the street licked their lips and made lecherous faces, when someone on a bicycle, grabbed my boobs while walking on my campus, when i sat with my hands folded over my breasts in trains and autos with my elbows out while men on both sides of me tried to touch my junk in pretense of needing to stretch their arms I was told to sit in the back of the auto (and get groped) cz the driver was uncomfortable sitting near a girl. We made a ruckus, we made a hue and cry, to try to get us proper buses and lights on the road, so that we might not have to get groped at night, we heard our profs saying that our complaints were false, how can so many girls get molested all at once??
We changed hostels, our fridge was taken away and the TV room in the girls dorms was locked and only opened for men, So, we asked why? and were told boys will be boys. they need the TV much more than you guys! We never knew when appliances became gender biased! I am 24 and I am sitting on a bus, an auto, a train and an airplane, trying to take as less space as possible because the uncle right next to me needs his seat as well as mine to spread his legs wide I try very hard to understand why he does not move away even after I asked, why? why does he need to touch my legs in the very corner of my seat when he has so much space and then I come to a hesitant answer.. maybe, otherwise, he will hurt his penis!
Dubious Coherence By Saswat Samantaray A fusion of things, you, Stark, dark; colored slackishly, Continuity is associated with that thing you have on, your skin, I thought Prada was the way around it; Gone down then risen above, that sinusoidal outline, Boundaries are now metaphors, LIES actually; It’s a sin to make them true, It’s not a singular liability too, Rather a symbiosis between two.. ME & YOU…
City of Joy By Arunava Ghosh
Barbie's Hymen Barbie is a funny girl. Jokes around all day, spilling new theories that she overhears at watercoolers, about how her hymen was discovered.
By Shantashree Mohanty
Barbie’s hymen Wasn’t discovered! It was distorted and construed for fetish and validation of lost souls on the brink of madness.
Barbie’s hymen can be claimed by the State, and put into an evidence box should the need arise, to investigate Perjury. Because any moment now, Barbie is presumed to lie through her teeth with a straight face to get back at society. Barbie’s hymen is as broken as her heart If not less But it’s also tough. It can stretch and expand to swallow all the insecurities in the world But it will not swallow her pride.
Barbie’s hymen is the precursor Of a syndrome. A syndrome that measures Selfworth with bloodied sheets, Honour with compliance And leaves a trail of ugly cutmarks On a million trembling thighs, On a million trembling dreams. Last summer Barbie read Camus. Now she and her hymen, Rebel Against the absurd.
The State of the NHS* By Vicky Grantham Like a puppet on a string. Repeating the motions while I sing. The temple crumbles down, When each string cut, falls to the ground. The sum of my parts, is coming up uneven. I am to blame for being a heathen. Pain the size of a golf ball in each of my thighs. You can’t see the torture behind my eyes. Stress they tell me is totally incurable; The NHS’s attitude is completely deplorable. I discover you are what you eat; This condition hasn’t got me beat. Consume peace, love and truth; Don’t blame the mistakes of my youth. I’ve had enough of this clinical ride; Doctors and nurses are never on my side.
A few years and many strands later, The unfortunate reality is that now I’m a hater. It bears no difference what the ailment, in the broken system we suffer from curtailment. Doctors’ advice is always the same, with the slight suggestion I am to blame. “If you lost a bit of weight your pain would lessen”; And so concludes their helpful session. As a puppet I’m cracked and broken, But, I’m not going to rest until I’ve been heard and spoken.
*National Health Service, the publicly funded healthcare system of the United Kingdom.
PENDULUM By Saurav Dutta Suspended by arms of gossamer, the endless chasm looks so blissful. Azure sky darkens to fade the memories, My vision looks at nothing. The pendulum is swinging. The carabiner firm and strong. Free as it flits for freedom. Leaving the carrion to scavenge itself. Thirsty vultures flying. The pendulum is swinging.
Serene hymn of the wind, Fragrance so alluring and strong. Dirge anneals the animus. White bird understands its meaning, The pendulum is swinging. Take me to the heights. I want to fly to meet the horizon. My heart cries. Let me embrace thee. My desire is to be free.
" The Poppies of Sylvia Plath" By Dipanjana
NAFIZ (2015) By Ryszard Paweł Kostecki
Deep Dive (2015) By Ryszard Paweł Kostecki [ These are part of the “Spiritual Transformations” series by RPK(道Дༀ). See accompanying text on the next page ]
“Spiritual Transformations” series by RPK(道Дༀ) "The key is the frequency I'm working at. Lower the frequency to bring out a longer wave of consciousness. A magical falling in love with life, combined with mindfulness a sortof mythologisation of hereandnow, focused on opening, not closing, of all the senses. Dynamic changes embraced with loving affirmation. Mindfulness instead of mindlessness. A marvel in every detail, because of perception beyond patterns. Fears do not exist, as they are a trembling of a fiction of a personality built on habits and appearances. That which exists abundantly in the field of view is slow. Even chaos is infinitely slow. The belief that one can be late for anything is an illusion. One is always just in time for the foremost feast. It is right here. A characteristic, warm and outward and at the same time enfolding care, tenderness, delicacy. A softness of movement, a step beyond the nonsense of division into the active and the passive. A dance that is a sensitive contemplation and a creative affirmation. They do not preclude appropriate actions, filtering out noise and cracks; but actions that are loving rejections not reactions. Remaining in reaction is a trait of a superficial personality, this armor of distrustful disbelief in the possibility of synchronization in slow being. Outside the window, where the trees and sun illuminate the lawn in their shadowplay, a Canadian duck is strolling; a small rabbit is hopping in the bushes, other ducks are flying over the lake; one can hear their cries, and tweets and trills of small birds in the tree branches. Ever slower, ever more beautiful, ever more towards oneself in the foundation."
I am a slut who goes around the world trying to prove that she is not. When I am at home, I wear a vest but when I open my room to someone’s knock I waste 5 minutes looking for a sweater that covers me up and a minute looking in the mirror to see that the fact that I am not wearing a bra, does not show.
A CLOSET SLUT By Sonali Mohapatra
I am a slut in comfortable nightclothes all day long the gap between my breasts showing and my navel exposed and I cannot sleep unless I am wearing a sleeveless top which is a little too thin and a short shorts, which gives me enough air and keeps me not too hot But as soon as I wake up, I pull on a pair of slacks and a long sleeved top Put on my bra before I go use the communal spaces for people might stare if my youknowwhats show! And when I am getting ready for work or to go out somewhere, I make sure my necklines not too low and my skirt won’t fly in the wind
my top is not translucent my shorts are not too short, my top is not too thin my earrings are not slutty my eyeliner does not scream prostitute and my lipstick does not shout “red light district”. My boots or heels must not look sexy enough to warrant a rape and my purse must not be too glittery. I also think about how my shrieks must not be too girly, my smile not too suggestive my laughter not too masculine and my walk not too feminine Everything I say should start with, “I have a boyfriend” not to draw you in, If my legs are showing they must not be Oh so leggyly long! which could go round your chest. So I wonder, what am I? A closet slut? A female in denial? A cacophony of wrongness?
Modern Martyr By: K. Towne Jr. They found a way to sell coke to kids man, they made it orange and sell it for a double tap on Instagram. It's a generational addiction, a widespread affliction, and kids need a few hundred lines before they even get high anymore man. The real prisoners aren't behind bars they're trapped behind screens and no matter how hard you hit that like button you won’t drown out the screams, of the tragic truth that we have a failing youth, and we've yet to appreciate what that means. When getting 500 likes on a selfie is a child's life goal, how can we expect that not to take a psychological toll? So yeah girl that selfie looks candid as fuck on the 22nd try, and yeah bro spending three weeks salary on a pair of shoes makes you look so damn fly.
We need to change now, because we are running out of time, because I feel like this is the end of the world and if you don't believe me, FINE, I just don't know what else you would say about a generation of kids who only do it for the vine. Back in my day when the street light came on you had to be home, but how do you explain that to a generation of kids with a flashlight app on their phone? So I sit and I write and I try to make intelligence cool again but all the authority figures are telling us to stop acting like hooligans when all I'm trying to do is make these kids believe in school again! I'm sure people will be like ask me where I get the right to preach when I'm guilty of so many of these things but I'll answer “Of course, that's why I write, is it not the caged bird that sings?” So while on the 5th of November everyone was in streets screaming "Remember! Remember!" know that I don’t need to hide behind a mask to stand before you today, I'm not afraid of the truth, I believe in what I say. So excuse me officer I'm not burning down the city in an anonymous mask, I'm just trying to get middle school kids to enjoy going to class and I'll slow this last part down because I fear I might be going just a bit too fast. There comes a time and a day, when the people that care need to stand up and say that is up to us to teach these kids how to act, and that we need to give the youth their innocence back, and until the day we all realize that fact, we will be forever destined to take 2 steps forward, and three steps, back.
Blue Elixir: Intoxicated! By Archismita Misra Shamelessly drunk, I was found waiting at your doorstep, Fighting the ethereal demons. Through the lilac screens of silence, I knew you could feel the longlost me. Hallucinating! Debating! Whether I should knock or pray for your luminous self. To nominate my resurrection!
Distopic Neo
MATHEW MILLER In Boise, Idaho Mathew Miller had been living alone for over two years. His studioapartment overlooked the beautiful Julia Davis Park. He worked a few miles away at an independent bookstore, called ‘Tombe de Balzac’. It was convenient really, because books had always sheltered him from the omnipresence of absurdity. In his formative years, his mother had bent him into the habituation of their companionship, in isolation or otherwise. Matt, as his mother called him, was not someone you could pigeonhole into a personality type, no matter how hard you tried. He was neither a sage nor a savage. He put his head down, went to work, paid his bills, was cordial with neighbours, helped people out, never broke a queue, never picked a fight and never indulged in anything but his riveting silence. He spoke occasionally. Mostly when necessary. Rare shades of blue ran deep in his eyes like tinsel and twine, carefully weaving themselves into a fine pattern of impenetrable stillness. He didn’t talk of home much. So no one asked. He ran through people like nonretentive clear water. Almost like a ghost, with little proclivity for the American Chimera. Neighbours thought it best to leave him be. About a year ago, his mother Janet and sister Christie had come over to pay him a visit. During their short stay, Matt had shown them around, taken evening walks in the park, eaten brunch in the nearby diner and talked about silly old Dickens. The reunion, when it came to an end, had perhaps capsized his sense of normalcy. For days after they left, Matt had stayed in. He would put on piano pieces and lie on the armchair by the window, defenestrating paper planes. The autumn breeze would
dutifully blow away the summer tempest rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t have any friends until one day Emma came along. Dr. Emma Dunaway was a psychologist. She had moved into the house across the bookstore almost a year after Matt came to town. Gorgeous Emma, smart, sensible and mystical, had somehow disobligated herself from normative perceptions, a conviction which she wore proudly on her sleeves. She conducted her clinic on the ground floor and lived upstairs with her two little girls Lena, who was 10 and Willa, who was 6. Emma was originally from Los Angeles and had come to far off Idaho after the sudden demise of her husband Jeffrey. Lena was in fact her step daughter from Jeffrey’s previous marriage. She hadn’t borne Lena in her womb, but she meant the world to her. Lena was her rock, her refuge, her baby. Emma and Matt had met each other in the first week of her coming when she had walked into the store searching for an appropriate summer read for Lena. ‘Excuse me, could someone help me pick a book for my daughter?’ she had asked aloud in general. Matt had walked up to her to offer his assistance. And the brief conversation had ensued as follows: 'Ma’am, how old is your daughter?’ ‘She’s 10.’ ‘Wonderful age for children.’ ‘Yes, a whole new world coming.’
‘I suppose so. May I recommend A Wrinkle in Time?’ ‘Isn’t that too full of Jesus?’ ‘Ma’am sometimes expression needs to adhere to certain confines of the collective consciousness.’ ‘I like art that transcends confinements.’ ‘Transcendence emanates from within. Doesn’t it? The book surely explores spiritual dynamics but it talks about real important things to young people. Real important. Despite being a fantasy, it talks about catharsis and resilience. About the vital concepts of love, loss, time, struggle and acceptance’ ‘You’ve got your way around words, haven’t you? Mathew is it?’ ‘Yes Ma’am.’ ‘Pack it up. I’ve a feeling she’ll like it. She’s already obsessed with that wizard boy.’ There were a lot of abrupt smiles. Some eye contact. Then on, the duo had developed a sort of rapport that could be deemed most akin to friendship. Unlike most people, he didn’t hustle her up with loud deliberations and in turn, she understood the rhythm in his silence. Even when his thoughts stewed in his mind much longer than the averagely expected, she was always graciously patient. There wasn’t a tint of codependency of any sort. But there was a lot of understanding. The first time Emma visited Matt’s place, she wasn’t surprised to see huge stacks of old records assembled behind the sofa. A wooden rack packed with books stood tall, pressed against the pale wall across the
room, even more predictably. Lying on his needlefelt rug all afternoon, they had exhaled concentric rings to the tune of Mr Tambourine Man playing over and over again. Matt had only ever seen Emma’s patients leaving her house, never talked to any of them. She never discussed her cases. But they discussed about other things in great detail. They talked and they smoked pot. There was no more to it and no less. On weekends they took the kids out for pizza and such. Friday was movie night. Four of them munched on Lena’s special snackoftheweek and watched a movie that each picked in turns. The kids got used to having Matty in their lives. Willa was easy. Never fussy and always up for some temperate John Denver mildly playing in the store system. Lena was tricky on the other hand. Always quick with pertinent questions about everything. Matt read to the girls after school, whenever Emma had to work. He taught little Willa how to make balloon animals and helped Lena with her homework. It was a strange yet tender arrangement that surprisingly worked. That day Matt was supposed to meet Emma and the kids at the Madonna Fountain at 7 in the evening. They had plans to watch a movie. Lena and Willa had been begging to watch the new Disney movie the entire week and Emma could finally clear off her schedule. Time passed and it was half past seven, yet Emma and the kids didn’t show up. Matt rang her phone several times. She didn’t pick and he got her voice mail each time. Eventually he decided to go to Emma’s house and check up on her and the girls. When he finally reached, he saw Emma sitting still on the front porch, smoking. He went near her and touched her shoulder. ‘So when were you going to tell me?’ she asked without looking up.
‘What’s happened? Where are the kids’ he asked intently. Emma quivered, as she took a deep drag. ‘When were you going to tell me about all of it? ‘About what?’ asked a very puzzled Matt. ‘About who you are.’ She paused and then said, ‘About Prison.’ Matt shuddered. For a few moments he stood still staring at her blankly. Then he spoke. ‘You know who I am. Would it have mattered if I had told you about my past?’ ‘You don’t get it do you?’ she shrugged. ‘You really think it wasn’t necessary on your part to tell me that you spent 12 of your prime years in a state penitentiary, doing time for manslaughter? She started to laugh hysterically. ‘You didn’t think we deserved to know?’ Matt’s eyes suddenly reflected a bottomless void. Slowly he asked, ‘Who told?’ Emma stood up and screamed, ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ ‘Tell me who told you this?’ he asked again ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she kept screaming. ‘Because it’s no one’s goddamn business!’ Matt yelled back. ‘I let my kids around someone who deliberately hid something this significant about themselves. That makes it my goddamn business.’ she cried.
‘Why Em? Have I ever caused you and the girls any trouble?’ he asked agitatedly. ‘Have I ever imposed my existence on you? I’ll be damned if you ever felt as much as a tiny smidgen of malice in me.’ Emma threw the unfinished cigarette on the floor to extinguish it with her wedges. ‘Well, if you must know, my inlaws came over earlier and took the girls with them to LA.’ ‘What? You sent them aay because of me? Ma’am, I swear I’ll leave Idaho right now if that’ll make things better. The girls need to stay with you!’ ‘Don’t be ridiculos. Anyway, the damage has been done. The Newmans had hired a private detective to see how I was raising the kids. After all these years I don’t know what I expected.’ She clamped up all her hair with her wrist band and spoke. ‘That PI somehow found out about you. They came over earlier today to take the kids away and threatened to file a custodycase if I didn’t comply.’ ‘They can’t do that!’ cried Matt ‘On grounds of unstable environment.’ she said. ‘But you didn’t do anything wrong! You should just have told me, I’d have left right that moment’ he said with a sincerity that could shake mountains. ‘They said they’ll convince the court that I was fucking a murderer and the kids were better off with them. I didn’t want my babies to go through all that shit. Besides, you don’t get to tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done. You lied to me!’ ‘I didn’t lie.’ he said.
‘You didn’t say the truth either!’ she said. ‘How could you let them go?’ he asked emphatically. ‘The truth Matt!’ she roared. ‘There is no such thing as the absolute truth Ma’am.’ ‘Well they have decided upon their truth. I want to know yours.’ ‘I’ve taught myself well not to think about it.’ ‘What have we got to lose now? You might as well go into the trouble.’ ‘Ma’am, our reality is a premeditated construct. Whatever consoles our fearaddled minds, dictates our reason and hence our reality.’ ‘Those are just words. Tell me about your reality!’ ‘The world will try to distract you from the existence of evil. But evil exists. In the corners of eyes, in the roll of a tongue, evil quietly watches us from dark alleys, from across the room and the inside of our flesh. Its lecherous gaze feeds on our helplessness and our denial.’ ‘What happened back then Matt?’ asked a terribly perturbed Emma. ‘If you must know, I’ll tell you.' Taking a deep breath he began, 'I grew up in Harlingen, Texas. Hot, humid, insipid refection of a town that wreaked nothingness. My father ran a hardware store downtown to support our family of four. We were tight with each other. Those times were rather pleasantly normal. The family that lived next to us, kept mostly to themselves. Frank Wilson, his wife Ruth and their daughter Mary. They
moved in right around the summer vacation of senior year. Frank owned a garage and stayed out most of the day. Ruth was a sickly woman who had shortly been diagnosed with Parkinsons, so they kept her indoors except for the times when she had to go see her doctor. Mary was a year behind me and 3 years above Chris. She had beautiful eyes and a rare radiant smile that could light up the whole town. Carried a crimson satchel bag to school. She was sincere but didn’t speak much. Chris was very fond of her though; they listened to my old records in our backyard, after school. Sid Barrett was her favourite perhaps. A paper cutout of his face from an old magazine could be seen from her bedroom window. She got fair grades. She was quick to laugh. She was so beautiful. I liked her.’ Gathering himself from a knot tightening in his gut, Matt continued. ‘It appeared that nothing was out of ordinary. Except everything was. It took time for me to notice that something terrible was happening around me. On certain nights I heard strange noises coming from Mary’s room. I was bothered and scared for her. But somehow I could not gather courage to either ask her or tell my parents. Mom dismissed my apprehensions saying I was being silly. I too tried to brush those thoughts aside for a while, until one day I saw something. Mary had come to borrow my copy of ‘Slaughterhouse 5’ for a book report. As she was fetching the book from the shelf, I saw tiny incisions around her navel. I didn’t point them out thinking I’d embarrass her. Riddled with a sense of resolution, I sneaked around back and waited outside her window that night. Matt paused for a while, then went on. 'Nothing seemed abnormal. Mary went about tidying her desk for a while. Unsure of myself, I was almost ready to go back when suddenly someone entered her room and turned off the lights. I could sense some sort of babel from beyond the wall. I gathered courage to look through the window glass. In the faint light coming from the garden, I saw something that scarred me for life.
On the clumsy bed, Mary lied motionless with her face down, as a drunk Mr. Wilson mercilessly raped her from behind. Her arm looked so pale, it could have been the frosted sky. I gasped with horror and in the spur of the moment yelled “Stop!”...There I stood frozen with disgust, while Frank came out through the back door and caught hold of my hair. “You little shit, I’ll kill you!” he kept yelling. Mary came running. She was crying so hard. She kicked and slapped him, screaming at him to let me go. But he kept dragging me through the lawn and hit my head on the porch swing. Mary pounced on him in a desperate attempt to help me. This made the big monster even madder. He turned around and grabbed her neck. He was calling her filthy names. “You lousy slut. You thought you could get rid of me with your shithead lover?” he was barking. He was probably going to choke her to death when I caught hold of a huge rock and ruptured his skull with it. He dropped dead right then in an instant. And that was that. Dad took me to the precinct. I was 18 already so I was tried as an adult. I was sent in for 12 years. Dad suffered a stroke shortly after I was incarcerated. Sometime later, Chris dropped out and moved to Chicago for work. 12 long years of harrowing darkness engulfed my being, just like that. Everything I was going to be, vanished into oblivion. When I got out, I came here. Didn’t want the shadow of my doom to torment my poor mother. To this day, I can’t locate the focal point of my anger. Could I have done things differently? I would never know.’ Emma’s eyes were moist. She walked up to Matt. ‘What happened to Mary?’ she asked in trembling voice. ‘Mary hanged herself in their basement. Her mother lived for several days at a carehome. The image of inexplicable pain in Mary’s eyes that night, is still fresh in my consciousness. The weight of this truth has turned me into broken man put back together into an entity which no longer characteristically resembles anyone or anything.’ Matt sighed. 'You think you could have saved her’ Emma stated.
‘'I don’t know anymore’ he said 'Hey Matt! Look at me.’ she said, taking his face in her hands. ‘That man had to be put away but you don’t have to live with undeserved guilt.’ ‘What are you talking about? Matt broke away. ‘I’ll leave town in the dawn. Everything around me dies. I’ve come too far from right and wrong.’ ‘This isn’t about right or wrong. It’s about how life is. There’s no point in running. No way you’ll forget everything. Not that you want to forget. But you can learn to live despite. We’ll do it together’ she explained. ‘Get back to the girls Em. Let me go.’ Matt pleaded. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ She told him.‘Why?’ he asked in state of great bewilderment. ‘Because I love you’ she said. ‘Because we need you. And because we’re facing the custody battle. Together.’
Where Innocence Lives.. By Pritish Nayak
CARVED LETTERS
A posthumous letter to David Bowie. By Andrew McPherson
May 7/2016
Dear David, To say that your unexpected departure early in January came as a shock is an understatement. I, like so many, checked and verified the reports of your toosoon passing to make sure I'd not misread the news or been pranked by the internet. Sadly, these reports proved to be true and since then, the vacancy in my artistic well that your departure has created has yet to be filled. I suspect it will never be.
In the days and weeks since we lost you, I have found myself scavenging through your albums and reliving fond memories of my early encounters with you. As a young, impressionable musical mind of age 13, I was gifted a copy of Young Americans shortly after its release in 1975, in exchange for some babysitting work. When asked of my parents, what i might enjoy as payment, they responded “Well, he's quite taken with this David Bowie fellow...”, and the rest, as they say, is history. I was transfixed by the smokey allure of the album cover, the seductive shimmer of gold on your bracelet, the almost Lauren Bacall screenidol gaze in your eyes. And the music...ah yes, the music. While 'Fame' and the title track certainly had a visceral impact on my ears, there was something about the romantic heart tug of 'Win' and the, as yet undiscovered, appeal of Philly soul on 'Somebody up there likes me' and 'Right' that really blew my doors off. I wanted in. I promptly went out and bought the ubiquitous Changes One Bowie to see how deep your creative well went and I realized, after digesting all of those musical gems, the well was probably bottomless. How could the same person that penned the white funk classic 'Fame', also write 'Space Oddity', 'Jean Genie' and 'Changes'? But the album credits did not lie. This was to be the beginning of one of my deepest and most abiding relationships with a musical hero and it has not waned to this day. Before stumbling upon your music, I was essentially a music snob without even realizing it. I was raised in a household where J.S. Bach, Mahler, King's College Cambridge Choir and many of the great classicists ruled the stereo, and I had formed the opinion that over reaching pretense and high art were the only musical pathways forward. I was steeped in Anglican Church music traditions which informed my budding listening tastes. But at the same time, I was glued to commercial AM radio, so my palette was forever in a bidding war with my two
opposing musical poles of pop and classical. Young Americans and the rest of your emerging catalogue flew in the face of classical music, yet somehow my subconscious made the connection between the two. I could hear the through line of classical composition in your songs with the use of repeated motifs, sophisticated harmonic movement, inventive use of texture and dynamics, flowing melodies, contrasting use of instruments and on and on. This was my ticket out of the confined world of classical music and it served to enrich my appreciation of my earliest musical teachings not replace them. It was like being a painter who had only used primary colours and then discovers a whole new palette of colour he never knew existed. Kaboom! I was fortunate that my parents were not only fans of classical music but were open to the fresh sounds of the early 70's, so seminal albums by Pink Floyd, Cat Stevens, CSNY, ELP and beyond got a serious listen to in our home. Given my musical pedigree at the time, the inventive studio wizardry and sheer musical chops of groups like ELP, King Crimson, Genesis, Gentle Giant and Pink Floyd became my musical touchstones but 'Young Americans' changed all that. There was something about the directness of your songwriting, the front and center priority of your voice, those soaring melodies and the childlike glee with which your band dug into your arrangements that was hard to top. Roxy Music held a similar fascination with their intoxicating blend of rock, cinema, torch song, glam and ballads. As much as I was taken by Mr. Ferry and company, you David, had broken the mould. I found in your voice a strange sort of comfort that few other singers, to that point, had awoken in me. Your rich, masculine baritone was something I could relate to, as my voice was dropping further and further with each passing year. While radio was littered with singers who sang in
falsetto or who's range occupied the pop stratosphere, your dark, sonorous voice made it okay to be one of those 'low singing guys'. And yet you also fearlessly sang in falsetto or at the top of your range, sending me a parallel message that this too was okay that a committed and gifted artist uses all the tools in his or her possession. I was transfixed by these so called contradictions, mostly because they seemed neither at odds with each other nor completely at ease. There was a powerful blend of opposites at work here but more importantly you offered me a template for how to live an artistic life. Experimenting, embracing the uncomfortable, fearlessly collaborative, synthesizing artistic sensibilities to create new and untested hybrids, respecting both fallow and productive phases of creativity and on and on. Perhaps you never knew that this was part of the legacy you were creating for the rest of us. It's clear that your star flew higher than most but what I do know is I saw the world in a very different way when I looked through your lens. I couldn't decide where my loyalties began or ended – the rock icon or the 'throw out the rulebook' iconoclast. They both had me in your grip and I loathe to choose sides. So I didn't. I went down every wormhole your music produced, out of curiosity but also out of respect. In the end, I subconsciously knew you were in it for the long haul and there would be sunny days and dark days but it was all fair weather in the end. And here's the real kicker. 18 months ago I fell upon my own 'dark days' and made the decision to step back from music. For how long I did not know but I was clear that somehow the choice to be artistic, the choice to create, had become a confusing and muddled proposition. I looked to all of my heroes (pun ever so slightly intended) for signs that would help illuminate the way forward. I had never willingly turned my back on creativity before. It was clearly time for a fallow period in my artistic life, a time of contemplation, reassessment, moulting, transformation and
renewal. The beauty of that is, that in all of my grieving and celebrating of your rich artistic contribution to my life, I recognized the totality of human experience that you leaned on to coax, inspire and sometimes rip from your insides, the music and poetry we all so cherish and love. A life fully lived is every artist's tool kit and so, thanks to you, I make it mine. As I slowly emerge from what seems like a long winter of creative isolation and personal solitude, your words 'Where are we now' roll over my thoughts like an open ended question. While some find that question an invitation to consider the dread of their unfulfilled lives, I'm compelled to hear it as an invitation to step inquisitively into my unfulfilled life. Your life was a gift to many but feels more like a rowboat in an endless sea to me. Lovingly, Andrew
A posthumus letter to Prince By KarenWithecomb
Dear Prince, So, 2016 seems destined to be the year in which we lose the most glorious, glamorous and beloved. Perhaps some of those glittery last exits were expected, but you? It seemed unthinkable; the multiinstrumentalist ball of energy just setting off on a tour in which, audaciously, you were to perform with only the accompaniment of a piano, and, anyway, you were only in your fifties, still sexy as hell and rocking a new afro and round framed shades combo. What on Earth will we do without you, Prince?
You first appeared on my radar as a black and white photo in the NME, wearing tiny pants, legwarmers (were they actually stockings?) and not much more, beautiful, staring out of the page with something intangibly substantial in your demeanour, something genuine, something full of secret promise in a world full of floppyfringed, fake fey indie boys. Cut to a flatshare in Balham, sometime later and three cool girls with, respectively, aubergine, fire engine red and blueblack hair, fans of secondhand chic, Muscadet in wine bars and the latest turntables. We had the best time, a rotation of bedroom evenings more than making up for our lack of a living room and somehow, weirdly, our musical tastes came together in a strange combination of The Gang of Four, U2, Echo and The Bunnymen and….well, Prince, because you were always unique, cutting across the tribes and tastes with your quietly singleminded belief in what you produced and how you presented it. It goes without saying that we loved that fabulous looking film and you, its star, a man with exquisite and unique dandy style. A while later, ‘Parade’ coincided with my incrementally worst breakup, that one where you’re old enough to think you’re going to get married or something ridiculous like that, and once again, your singular Princeness got played again and again amongst the wallowingly empathetic Smiths records. Essentially, and in a good way, I think you were oldfashioned. Visually a cross between Little Richard and Jimi Hendrix, dancing like James Brown and the embodiment of that wellworn yet genuine trope, the life of music: the bluesman’s need to continually play, compose and the artist’s compulsion to express via the outlet of creativity. You were the perfectionist band leader from days gone by and, as surely as your own heroes, A Star.
I didn’t keep up with you, Prince, who could? I admit to following your changes in style more than your music, but you were always there in the background, a kind of comfort to be accessed when needed. I noticed you again when, resurrecting memories of when you put those fey boys to shame, you were more truly punk than any number of posturing old farts attempting an embarrassing leap whilst wearing zebra print skinny jeans. You, yep, PRINCE, decided that instead of your fans having to develop an RSI pressing the ‘refresh’ button on their computer or having to pay hundreds of pounds to OhJeezI’llDoAnythingToGetIn , they could see you just by being a very big fan, and what very big fans do is queue up and buy a ticket. A person sells them a ticket. They hand over the cash. I can’t tell you, Mr Nelson, how impressed I was by that, and it sent out a message, too. If Prince can do it, anyone can do it. I bet they won’t, though. The way things are going in 2016, with The Grim Reaper cutting a swathe through our most brilliant talents, I predict that by December the future will be spending about £300 to see Ed fucking Sheeran in a huge, muddy field packed with utter morons in onesies or wearing fabric flower headbands. Again. So much for being a very big fan. So much for egalitarian queuing. The facts of your death made me sad and made me reflect on the passage of time. I am a bit younger than you, but not so many years your junior. No doubt doing the splits in high heels and those outrageous dance moves ground away at your hips over time, but your beliefs, or, well, whatever it was that informed your decision, meant that you didn’t have your wornout joints replaced with shiny new ones and were heavily medicated and in turn heavily selfmedicated in order to deal with the pain, still showing the world a beautiful and immaculate exterior, still being Prince. It’s nice that life expectancy is so much longer these days, but they don’t tell you about the decades of pain, nor the judgment of the young, perfect and well which
marks the card of the stooped, the limping, those whom make shoe choices no longer based upon style. Tabloid newspapers, both print copies and the online versions which lure the guilty sneak peeks of those who would never be caught buying a copy, carried screaming headlines about ‘Prince’s final frail photos’ and I admit that I did look, but, Prince, you know all I saw was the man I have always seen. You looked into the camera steadily. You did not avert your gaze. You knew they were taking photos and you looked great. So what if you carried a stick? It was a fabulous stick and if you were thin and small then, shit, you’d always been that way. To me, that gaze and demeanor had not changed from the first time I set eyes on you: grounded, substantial, certain within yourself. It was right that you blazed out beautiful at the beginning of a grand tour, and not one of those hopeful rags came anywhere near diminishing you with their disingenuously concerned labels. Although it didn’t happen this way, I choose to see you as the fairytale Prince, perfectly preserved in a clear glass coffin like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White. Goodnight, sweet Prince. Sleep well. Yours, Karen
Carved Voices