Kitties for Kitties: the zine Issue 1: The Trauma of Being
Contents Narratives 3 Fragments byTalia Parfuniuk Matyroshka by Marta Barnes Storytelling and Signs by H.L Fatnassi The Trauma of Being Normal by Amy Goh Home Planets by Amy Goh Living Beneath the Surface by Ai My Hands Firmly Gripped the Rails... by E.M I am one of the few who got this part easy... by V Terrestrial Guide Cord-cutting: a Guide by Amy Goh How to Use Your Antenna by Amy Goh Aliens, Alienation and Alien-being by Amy Goh Poetry and text Everything Breaks Me Apart by Amy Goh My Life is a Tapestry by Marie-Noëlle Wurm String Theory by Serene Daoud Boats by Marie-Noëlle Wurm Features An Interview with Marie-Noëlle Wurm Q&A Topics: Spaces and Sacred Places About Us
Kitties for Kitties (K4K) began for alien citizens of the world to find other like-beings. We exist to connect, nurture these bonds, and to show all forms of kitties that others beings like them exist. Together, we can contribute our unique languages and world-beings to the evolution of the human race. We host collaborative projects, encourage various forms of interspecies artwork, and provide an accessible guide which kitties can consult for all forms of advice about transitioning onto this terrestrial plane. Adapting to this earthly plane is an entire life's work. With the help of our foundation, kitties will realize they are not alone, thrive, and contribute their unique perspectives to the diversity of our planet.
What are 'Kitties'? 'Kitties' refers to any soul which is not fundamentally human in essence. Souls often take the shape of animals, plants, or even supernatural and mythological creatures. These categories are not mutually exclusive as our universe is multi-dimensional in nature and there is no end to the varieties of life forms exist. Souls that incarnate on this earth take on a many forms and 'human' is but one category -- though it is the dominant and ubiquitous category that we are most familiar.
Clara Ghost Cat
3 Fragments T alia P arfani uk
Here I am, in Vancouver, lying on the carpeted floor of my ghostly childhood bedroom. The girl who lived here died last year. She and I share a name, body, and soul; but she is not me. She was much more carefree than me. I am so melodramatic. I can see the sky getting dimmer through my slatted blinds. My window faces east. Somewhere, on the other side of the house, the sun is setting. Likewise, somewhere else, where I am not, the sun is rising. My room is quickly getting darker. I do not move to turn on the light. I barely breathe. Eventually, in the soft evening darkness, I rise. I stand in front of the mirror. I make a quiet prayer to the shadow standing there: “When I look for feelings I find myself empty. Please, teach me. I want to feel more, and I want to feel it intensely.�All I feel is my clenched jaw. I lie on my bed and indulge in wondering how the world could be so callous. My mind spins and unwinds. My body feels soft around the edges. I fade away. The next morning, I call up my best friend. She helps me dye my dark hair platinum blond over the bathtub. My brittle, bleached strands of hair will snap off one by one. I don't care. Self imposed acts of destruction remind me that I am alive. They are the only worldly power I have. ~ Here I am, in Montreal, bare feet planted firmly on the cold tile floor of my poorly lit bathroom. I watch the mirror as my pale hands rise and gather my hair at the base of my skull. I take note of how fragile my neck and wrists appear. These are the parts of me that connect the magic to the body it requires
to survive. My head and my hands are so divine. I cannot believe that they are mine. In one fell swoop, I lean over the sink and cut my hair. My reflection sticks to my mind for a chronostatic moment. I clean the sink and sweep the floor. I brew the coffee. I put fresh flowers on the table. I open the window to let in the icy, sunsoaked air. Leftover snow is black with city grime on the street below. This is what spring looks like in Montreal. This is what my spring looks like in my soul. The layers of trash that slowly accumulated with the snow are rapidly revealed as the ice melts away. Every spring, I feel like an urban archeologist, as well as a suicidal psychologist. Every spring, I carefully examine each layer of myself, then I throw myself away. I relish in the rituals that ground me: spring cleaning, haircuts, fresh flowers, and sweet coffee with cream. These absurdly simple rituals are all that keep me inside my body. ... Here I am, in Hawaii, relishing in how little I require to survive. All I need is a single bed, simple food, and the sun on my face. I have not been what my mother would consider comfortable or clean in a month and a half, and I appreciate that. This mundane epiphany blossoms into a familiar mania. I own the world. My dainty human hands hold it as easily as fruit. I devour it. During these giddy spells, bloody laughter spills from my mouth uncontrollably. When I brush my teeth I stare at the porcelain sink. Looking at the mirror is too surreal. The reflection is uncannily familiar, like my abandoned childhood bedroom. Rather than look myself in the eyes, I lose myself in mundane human rituals: brush your hair, wash the dishes, breathe in air. I am learning how to be good at these things without paying attention. I polish my exposed mouth-bones twice a day, like all good humans do. Sometimes, I brush too roughly. I taste my gums bleeding. I have to remind myself to be gentle. I drink rainwater. I eat the fruit that grows outside my bedroom. I sleep only when I have to. There is purity in simply surviving, but it makes my body weak. I wonder how far I can push the edges of myself. Sometimes, I forget to be gentle. The world will inevitably and cruelly remind me that I am a girl, not a god. Each time I fall, I learn how to kill myself without dying.
Matryoshka Marta Barnes
“It was dark. Daddy was there. But he wasn't my Daddy. We were on a boat. The boat was going down into the water.” I said these words to my mother not long after I first began talking, around two or three years old. She told me years later that she got chills as I told her about what she later described as being my“past life”. At the time, I couldn't differentiate between a past life and a present life. In my mind, they existed simultaneously within me and that made perfect sense. Nesting dolls that were each other and yet were not, but which occupied the same space. “I was older,” I told her. “And the boat was called…the Lucy…the Lucy…” I tried to snap my fingers together like I'd seen adults do when they searched for a phrase they couldn't remember, but my fingers didn't have the motor function yet. “The Lucy-something”, I finished at last, the memory eluding me. I remember the frustration – the word had been so clear in my mind I could taste it, but the edges of the memory were faded and blotted with void. It was then that my mother started getting more than a little weirded out. The RMS Lusitania, she later told me, had been torpedoed in 1915 by a German U-boat on her journey from Liverpool to New York City. On board had been nearly 2,000 civilians – over 1, 000 of whom had drowned.
Needless to say I had no way of knowing any of this at the time. Which is why when she brings it up these days, still convinced I was speaking about how I died. Unfortunately I didn't stop there. “And my other mother was there,” I told her at last. “Not you. You weren't my mom.” I can't imagine how it must feel for your first born to disclaim you as their mother, but I doubt it's great. Still, at the time I ploughed on ahead. The subject of my“other mother” came up often afterwards, usually when I was being precocious or ornery and trying to persuade her that I should get another cookie. It all ended when my real mom fake-packed her bags and pretended to leave: a successful ploy to get me to appreciate the here and now. I distinctly remember that was the moment that I said goodbye to not only that other mother (much to my real mom's relief), but also to that other life. It came to be that as I accepted the world around me as being the only one – but it came at the cost of the elasticity I previously felt when thinking of the other "me". I had to root myself. Look forward instead of back. The other world dissolved as the membrane between realities solidified – and I was to mentally remain at the other end of the 20th century from that point on. There are some things that, as you get older, you can't work into the logic of adulthood. As a child, you start learning to push them away – dreams, imaginary friends, worlds created during make-believe. They begin to fade into that dark gurgling pool where memory is defined by images and feeling but not the concrete reasoning of hard fact. But every so often I go fishing and reel in those memories again, examine them, and wonder.
Storytelling and Signs by H.L Fatnassi Everyone is a world. I am many worlds: a watcher, a voyeur into possibilities, probabilities, and potentials. With the development of self was the development of story. I dreamed worlds; I breathed stories. I straddle the line between realms, right foot planted here and the left dancing in otherworlds. I struggled to listen to the Here. I learned to stress and strain, to pull myself out of dream so that I might listen to you. That connection- the thread that connects us- I've tried finding it but it's only through stories that I feel it. The pace can speed up or slow down. There are times where I fight Dream. Other times, he has hidden away and I am lonely. When I can no longer tell the day or hour, when I no longer rise from bed as tied to stories as I am – that is the beginning of depressive episodes. Or when the worlds turn bleak and I cannot escape the possibilities of disaster, the permutations of dread and trauma. That is when anxiety creeps in and I fill my head with lists and numbers because they are the only things that bore the hungry dragon to sleep. I couldn't write. For two years, my voice diminished and I lost the ability to speak in any way that mattered. Or I should say, I wrote, but then, locked in the quest for perfection, I strangled myself through repetitive self-edits and rewrites. I stared at a fifty page proposal on
my desk, each day reading the first paragraph, trying and failing to uncover the correct wording. I went on medication. The worlds faded and died. I could function but I couldn't feel. I turned in that proposal and tried to move forward. The anxiety and depression were gone but so was everything else. Without the worlds, life was pointless. I went off the medication. For a while, I was fine. The dreams returned. I functioned. The darkness crept in bit by bit: a panic spell here, a day of counting there. But I felt whole. I pushed the black creatures down into murky wells where I refused to look. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't leave my home or eat food normally. In the worlds, it was Armageddon. It was Ragnarok. My blood turned to lava, coursing through me, burning me from the inside. Well-meaning armchair physicians and snake-oil gurus had a million cures. Quick fixes that relied on mystical Asian wisdom (had they ever even visited Asia?) or bootstrap American promises (Seriously, I should magic wealth into existence?). Had I tried yoga? Maybe I have a vitamin deficiency? Exercise cures everything. Oh, I exercise already? Had I thought about upping the amount to eight hours daily? I wasn't allowed to say no. None of it helped. One by one, the stars were going supernova. I didn't want medication. I wanted the pain to end (and yes, it was abundantly physical), but I also couldn't abide by the death of stories. I told him – trepidation in my voice, of course – there is always the fear of getting labeled with Something Really Awful. Tales of electro-shock treatment and self-flagellation. (And before you armchair psychologists give yourself a pat on the back for diagnosing me I am definitively not schizophrenic, schizotypal, or any other word beginning with schiz. Sorry to burst your bubble. You'll just have to go back to consulting your pop psychology guides). But he did not dismiss the importance of dream, of my ability to navigate the ethereal. Gently, he offered alternatives and for the first time, they worked. The worlds remain with me. I am discovering my voice once more. I can write, I can reach out. I sleep and I dream.
Clara Ghost Cat
The Trauma of Being Normal By Amy Goh
Fast forward a couple of decades: aged twenty, I would try to be normal, a decision for which I blame no one but myself. Perhaps I did it to spite Her, to convince Her there was nothing "wrong" with me. That I was not a series of made-up statements culled from psychological treatsies on motherless children. Even if Her Narrative was inaccurate, my "act" was equally as cruel, contrived, contriving. I decided to be normal to convince the world that I could change into anything. I, in a way, killed my soul in an act of spite, severing the connection between I, myself and world. I cut each layer of selfhood I had built so I lay a naked self defined by the new matriarch who would take over my life, demanding absolute obeisance. During those times, I would try to mould myself into a shape that I thought was fitting. I would attempt to eat like a civilized person, to not put my legs up, or stretch or contort my body in distorted positions in order to think. I would rein in the limbs of my body so they were stock straight, under the control of a prim and clean-cut mind. However, my body would give itself away, the fingers and hands fidgeting uncontrollably, the mouth convulsing, emitting a string of confused syllables in a mixed tongue. I could, all the while, feel my godmother's omnipotent gaze on my back, dissecting, ordering, putting into form everything that spilled out. She cut and shaped, trimmed and pruned till by the end of the first month, I hardly recognized myself. But deep inside, I knew I hadn't really changed. A fledgling of a soul remained like a seed, dormant in the deepest recesses of my soul. When I remembered
my nature, I would feel grotesque, a monster unworthy of living filled with evil intentions, desiring only to consume all things into herself. I remember, too, her voice in my ear. Much later, I would feel it at a distance as a soft pulsing, a minimal murmur like an electric wire transmitting a menacing whisper: You are not normal. There is something wrong with you. Something very, very wrong. I would internalize this voice, this voice telling me there was nothing special about me but my abnormality. That I was incapable, impossible, incompetent, unable to do the simplest things in life. My childhood would come rushing to me in a series of questions, redefining itself as the history of a rich, spoiled child unable to do anything for herself. My history would reconfigure itself again and again in my eyes under the flickering lights of another's gaze, so that what I remember would be covered in sediment or worse: deleted, erased, leaving but a phantom trace on the template of my soul. During those years, I would stop drawing. When I wrote, I wrote feverishly in jumbled prose- poetry that would spill out of me incoherent, malformed, grotesque and slimy with the freshness of subterranean soil. Language spilled from me like the discharge of a diseased person. I had to speak so I spilled from words in the darkest corners of notebooks, scribbles of what my soul had deteriorated into, while outside I checked myself, put on normal clothes, attempted to be appear normal. I was deathly ashamed of this disjunction between internal and external: to what extent was I that which spewed from me, a sprawling mark incapable of being
washed? Was this really my fate, to be a shadow, defined by a series of deletions? Shut out from the world, my senses deadened. I saw only what was in front of me. What was inside convulsed out in a series of obscenities. I wrote, and I forgot what I wrote. I died, internally, a slow and painful death. My soul withered, my countenance deadened. Physically, I shrunk into a shadow of myself. Recovery would come much later, when I was at the end of my wits. The life drained from my eyes as my body also shrunk. My previously healthy, pulsing body shrunk to a shell of its normal self. My vision turned in on itself so I saw nothing that was in front of me. Time broke down into a series of meaningless events that had no significance. The ecstasy I had always had in chasing down adventures, moments of communion, seeking others of my kind dissolved. I was a body taking up a space in a house that I was not welcome, parasitically consuming my host's food. I was an excess lump of flesh like a malignant tumour. Insignificant, profane, abject. ... I can't say how I ended up from point A to point B, except to say that my life has been marked by a death every seven years, the death being of some part of my selfhood. If my life cycle were characterized by the passing of seasons, these seasons could be broken down into these 7 year intervals in which I would say: I was born, I lived, I died. I was reborn. These semi-regular deaths would come inevitably like the cutting of a thread. Each tether tying me to a previous life would be cut suddenly, inexplicably. There would be impetuses, yes, like my attempt to be normal at twenty. At fourteen, it was my insatiable
curiosity that drove me to uncover all layers that lay beneath reality; at seven, it would be my brother's disappearance and my newfound isolation. Each death came swiftly. The internal clock within my body stopped. I fell. I rose. I was carried beyond myself by some inward rhythm. As such, one could say that all points lead up to this pivotal moment, wherein I feel, deeply, inexplicably, into a void. I died to myself, and then was borne upwards out of sheer necessity, because death was not an option: the chapter of my life remained stubbornly open, unable to be closed by the strongest of hands. Of course, stating it like that would be an gross oversimplification, for it is much more complex than that. Let me explain. I believe that there there is a naturally derived imprint upon every soul. Each soul contains the semblance to a feature in the environment, be it urban or natural. Some people have cat-shaped souls (as I did), others had wolf souls. Rarer were tree souls (one), and others had the impression of human features: a mask, unyielding to outside penetration, defined by an implacable smile. Each soul leaves a trace upon whatever space it passes by, which is why sometimes cities feel so haunted, because time has happened on it like an electric shock, sending shivers and waves down its spine so spaces reverberate with the memory of past generations of selves who have passed
and inhabited those spaces. History is embedded in spaces. All places are haunted. In a city like Singapore where time is accelerated, and everything seems to be hurtling into a seemingly ecstatic future, space is doubly dense, the result of the convalescence of traumatic past and euphoric present. Also, each soul emanates a certain energy. When I place my hand to my heart, I can feel threads linking me to other people, to objects dear to me. When I think of God or the possibility of a universal creator, I feel my whole soul being drawing out of itself . Each bond is unique, individual, distinct. Each person I meet emits a certain aura, but this emanation is stronger than being a simple vibration. Sometimes, I am intoxicated by the aura of a person so that all I want to do is to bathe in their presence, to rein them to myself. To see them within me. Some call this attraction, but I call it alchemy that ignites an obsessive zeal. Similarly, each soul has a cycle. The person I became and the person who I was are not the same, although we share the same name, the same history, even the same face. However, my face now also has all my past selves buried underneath it. With each death, a part of me disappears forever, unretrievable. Every seven years, I die to myself. A whole dimension of selfhood passes into oblivion, leaving me bereft. Every seven years, I am thrust into a black hole. Sometimes, I am born upwards immediately, as if by an angel. Sometimes, I cause my own death and it is I, too, who will have to journey into the underworld in order to fetch my self back. This Orpheus journey is both successful and not, for I gain a new self, but I lose the past one forever. I am, in a way, recycled within myself, a soul drowned, whinged, and laid out to the new scorching sun. And that is the shape of it.
Home Planets I break myself so I can examine the pieces. Flipping each fragment over like an archeologist, the pieces give me a particular thrill. I am an assembly of different histories, selves waiting to be glued together. Every other day, I routinely break myself apart so I can put myself together in order to remind myself of my reflection. The glare of the morning light pierces my irises and I'm sun-stunned, marvelling at the miracle of my me.
I don't know what home is. I used to think it was a place, but now that feels less certain. These days, I think it's a person who I find myself in. Here, a small space where my soul feels suspended, tethered to the ground.
I am fragmented,. This me and that over this place and other; the ghosts of past permutations of myself haunt the alleys and corridors of places I was, in physical places and within enclaves between memories. It is hard sometimes to gather all the pieces of myself in order to go through the motions of being a person, whole and indivisible, sentient and seemingly alive.
Often, I dream of home. It's a place very far away now. The longer I spend here, the fuzzier the memories become, the subtler the imprints on my body. I can still remember if I conjure up a fragment, a singular strand from a timeline of a past life. I feel it is far and near, inside and outside my fingers, within and in a distance.
There are times I feel homesick for no apparent reason. The hollow in my throat drains through my heart till I am inured. I dream of musty rooms and humid green fields and the sea, always the sea and a boat, floating onwards, towards a destination unknown. I confuse sometimes the waking and the dream; sometimes I walk through the real as through a dream.
Sometimes, reality is wonky and I think I am living in simulation. The seams show barely at the edges, threatening to unravel. I see and feel through a looking glass frosted and sleepwalking, my sense dormant and half-asleep. Realities leak here as through a membrane from some other universe. The air is thick with the thoughts of countless others. Like a fish, I swim through this reality as through a dream. I feel, I see, but I do not understand.
Cord cutting: a practical guide Sometimes, we have toxic bonds that link us to others and we find ourselves obsessing, unable to detach ourselves emotionally from situations despite the interference of our logical mind. Cord cutting is useful: it's an efficient, immediately effective tool for cutting co-dependence, toxic bonds and vampiric relations. It's a way of distancing yourself from people psychically even if you are not in the position where you are able to cut off all contact with them. The release that comes with cord-cutting is immediate. You should feel a sense of space and distance right away. Do take note that if you continue the same patterns, the bonds will regrow like weeds, even if it will not be exactly the same as it was before. Cutting cords is a new beginning; it is a blank slate, but the responsibility to create new healthy patterns is also in your hands. Remember that it is also an undoable process. Once you cut a cord, you cannot affix it back without going back to square one, so it shouldn't be done frivolously.
Try this: Put your hands over the heart, do you feel extensions like strings attaching you to others close to you? Think about your close friend, your partner, or a relative. You should immediately be able to isolate each cord linking you to the person. You will also feel that some cords are stronger than others, like thick arteries pulsing and extending from you.
Some types of cords Soul bonds: Soul cords are more like a retrieved memory. They can be good or bad, because relationships are not in themselves morally tinged. What distinguishes this kind of bond is the sense of familiarity. When you have a soul bond, it is like the universe is speaking to you from the mouth of the other. You may have not talked for three years and feel the same connection as you did when you first met that person, like you have had an accumulation of lifetimes together. Sometimes, people are energetically incompatible but this does not mean the cord between you has been cut. It still exists: you are just not destined to meet at that specific point in your life, as your lifelines are not crossing in a desirable pattern. Soul bonds don't disappear, so don't be sad if you feel a distance from a friend to whom you were once close; it may mean that person has to embark upon their own path before you are compatible again.
Toxic /vampiric bonds: These are bonds enforced upon you. Often, the person who is attached to the other side of such bonds sucks your energy. You feel a sense of strain when you touch this bond, like it is threatening to pull your entire being into its source. Narcissism, guilt-creating, gas-lighting: These are all behaviours that draw the other into themselves so as to devour you. It is hard to get rid of such relationships because such people are dependent upon others to create their own identity by perpetuating the toxic bond. Just willing yourself
away or leaving the situation physically is not sufficient. You need to cut the emotional bond from your heart centre, which leads to:
How to cut bonds: 2 steps 1) Feel the cord: Sit down in a comfortable position and feel the cord extending you from you to the other person. Isolate the bond you want to cut. Hold it in your left hand (if you are right-handed) and study how it feels to you. You should feel a subtle tugging sensation, as if something is being pulled from you. That is the normal energy current that holds the bonds between two people. Take note of what feeling arises. 2) The ritual dagger and evocation This is up to you, really. I use a Taoist exorcism wooden dagger traditionally used to exorcise demons, because bonds of all sorts are essentially the same substance. You can also use a wooden ruler, or any object you desire. Using an object is useful in making the ritual more concrete. You can also use your hand: just imagine your hand as a blade slicing off the cord. Before cutting the cord, close your eyes, and say an evocation or prayer before you cut the cord. For example, "I hope that what I cut is all for the best and will lead to the greatest good" works quite well.
And there, you're done! Seal the space by taking a few full breaths in and out and rejoice in the newfound space you have created!
How to use your antenna a.k.a How to read people's energetic signature Everyone has a certain wave of energy that they carry with them. This manifests, depending on the individual's perception (and by perception I don't mean seeing but any form of sensory or psychic input) whether this be colours, notes of a song, waves, or even just sensations upon the mind's eye. This is the sense of being and soul we bring into the world with us that interacts with the surrounding world around us. The world within and the world without: the two are separate entities, even if we think that we are all physically the same. This diversity of selfskins mean that we all experience “reality” differently. This energetic “fingerprint” or signature contains traces and maps of how a person was and how they came to be, or potentialities of where they will head. This can be read by anyone. All you have to do is channel your inner powers, an act I call "raising your antenna" (specifically because you are extending your perception outside yourself and focussing it on another being). Let's examine what you can find by reading a person's energy and then delve into how we embark on this process ourselves. The past, present and future I use temporal terms here, but I mean are the stories we carry with us that we bring into our present reality: these are what one sees when reading someone's energy. It is like seeing a living scar: it is a trace of what has come before, but it is also a sign of a person's integration or lack- all these are signs that can be read. The Reading When reading a person's energy,
you don't need anything but an image. Think of it as seeing from the "eyes of your intuition". Don't use your physical eyes, but the eyes of your imagination. From that source, you perceive the person's presence in time and space. They shouldn't feel near or distant, per se, but you can isolate them within the fabric of perception in the larger universe. You feel the shape of their being with your antenna's feelers. Can you see any colours, shapes, animals, sound, entities? Where were they before, and where are they now? How do their life paths look like- is it curvy, straight? Is their life contained within a box, or is it free-flowing and blurry at the edges? Look for boundaries, shapes, corners, sensations, colours, wave tones. These will give you clues and sometimes very precise information. You can think of this process as channeling. You are emptying yourself out so you can tune in to certain frequencies.You are stepping ahead of yourself and letting the information come through you. You are a receptacle for the information, and you will be surprised at the data you transmit!
Uses of energy reading Besides being a fun activity, this is often a good way to tune into where you are at this specific point on your path. What sorts of people are you attracting to yourself? How are they compatible or how do they fit into your life? How are they catalysts for change? (Everything
is a catalyst, whether the person or event be “good” or “bad”; everything is material for transformation.) If you read many people as jarring,, why might this be so? Are you sending the right intentions into the world in order to nourish rather than drain? In essence, energy reading can be used as a 'zoom in' on the present. To focus directly on where you are and where you fit in this point of time in the universe. It is about your soulcapsule and how you are distinct yet similar to others. How you use this tool is really up to you!
Aliens, alienation and alien-being an essay around etymology
If the definition of being an alien is to "belong to a foreign country or nation", why is it considered a bad thing to be an "alien"? Why is it said as an insult? Perhaps, the country to which you feel you belong to is outside your family, your city, country or even the human realm. That is in itself not wrong, nor does it have any moral or ethical implications.
Create your own home, your own sense of identity that is outside the common grounds you share with others. A group is traditionally a number of people who are connected by a shared belief, interest or quality. Who is it to say that a group created from a sense of non-belonging does not also have subsistence? Does belonging to a group predicated on a shared belief system also negate one's self-being, or force one to compromise on certain values or qualities?
I believe that it is important to honour one's own self's desires and inclinations. The neglected self will fester over time till it creates a shadow realm independent from the conscious mind. After awhile, the night time and day realms of the self will inevitably conflate, causing some not-so-pleasant implications for one's day-to-day life.
That it is why to honour one's alienness, to not sacrifice the soul self to fit into an external structure or belief system. The belief system is not in itself a bad thing, but the belief that one has to change one's self to fit into it while compromising one's deeper impulses is damaging.
Everything is material for transformation; everything is a tool one can use to build one's world. Create your own reality making your surrounds benefit you in order to arrive at a new level of consciousness. We are the universe trying to understand itself. By coming back to ourselves, we learn how to wield our own power (the being of human), and we also bring ourselves into the world in order to change it.
Think of this as a game. You are the builder of a world, your entire self-being! You are given a set of circumstances, a cultural ethos you are born into, ethical frameworks to consider, philosophical lineages to draw back upon. How do you plan to use your avatar to create the desired result, at the end? The process is in itself a creative process. Do you have obstacles to overcomes, levels to surpass, dragons to destroy? They are all part of the process of being human, of integrating into the fabric and contributing your own unique viewpoint into the tapestry that is the universe.
This is what it is to be alien.
Clara Ghost Cat
Everything breaks me apart.
The sky clear above me, the touch of air, of skin, of blue That single dew-infused membrane that extends from you to me. When the world widens within my soul, I can feel my eyes open to cry, my limbs shivering-- internal quakes; earth shakes.
Because I am- raw, skin-frail, a newborn being Entombed within this fresh chrysalis, flown from an exterior planet: A crystalline extraterrestrial, I soak up the atmosphere of this planet as a plant drinks sunlight.
I am still new; a single syllable, a capsule indivisible. When I close my eyes, I see an expanse of horizon underneath my eyelids, sinking deep as through an infinite sea of thought till mind is rendered substance-less, an endless well of non-being. Everything breaks me apart. Amy Goh
Living Beneath The Surface by Ai When you've been pushed so hard until you've had to change the shape of who you are in essence, the soul finds a way to escape and dives deeper than the prying hands and the glaring eyes of your aggressors.
Like a fish, you swim through the deepest darkest parts of your soul and hide so far down, allowing yourself to be changed and moulded to their will, but never allowing the change to mould the contents of your heart.
You have been broken, damaged and verbally abused and this has left scattered trails of truth and lies that blur your vision and haunt your dreams.
The sweet, sticky bait of "do right by us and we will love you" is dangled like juicy berries grown from a manufactured vineyard, and you are hooked, not because you believe it, but
because you are starving and it's the only form of substance you have for miles around.
Trembling with the many broken dreams and the shattered ego pieces of the former self, you gather your shadows like reeds on the edge of a stream and sew a cloak of solitude- the only comfort your mind can rest in while someone else's divine destiny forces your body into slavery.
At this point, people may ask why it is that you are so miserable. Why you are so negative. Why you can't just see the brighter side of things. Well, if you are brave, you will tell them the truth, that when you are so far down, down inside the depths of your own soul, it is black and dark and scary, and you have every right to feel angry and sad and alone, because that means you are still alive in there, and you are still swimming.
It's important to keep swimming. To keep pushing through all the layers, because the longer the abuse prolongs, the deeper the claws dig, and the longer you eat from the poisonous berries, the weaker the mind becomes, and the barriers of self-preservation weaken and begins to crumble, and that's when you start to fall apart.
Falling apart is good, because it's a way of reinventing yourself into something stronger. Your aggressors will take it as a victory for them. And don't feel angry that they are blowing your horn, because it allows you to be quick and nibble and drink from the waters of your soul while they are celebrating your demise, to seal your broken bones and regrow your flesh that has been disintegrating, to create a new you that can handle their torment.
There are so many new and amazing things to discover when you are in the darkest, scariest parts of your mind, and when that is the only thing you see, you tend to realize quite quickly that you are not as scary as you seemed. There are all sorts of amazing, secret places to hide in, and it is fascinating to dive deeper and deeper, until you create a perfect equilibrium
between your fake existence and your soul's persistence to survive. The quiet fight of a troubled mind.
Even though the surface level may be fake as an automated plastic doll, keep communication between the mind and the soul clear because the soul is still stronger than the mind, and when things get too crazy, a quick swim to the surface might be the only thing between a sharp surface and a swift defeat. This will also be the only way to be able to determine that you have found your way to a safe place when the time is right.
Finally, your automated legs have walked until the shoes have eroded from your feet and your feet have eroded until your knees and you are still hobbling along like a crank-up robot toy on its last few screws. Falling head first into a river, you find yourself washed away into the sea, where you feel as though you are now lost forever.
As a storm builds up, the soul within suddenly feels that the world outside finally reflects the world within. It's a long journey this time to swim to the surface, and a journey that is littered with rotten berry juice and broken memories. It is sad and fierce, and at times even the soul wonders whether it should go on, but go on it does until it breaks the surface into a new, amazing organic for. That is the real you.
My life is a tapestry I weave each day. One thread following the next, holes and tears woven into the fabric. Gaping absences and hurts. But each day, I pick up these threads, pulling each one over and under and through the next. I will not stop weaving. Even in these tears, there is beauty. Marie-NoĂŤlle Wurm
String Theory By Serene Daoud
Within one day there are a dozen thousand lives that well up before me
I set them on fire with magnifying eyes
the options dwindle and the flame licks itself clean my daily mound of dusty afterthoughts
I'm still waiting for a phoenix to emerge
"Cross the stream, you fool!" Alice chastises, "the grass has never been greener."
"But which side?" I ask, "yours or mine?"
"Will it matter so much once winter sets in?"
The patterns on her dress are set with tiny mirrors; each one reflects a fraction of me
each piece older than the next each spelling a whole of me alone.
My hands firmly gripping the rails... by EM
My hands firmly gripping the rails as I repeatedly, violently, hit the back of my head against the ceiling at the top of the open stairs, in full view of my parents who were having dinner in the living room. I was 12 years old. As I hit my head harder and harder and as they kept ignoring me, I remember wondering if this would inflict any kind of long term damage to my brain. To this day, I still don't remember what I was sent to my room for. I stopped hitting my head. My heart was beating fast. I didn't feel any physical pain. Just a throbbing.
I stopped because if I went too far they might send me to the head doctor again - I didn't know what it was called back then or how it was supposed to help me. I only knew it was "for my own good".
Or perhaps something worse would happen. This is what really made me stop. Perhaps I would actually hurt my brain in a permanent way.
Going to the head doctor wasn't so bad. The doctor would ask me about school and my friends and my family in that perhaps unknowingly, slightly condescending way. I knew my parents were watching from behind the one way mirror and judging everything I was saying and perhaps some of my answers were meant to spite them. Not out of hate, but perhaps in the hopes that something I'd say would wake them up from their self-built prison of delusions that they had done everything right and that there was something wrong with me.
I'd never heard them talk at dinner. There was never any chatter or laughter. Only a sense of duty. Or worse, obligation. As I hit the back of my head repeatedly on the ceiling as they were having another dinner without conversation, I came to the realization that I was doing more
harm to myself than to them. That I'd never get the attention or care that I wanted and that they were simply not able to provide for me, much less for each other.
I stopped hurting myself then because it wasn't going to change anything. It wasn't my responsibility to save their marriage. They would not change and they were not worth getting hurt over it. I would just bide my time. Until I was old enough to leave this putrid nest. Until I could find my own sense of worth. My own voice.
It wasn't adulthood quite yet. I didn't know what I wanted quite yet but at least I had learned what I didn't want anymore.
I am one of the few who got this part easy... by V
I am one of the few who got this part easy. Though authoritarian, my father nurtured my tendencies towards nature. He guided me and helped me find my own rituals in a very discreet and subtle manner, as soon as he noticed I was a moonchild.
I have tried to write. I have tried to explain. I have to rephrase. But I can't. I shredded so many pages, trying.
In all truth, there is nothing much to it. These are all part of a daily routine, just as one would brush their teeth or wash their face, before getting dressed. I prefer avoiding overcomplicating this process by analyzing it too much.
I cleanse my soul as I clean my body, every single day, through water and visualization. I let go of the energy overflow back to Earth, as I do of dirt down the drain when I shower.
I ground myself through observation, connection and meditation. What little or lot of nature that surrounds me at a moment of need will be the focus I need to regain strength and composure.
I shield myself through silence and concentration, focusing on the bubble I need around me
to feel safe and lonely. I am not a warrior. I am me. I live in my own time and space. Nature is my mother and I trust She can provide for me in time of need. She is the one and only constant in my life, as always been there for me, and will always be there for me. She is my sacred space, my one and only. She inspires me in my evolution.
As a child, I have always been attracted to her. I find both nourishment for my soul and strength for my body in her.
I lost myself in the woods more times than I can count. I never actually had imaginary friends, though I befriended apple trees and cats. I could talk with them for hours and hours, sharing and feeling. Up to this day, I feel the powers of Nature wherever I go.
Though my progression has been nurtured, some events have made it harder (the departure of my brother, and my acceptation of perpetual loneliness), while others made it simpler (the death of my grandmother, and then of my father). These events made me work alone, though they did not change my mental routine.
I am simply following the wheel of time.
Boats
Sometimes I feel like an unanchored boat. There is no port to call home. No one at the dock to take me in their arms. I know I've done nothing wrong. It's not my fault I was born in a house with a leaky roof and no glass in the windows.
I had to get away. To live; not just survive.
So I built a little boat with my bare hands, finding plank of wood after plank of wood, and sealing them tight, with love and hope and hurt. And when the hurt was too much, my love would come and pry the hammer from my fingers and hold me tight to give me a hillside to cry on. Once the rain had passed, he would gently put the hammer back into my hands and step back, and encourage me with a smile.
I built my boat on a river of love and hurt. Since then, it's taken me down to the sea and then to the wide wide ocean, buffeted by the winds and the rain and the round moon on nights with no waves. It's a small house on a small boat, but it holds - it will not sink.
Sometimes, the hurt comes back and my boat fills up with tears. When the water gets too high, I grab my little bucket and fill it and empty it, and I pour it all out into the ocean, water back into water.
Sometimes in the midst of it, my love comes to me in his sailboat and climbs over into mine.
He pries the bucket from my fingers and holds me tight. He holds me tight and waits, until the water has seeped out on its own, or evaporated into the clouds, or turned into morning dew. Then he gets back into his boat and we sail together for a while. We play with the wind and the stars and the water, and I forget that I was born in a house with a leaky roof and no glass in the windows.
I have no port to call home, but I have a boat, and my boat is my home, and my love is not far.
Marie-NoĂŤlle Wurm
Artist Feature: Marie-Noëlle Wurm Marie-Noëlle Wurm is a multidisciplinary artist who paints, draws, sculpts and creates puppets. Her paintings are often filled with whimsical creatures that seem lost, floating in colourful and strange worlds. She works in an intuitive manner: these creatures and places emerging out of initially abstract colours and shapes. Or sometimes, she lingers in the abstract, letting the mind fragment on these shapes, tell its own story. Through this process, she strives to explore the hidden, the subconscious, the places of the mind that are forgotten, and mysterious places of beauty. What keeps her awake at night are these creatures in our minds - the ones we don't always know are there.
How do you describe your 'sacred space'? How do you construct it?
I have never thought about this in terms of a 'sacred space', but now, as I reflect on it, I realize I have many. I feel more comfortable calling them 'ethereal space' (where ethereal means“extremely delicate and light in a way that seems not to be of this world.”) or 'meditative space'. These are the places I go where I feel safe and whole. I find them when I am alone, with music and books and creating tools, my pens and pencils and paper. I find them with others when we share silence that connects. I find them in nature, listening to the wind in the leaves or the chaotic movement of the ocean. I find them in the imaginary places I go to: forests with stars and soft wind brushing the trees, colourful nebulas circulating deep in the cosmos, underwater, in the deep ocean depths where wild and beautiful creatures exist — places that are hidden, peaceful and that reveal how we are part of something bigger than
ourselves. I'm not spiritual in the 'classic' sense of the word, according to the definition“relating to religion or religious belief.” I'm actually quite rational and scientific. But within this reasoning-rational aspect of myself, I have a very strong sense of spirituality, in this sense of the term: “relating to or affecting the human spirit or soul as opposed to material or physical things.” I believe in the beauty and importance of our intuition, our subconscious, the parts of ourselves that are mysterious, unknown and untamed. I know there is so much that we do not know – and there is beauty in that. I believe that we create meaning in our lives, and that we do this by coming home to ourselves, to our core, to our conscious selves and our subconscious selves. In doing this, we allow ourselves to connect with others, to reverberate with each other's complexes and thus push each other to grow, to evolve, and to flourish. Adrienne Rich wrote that “An honourable human relationship — that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word “love” — is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other.” I believe that this not only applies to a relationship between two individuals, but also our relationship to ourselves.
In these ethereal/meditative places I just described, all emotions coexist; they are loved for what they are and the truth they give. Happiness, melancholy, anger, sadness, bliss, serenity, are all present — but they are softened, and infused with beauty. Chaos and serenity intertwined, balancing each other out, giving each other space and voice, like the light and the dark.
In these spaces, there is connection between all things, a complex network of
interweaving thoughts, ideas, feelings, images, and meanings. When the space I am entering is connected to art-making, objects and lines carry messages, symbols; they underline and reflect the complexity of who we are, which is as complex and shifting as the world we inhabit.
When I enter these ethereal spaces, there is a simultaneous presence within, a deep connection to who I am as a living, breathing individual, and a 'radiation' outwards, a connection to other people, to the natural world, to something much bigger than ourselves.
Tell me a bit about your art and process.
As you can maybe tell from my previous answer, the natural world is extremely important me. So is the imaginary, our internal worlds. I think a big part of my process is trying to get to the truths at our core, the truth of what it means to be human: connected to a natural world that is so much bigger than us, and yet also connected to an infinite richness within us – our capacity for self-awareness, for refining the truths we tell ourselves, for creativity, for building worlds from within. Our creative selves are deeply connected to the greater natural world, and this is perhaps one of the foundations of
my work. It's why I often mingle the real and the imaginary, the figurative and the abstract, the rational and the intuitive, the conscious and the subconscious. I'm interested in these liminal spaces, where boundaries dissolve and two opposing truths are brought together, sustaining and enriching each other. This is also why negative space in my drawings is as important to me as the positive space — there is equilibrium, truth, found in the boundary between the two.
My art is often delicate and dreamlike with a tinge of darkness. Darkness, and 'negative' emotions are inherently part of the human condition – but rather than shun them, I believe it's important to integrate them, give them voice, space, and thus allow them to transform us. Finding beauty within the darkness, shining light on our darkest corners, is what allows us to transcend the darkness, to grow, to keep coming home to ourselves. And the natural world is a perfect illustration of this paradoxical truth, with its constant interweaving of life and death, chaos and serenity, destruction and rebirth.
How does environment change how you work?
When I was living in Montreal, I used my studio space to paint most of the time. Since my move to France, I've focused much more on drawing with pens or ink; or painting with watercolours (as opposed to acrylic paint). It might have something to do with my studio
space here – I share the studio (which is called En Traits Libres) with eleven other artists, so space is a little tighter. I work at my desk every day, whereas in my previous studio, I would stand a lot, or sit on a high stool, at the high table or the easel I had set up there. In Montpellier, I'm surrounded by other artists who 'draw', which might have also influenced my artistic practice – though drawing has always been a big part of my work.
In order for me to be able to thrive in my artistic work, I also need to regularly reconnect with nature – I do this by going climbing or hiking on the weekends, out in the countryside, or by paying attention to the trees, the plants and wind inside the city. More recently, I decided to create miniature moss and lichen gardens using moss I (sustainably) picked from nature. The two I made are sitting on my studio desk as I write — it's a little absurd how much joy they give me when I look over at them. I imagine being a tiny little person walking in the mossy landscape and that makes me smile.
What conditions are best for you to work under? (music, light, rituals)
Environment definitely changes how I work, but there is a constant in terms of my ritual of art-making. I am most easily able to enter my ethereal art space when I'm listening to music. Certain types of music help me enter the art-making space more easily than others – they all share a melancholic quality to them. Colleen, Amon Tobin, Plaid, Mùm, Flying Lotus and Alela Diane have always been high on that list. More recently, I've also been listening to Daughter, Other Lives, The Chopin Project by Ólafur Arnalds and Alice Sara Ott, Foals, Alt-J, Sylvan Esso and Mountain Man. They all help me access that silent bubbling space where ideas flow, and lines drift out almost seamlessly. It's a unique kind of space where there is an absence of thoughts and, simultaneously, very complex thought processes happening on a 'lower' level of consciousness – almost as though I were inhabiting a layer that floats midway between conscious thought and subconscious thought. I then choose a tool, and a certain size of paper and start drawing. I often start out in this unplanned way, but as I start making marks on the paper, images start appearing in my mind – textures or structures that inspire me. It's a constant conversation between what the intuitive part of me is making and and how it evokes objects, places or creatures in my mind. I 'follow' just as much as I 'redirect'. Sometimes I stay in the realm of the abstract – but even these abstract shapes are connected to thoughts and are somehow visual 'explanations' of abstract truths. Other times, I very quickly identify the figurative elements that emerge and I continue to explore those.
Every once in a while, I will actually plan my drawing. When this happens, I usually sketch it out in pencil, do some visual brainstorming on the side, and then flesh out the idea more concretely with ink and colour. This is usually the case for my more illustrative work. I also have an 'everything' sketchbook where I throw down ideas, sketch things out, write little tidbits of inspiration down, quotes from books or websites, work on more technical things like perspective, make mistakes, scribble, create finished drawings, journal, basically anything and everything that will continue to feed my artistic process.
How do you see your evolution as an artist? / How has your work changed?
There have been many different parts to my evolution as an artist. Much earlier, when I wasn't really drawing, my creativity expressed itself in a multitude of other ways – it tried to find an outlet through my clothes, the way I dressed, the walls of my room (I would spend hours decorating my walls, finding 'echoes' between different posters, images torn from magazines I found, little objects I found inspiring). Later on, after a long period of 'dormancy' in terms of (concrete) art-making (though I was feeding my creative soul and internal 'bank' of images by studying first biology and then English literature and film), I met Sandrine Gaudet, my art teacher and mentor — her way of teaching was extremely liberating and she allowed me to give free rein to what was within. After meeting her, I started making a lot of art. For a few years, I was exploring everything and anything: testing all kinds of
materials and styles, seeing what was possible and trying to figure out who I was as a creative being. This was a time of exploration, of learning how to embrace the unknown, of how to love failure and see it as a springboard for growth, of how to experience fear and do things anyway, of how to allow myself to be. I started and completed a graduate degree in puppet theatre, which continued helping me hone in on who I was as an artistic being.
In the last two/three years, I feel like my artistic practice has 'stabilized' quite a bit. My identity as an artist has become much clearer as I've aligned myself more clearly with my core. There's much more 'space' in my drawings, perhaps because there's more space in my mind. Certain themes have followed me from the beginning and others have emerged: underwater creatures, trees and strange plants, abandoned houses, abstract thought maps, stars, skies and storms, maps, islands and paths, lost creatures, weavings. I still strive to push boundaries and am looking forward to seeing where things will go in the future.
What do you think of K4K?
K4K is a wonderful project – creating communities like this where people can share their perspectives is so enriching. I've read a number of articles from K4K and it feels so good to read words that resonate with me, where I feel like other people would understand where I'm
coming from and where I'm going. We are all different, but I do think that what binds a lot of the people that are part of K4K is their high sensitivity. I recently read about this, being an HSP (or Highly Sensitive Person), and though feeling deeply can often be perceived as a negative thing, it has so many positive enriching aspects to it. As a sensitive person, there is often a risk of overwhelm or overload, from your emotions, from others' emotions, from external stimuli. But what it also allows is an understanding of different perspectives and layers and truths, a deep connection and empathy with others, and thus a capacity for helping others heal, and for nurturing creativity in the world. K4K does all those things. You can visit Marie-NoĂŤlle Wurm's work at marienoellewurm.com or follow her on Instagram @marienoellewurm.
APRIL TOPICS 1) Grounding techniques: this can be rituals, objects, people, anything! How do you ground yourself when you feel untethered?
"If it's day time, I go out to my back garden and look at what has sprouted, what birds are chirping or quarrelling, what squirrel is crashing their party. I make sure to stand on the exposed earth, and greet the cherry tree in the back, and the pine tree in the neighbour's yard beyond. Then back inside to join Eliott, my 4 year-old-son, in his play, if he'll allow me. If it's night time, and the sky is dark, I look for the moon, the stars and the constellations. In the warmer months, I stand there in the darkened garden, listening to earthworms gently rustling in and out of the earth, like miniature whales surfacing the water." Serene Daoud
"I usually try to change my environment; to take a walk, or to do my yoga practice (inverting my body is like a pill for groundedness for me). Other times, I just try to slow down, take a few breaths and try to remember that I am not a victim of time." AG
2) Walking to the beat of your own heart: how did your reality change? What challenges did you face and how did you overcome them?
"There is no ground beneath my feet anymore, only a tightrope,and I must walk it, for what seems to be miles and miles, and year upon year; sometimes with things piled on my back, with my son in my arms, and with my eyes closed, but my heart wide open." Serene Daoud
"I've always walked to the beat of my heart, which has caused many problems in general. In the past, I would divide myself into different pieces so my psyche was perpetually fissured. Nowadays, I don't have to do that. I try to honour what my heart and body tells me and it actually makes things much easier. Things I ask for come easily, and I see each difficulty as a road of transformation in which I emerge with more and more superpowers if I manage to overcome them." AG
3) Strength-building for the soul / warrior-suit donning > what feeds you, what makes you feel strong on the inside ('empowered')?
"The hollow silent place that I always find in the center of the ever-spinning wheel of my heart-mind. It's an emptiness that is not empty because of a lack of something, but of space being itself unhindered." Serene Daoud
"Being with my soul twin, knowing I am supported in everything I do and that he has my back. What feeds me is honouring my soul self, with its desires and needs. Helping to empower others helps to empower me, because I also find my voice becomes clearer." AG
4) Childhood perceptions and realities: imaginary friends, makebelieve worlds, belief systems
"When I was 3 or 4 I was sure I knew how to levitate, and I would jump on the bed and try to hover. I knew how to do it, but it wouldn't work, and by the time I was 7 I began to doubt this certitude." Serene Daoud.
"I used to think that I only had a finite amount of words, and if I spoke I would run out of them by the time I was an adult, so I never spoke. I would say spells to myself after I spoke because I believed that words had immeasurable power and I would do myself harm if I said something false. I also believed my stuffed animals had souls and their bodies grew heavy if I paid them more attention. Lastly, I thought I could turn invisible if I willed it hard enough and adults wouldn't be able to see me. Needless to say I had a lot of strange beliefs and summarizing them is hard."AG
5) Building your sacred space: Where do you feel the safest? Is this a space you go to or a space you have created? Do you use any specific objects, scents, colours, light? Do you practice specific rituals within this space?
"My sacred place is in the mind that is within my heart, not the one in my head. And it's actually a desert. the silence is profoundly deep and anyone is welcome." Serene Daoud
"I don't have a sacred space but the one I bring with me. It is more like a state of mind I bring with me." AG
6) Defences and Shields: these can be shields of light as well. How do you deal with it when you feel attacked? Sometimes it's necessary to put up a shield, but other times, it's more effective to plant seeds of light. Tell us about what worked for you.
"After years of perfecting putting up shields, it did a very good job of keeping everyone out, and keeping me in,, even when I wanted out. Now I find if I'm truthful to myself in the moment of encountering someone else's shield (which is often appears to be like an attack) then that truthfulness neutralizes all shields, mine included, so there's nothing to attack and nothing to shield. " Serene Daoud.
"I find conflict usually breeds more conflict, and I am deftly afraid of conflict. I am not one
who thinks of people as attackers or enemies, so it is sometimes hard for me to see that someone may not mean me well. I just try to be true to me, and trust that will keep me safe. It's not much, but it works." AG
Kitties for Kitties: the zine Founded by Amy Goh Edited by Heather Lee Mills Publicity by Ai Art by Amy Goh, Ai, Clara Brunet-Turcotte, Marie NoĂŤlle Wurm and Serene Daoad Cheerleading by Etienne Michel
Clara Ghost Cat
Our Members Ai lives in-between one world and the next dream. She finds herself most at peace when standing with one foot in African folktales and the other in Irish fairytales. If lost, she can always be found at the etiquette and folklore section of any library. She can often be caught mumbling strangle things such as "I create realities that forgot how to be real” while she sews fabric of realities together . (aidadaism.com) Amy Goh or Ms. Inkblot is a threshold-walker and creator of many universes. She founded K4K as a way of creating a space where like-souls could encounter like-worlds. (atlantisdreaming.org) Clara Ghost Cat is a writer, poet and artist. She wrote the acclaimed novel Demoiselles-cactus and has also published two books of poetry. (nosebleedsundae.tumblr.com/) E.M is the second half of Ms. Inkblot. They originate from the same twin planets. He is a manipulator of images and sound, and he is also behind a lot of the mechanisms of K4K. H.L. Fatnassi is a recovering storyteller, escaped academic, and Supreme Elven Overlord of Awesomeness (still stuck at level 1). You can help her continue to write and reach out by following her journey through the blog: Storyteller Dreams (storytellerdreams.blogspot.ca). Marta Barnes You can usually find Marta Barnes hidden behind a book in one of the many universes she'd rather be a part of than this one. Once emerged, however, she will probably be busy in a creative project involving something to do with writing, art, or photography. Give her tea, thick-frosted carrot cake, and a like on one of her blog posts, and she'll probably love you forever. (downfromthedoor.com) Marie-Noëlle Wurm is an artist, illustrator, daydreamer, stargazer, and, at times, a puppeteer. She loves creating worlds that are dreamlike, whimsically playful and delicately dark — filled with magical or haunting atmospheres. You can help her continue creating lost creatures, poetic worlds and ethereal nebulas by joining her Patreon page, which also functions as her blog (patreon.com/marienoellewurm) Serene Daoud is a freelance-artist and animator, based in Montreal, QC. She also moonlights
as shadow-and-light-worker in the dream-realm. (serenedaoud.net) Talia Parfaniuk is a farmer. V. Sends this text to describe herself...
Child I am the child of Fire and Water, daughter of the Moon and the Wind. The Fog is my home, and Dawn is my time. Whenever my fierce self burns too high, Water gets me back to peace. Autumn is my season, as no time of the Wheel feels better, with the fog haunting the streets and the Wind cleansing the air. A middle ground, nor hot or cold. Not alive, yet not quite dead, although the world is making a spiral dance. A spiral dance towards the shadows, my cozy resting place.
For enquiries to purchase any of the artworks in this zine, please contact each individual artist. :)
Charities we support
Love Kuching Project is all about loving the cats in our lives and in our neighbourhoods.
We are a cat rescue group in Singapore with a small cattery run entirely by volunteers with big hearts. Our volunteers administer care to chronically ill or injured stray cats and abandoned kittens. We are also involved in cat rescues, sterilisation, adoption and public education.
We believe that cats that have received love can reciprocate and give back to society. Serving as therapy cats, former strays that have a sweet and gentle disposition provide comfort and warmth to elderly residents in nursing homes or to children with special needs. Patients young and old enjoy spending time with our gentle cats.
If you wish to support our cause, please make a donation of any amount to Love Kuching Project (DBS current account number 027-905975-3). Thank you so much!
Love Kuching Project is registered under Registry of Societies of Singapore, UEN number T13SS0220G.
Oasis Second Chance Animal Shelter Origin of OSCAS It all started in 2004 when two good friends, Mary and Anita, started stray feeding in Changi.
Back then, when Changi was still a forested area, there used to be an old man on a bike with two pails of food for the dogs. When the old man disappeared sometime later in 2004, the two women, worried that the dogs deep in the jungle were not getting fed, decided to venture into the jungle to feed the dogs.
In 2005, when the authorities announced that the land would be cleared to build a space for air shows, and the dogs would be culled, the women went to the Agri-Food Veterinary Authority of Singapore (AVA) to persuade them against it and to give them time to clear the dogs from the area. Armed with help from SPCA and a rented kennel space from their current landlord, Ericsson Pet Farm, the ladies trapped 60 of the strays who became the first residents of Oasis.
Today, OSCAS continues to be a safety haven for the rescues, a place where Mary and Anita continue to give their hearts to the doggies as they await their forever homes.
Thank you for supporting us!