Lucid Zine - July 2013

July 2013 Volume One, issue One

zine

Sensory Deprivation (6)

The soul of Santa Rosa (19)

Showtime (24)

Lucid Zine combines works of parody, works of fiction and works of journalism; the differentiation between them should be readily apparent to the capable mind. Lucid magazine claims the full application of the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America, as an informative work of art… Any who might be offended by the content of this publication has the right and capacity to enjoy other media of entertainment and/or informative nature; no information give to our readers is intended as defamation, but an honest representation of opinion.

Certain writers, both contributory and on the staff, may have views that are not shared by the rest of this organization; however, we will defend their right to have and express their opinions to our last breaths. All rights, save those voluntarily given to Lucid in a contractual exchange, belong to the writer/artist/photographer. Any threat of bodily harm upon our staff, adjunct or tenured, will be recorded and prosecuted: we are warriors of truth, and these words are our armor.

Nic Pelegri - Co-Editor, Writer, Photographer, Areopagus Brandon Clute - Co-Editor, Areopagus, Panglobal Vibrations Emily Wilburn - Copy Editor, Mistress of Fonts, Aesthetic Direction Margaret Brunet - Graphic Design, Aesthetic Direction Niltiak Eulb - Mission Orientation, Aesthetic Direction Angela Bardot – Aesthetic Direction, Writer, Photographer Zachary Senn - Mission Orientation, Writer, Photographer, Alas Babylon Billy Stoner – Writer, Fanboy extraordinaire, Pop Culture Analyst Claire Rodin - Writer, Photographer Skylar Matney - Writer, Photographer Jordan Greene - Writer, Photographer Megan Korsak - Photographer Victoria Gonzales – Photographer

contents Something to think about: Sensory deprivation

6

Brandon clute

Casus Belli: Mob Democracy

8 9 10 13

Emily wilburn

The soul of santa rosa

19

Megan Korsak (photography) & Margaret Brunet (writing)

Panglobal vibrations

23 26 26 29 30 31

Brandon clute

Alas Babylon Copy How not to eat people: fiji’s ongoing struggle with obnoxious outsiders, and how I tried not to be one

Showtime Areopagus Chiron eleutherios Objects and stuff Fuck off

Zachary Senn Shelly Fairbanks Nic Pelegri

Mike Jasso Nic Pelegri, Brandon clute Nic Pelegri The orcs Nic Pelegri

Editors

Nic Pelegri Stockton, California Eccentric, Loud Mouthed, and Voracious Traveller

Emily Wilburn Stockton, California Meticulous, Hockey Chieftaness, and Junk Food Curator

Brandon Clute Spokane, Washington Disc Jockey, Explorer of Metaphysics and Party Animal

Content

Claire Rodin Tuscon, Arizona Vivid, Conditionally Irreverent and Passionate Devotee of the Gaiman-Burtonesque

Zachary Senn Ripon, California Compassionate Activist, World Traveler and Future Expatriot

Skylar Matney Stockton, California Devoted Destroyer of Misconceptions, Fluent Tumblsh speaker and Marquis of the Fandoms

Victoria Gonzalez Stockton, California Spends a lot of her time as a heated pretzel, colorful being, and artsy-vart

Jordan “The Commissioner” Greene Stockton, California Thoughtfully Argumentative, Tattooobsessed Cultureholic and Voice of an Angel. Oh, and Hipster.

Billy Stoner Stockton, California Valiantly Loyal, Crafter of Fictitious Worlds and Inventor of the word “Blarglarglargle.”

Megan Korsak Santa Rosa, California Virgil of amazing sandwich shops, Poker-with-sticks-of-dead-things-onthe-beach and Mistress of Mario

Design

Margaret Brunet Santa Rosa, California Dreamer, Vivacious and Lover of Puns Shelly Fairbanks Stockton, California Exquisite Hobbit with the ability to unleash a torrent of words and make it flood reality

Angela Bardot Stockton, California Perpetually Jean-skirt-clad, Literary Trapper of Moments, and Photon Wrangler

guests

Niltiak Eulb Santa Cruz, California Eclectic, Grass-roots and Fingers that flow with paint and ink Michael Jasso Fresno, California MC of Loudmouth Poetry, Multicultural, and Purveyor of Rastafari Wisdom

A blind man, deaf, without touch, taste, or smell.

In a word, senseless.

With no contact to the outside world, the world we live in is unparalleled to his.

He is all and nothing, to be determined only by the unknown.

Around the web you may have stumbled across a circulating article about such a case. Though its origin and validity are unconfirmed and thus likely bogus, it does still provide insight into some very real possibilities.

It was said to be the year 1983. A local scientific community was scouting for volunteers to test their ideas upon. The hypothesis was simple; would a subject whose five senses had been taken away be able to detect the presence of God? Only one man agreed to subject himself to their experiment; an elderly man who claimed he had nothing left to live for anyway. Through severing specific nerves required for sensory function, but leaving muscular abilities intact, the scientists were said to have successfully created a man who was completely unaware to the world around him.

Over the next few days he began to claim he was hearing muffled voices. Figuring it was simply the beginning of psychosis the scientists disregarded the change. But slowly, the man began to hear the voices

more clearly. His deceased wife spoke to him he claimed, and he felt he could speak back. Several scientists even abandoned the project after the man began reciting personal details about their family members which he had no way of knowing, as they were dead. To his dismay, it only worsened as time went on. Eventually he began to claw at his skin and eyes trying to force some sort of stimulus to take his mind off the ever growing barrage of overwhelming voices.

But he could not. After nearly two weeks the man went mad, tearing bits of flesh from his arms and yelling incoherently. After several hours of this he was tied down and eventually fell silent. He looked fixedly at the ceiling for hours before speaking his final words.

Abruptly ending his silence his vitals escalated and he said one last thing to those monitoring him. With his last breath he managed the words, “I have spoken with God, and he has abandoned us.�

Religious connotations aside, I have found some deeper meaning in this. This idea that, with all external

stimuli removed, perhaps you really can come in contact with the divine. What you chose to call the divine is up to you, but perhaps, there is something beyond the reality our brain hollonomicially projects for us. The energy floating around us, the matter which constructs the universe, if the distractions of our world were removed, would we be able to perceive it?

Perhaps this is what the man was said to be hearing, even seeing and talking to.

There are some ways which we can try to access this realm ourselves without taking such drastic measures.

Isolation chambers, sometimes called isolation compartments, are located in cities around the world and are often-times available for public use via a fee. In these devices you are submerged in body temperature salt water, in a completely sound and light proof container. Many people use the lack of feeling present while in one of these compartments to meditate or simply clear their mind; without the distraction of our perceived senses.

If bathing in water doesn’t sound quite right for you, or perhaps you just want another option, try an anechoic chamber. These rooms remove about 99% of all external sound, and drastically limit sound within

them. Once your ears adjust you can hear your blood flowing, the movement of your lungs, and the digestion in your stomach. This isn’t as good for meditation however as most people cannot stay longer than fortyfive minutes before going a bit mad. The lack of sound affects your ability to balance, and the sound of your own body functioning grates on most people after a short while.

All of this aside, the point I wish to make is simple.

Reality for each of us is based on our perceptions; be it through our senses, experience, or unexplained phenomenon. If we take the worldly distractions away, the mindless clutter, what is left? Can we begin to sense what animals are often said to when a natural disaster occur? The energy of the world around us, the paranormal, the divine. It’s just something to think about.

Casus

belli I thought June 25th was going to be an ordinary night at home.

Actually, I didn’t know what day it was. I may have been fuzzy about the month and year as well. It was well into my summer vacation, and it was an otherwise insignificant day.

You may have heard talk recently about Senate Bill 5, or SB5, which was recently debated in the Texas Legislature. Maybe you’ve seen a picture of a pair of pink Nikes. Or heard the name Wendy Davis.

It must’ve been about ten o’clock that night when I logged onto Tumblr and noticed more chaos than usual. A lot of bloggers were talking about Wendy Davis, Texas, and SB5.

SB5, if passed, would close all but five abortion clinics in the state of Texas. It would do other damage as well, cutting or eliminating funding for women’s shelters and children’s programs, but the big deal was the crackdown on clinics. To lend some perspective, Texas could swallow most of Western Europe Driving from the western tip to the eastern border takes about twelve hours.

After Texas Democrats—who are in the minority—spent several weeks trying to add terrible amendments so the bill couldn’t pass, the issue heated up. It was more volatile than the average discussion on abortion.

The legislative session was coming to an end, and it was clear the Texas State Legislature wanted to push the bill through. However, a vote had to be taken before midnight on the last day of the legislative session.

So a state senator named Wendy Davis stepped up to filibuster for thirteen hours on that last day, June 25th. She wouldn’t be permitted to use the bathroom, or drink, or even lean on the podium.

It was a pretty badass moment for women in politics. So I found a link for a livestream and clicked, thinking I’d listen to Wendy Davis instead of music, and be inspired by her badassery.

When the footage loaded Wendy Davis wasn’t there. Instead a silverhaired woman was flipping through a thick binder and tossing out endless references to some sort of code. A man was standing at a podium arguing with her. Every once in a while, protestors watching from the gallery let out cheers or shouts.

And the comments section on the side of the screen was blowing up faster than Twitter during a Glee episode.

As it turns out, the filibuster had been put on hold indefinitely. Wendy Davis had spoken “off topic” three times and the senate was trying to shut her down. She was still standing, in case she was allowed to resume speaking, while other Democrats tried to block or stall the challenge.

The number of people watching the livestream kept rising as the minutes dragged. For the last twenty minutes or so before midnight, there were nearly two hundred thousand viewers.

The president of the state senate, exuding frustration, repeatedly pushed away all objections to end the filibuster, and began asking for a vote. But then State Senator Leticia Van De Putte spoke up.

“Parliamentary inquiry, Mr. President,” she said. “I called to adjourn before you proposed a vote. My motion takes precedence.”

The president said her motion wasn’t recognized. Van De Putte asked why. The president said he couldn’t hear her. Van De Putte said she’d repeated herself several times and had raised her voice.

“Everyone else in this room heard me,” she told him.

The president mumbled a denial and announced the vote would begin—and Ms. Van De Putte dropped some of the most memorable, and most quoted, words of the night.

“At what point must a female senator raise her hand or her voice to be heard over her male colleagues?”

The gallery exploded into a frenzy of cheering. At first it was support for the state senator. But at some point, the crowd realized the significance of their noise. The president could not be heard. They were too loud. And if they could stay that loud for the remaining ten minutes, SB5 would die.

Chaos is not the first word to come to mind when thinking about a legislative session. But chaos had forced its way into the chambers and it echoed through the Internet. I couldn’t help glancing at the clock every few moments. The president had given up on his microphone and seemed to be calling all the representatives up to the front. The people milling around on the floor added to the confusion.

At midnight the gallery was still screaming. The news was online within seconds—victory for Wendy Davis, for Leticia Van De Putte, for Texas Democrats, for the gallery, for the clinics. Defeat for SB5.

But at the front of the chambers, senators surrounded the president.

Arguments erupted. And the gallery, I suddenly noticed, was silent again.

They were silent because they’d been escorted out of the buildings by guards and police officers. The senators were arguing because the president had announced the passage of the bill. As the shock set in, rumors flew. Representatives said the vote had been counted before midnight. The records were changed to reflect this.

The chaos of the past hour spilled over into the next few, as Democrats made angry speeches promising to fight the decision, and as the crowd waited outside the legislative chambers. Finally, under tremendous pressure, it was announced that the bill had not passed legally.

SB5 quietly became law several weeks later, after Governor Rick Perry called a special legislative session.

After that night, some Republicans said a mob had taken over the building—but I ask you, who was the real mob on the night of June 25th?

ALAS BABYLON If you ever find yourself amidst my photography, you may notice some of my street photographs are subtitled "Alas, Babylon."

In 1959 Pat Frank depicted the demise of the American Empire at the hands of a nuclear war in his famous novel, Alas, Babylon.

Nearly 60 years have elapsed since the worst of the nuclear scare has passed, however, and the American Empire is alive and well. Or so it seems.

As someone whose idea of a perfect day involves photographing street scenes in urban California, however, I get to see aspects of modern America that many pretend don't exist. While for the time being the United States may be safe from foreign threats, I see something far more frightening: an apathetic attitude to the destruction and oppression of many of its own people. As ancient Babylonia was known as a large, multicultural superpower, so the United States is also.

However, both nations were and are plagued by issues of domestic and international social injustice, vast economic gaps, and ailing urban centers.

Consider my Alas, Babylon series as a sort of social study. These are the photos that are often the dearest to my heart. These are the photos that depict what life is really like for many living in the United States of America.

These are the photos that document the many sides of the Urban American lifestyle, for better or for worse.

Alas, Babylon.

Zachary Senn is a freelance photographer and intern journalist at the Modesto Bee; he will explore this topic as a columnist here at Lucid Zine.

How to not eat people Fiji’s ongoing struggle with obnoxious outsiders, and how I tried not to be one

"We really don't eat people, not for a while at least," grinned Kesa, "not anymore. But we all figure that tourist would taste like bacon." He clicked his strong, white sand teeth at me, and winked with a chuckle. "Kana vinaka."

Good food. Barring the recent century, the past three thousand years of Fijian history has viewed any pesky outsiders in such a manner, a view that – though different than our own – was quite practical in its way. There was no waste in disposing of foreign warriors, and invaders were unlikely to ever return for another try once they realized that their opponents viewed them as lunch. Cannibalism wasn't savagery; it was snack-friendly pest control and homeland security rolled into one foreign policy.

Kesa and I sat with Beisa, Vuli, and a couple of the local elders who had been Vuli's childhood friends; all of us were perched and curled up on the mustard planks that made up the porch of the fabric shop next to POTS and thing outlet, on the main thoroughfare through Savusavu. We watched the people pass the shop, greting them in true Vitian style, with phosphorescent smiles and a chorus of yandra vinaka, good morning.

Savusavu is the main town on the southern coast of Vanua Levu, the long land. Its layout is that of a jungleswathed Old Western town, with an aesthetic that was equal parts flea market, produce stand, outlet clearance section and Factory2U shopping center, with a Dollar Tree across the way. Video rentals, hardware stores, barber shops, banks, a library and the remnants of a burned out night club gives you all the comforts of home, minus the hot water or complimentary toilet paper.

Three or four resorts have cropped up on the surrounding coast east and west of Savusavu proper, but given their marketing as "secluded luxury island getaways," only a small percentage of the tourists make their way into town. Those that do are invariably vast,

pale creatures with point-and-shoots slung across their throats, sunburned Moby Dicks with scores of insect ahabs clinging to them by their harpoons. These voluminous visitors peer and whisper in clusters, zincoxide probosci waggling between their Raybans and the Neon Aloha shirts they've attired themselves in, sweating and chortling in excited terror at the quaint and savage exoticness of the natives, the shops, the straycats, the plastic bags they put their souveniers in, because this is not your ordinary run-of-the-mill plastic bag, oh-ho-no... it's a FIJIAN plastic bag. These are the Americans-on-vacation, midwestern words and New York accents bringing what seldom variations there are in the herd; there was the occasional better-dressed, less corulent Australian family, but on the whole there were more Americans.

Though they'd vigorously deny it to a visitor, the western tourist "on holiday" seems to the villagers to be a large child, luckily blessed with too many toys to ever be happy; for being in a culture so far removed from the day-to-day of our own, it is remarkable how perceptive their insight is. The Vitian people treat their loud visitors with a kindness that goes beyond even their demanding code of hospitality, but this kindness

isn't sycophantic in nature; rather, it seems to be similar to the small child who befriends the rich bully on the playground, not out of a desire for protection or a cut of the lunchmoney take, but instead out of the realization that the bully probably doesn't have many true friends, if any, and must be rather lonely.

As we sat, I greeted what tourists came within earshot; some giggled and chittered, others sullenly continued walking, unfazed by the kindness of the town around them... all did a double take to reaffirm that my skin was white. One could hardly blame them, as I'd done my best to distance myself from the jarring and irritatingly flamboyant caricature that the average American tourist on Vanua Levu has succeeded in making of themself. It was helpful that I kind of naturally enjoy sitting cross-legged more than on chairs, I like listening to old people, and when in a situation that is new to me, I can usually be found raptly devouring my sensory input; all of these attributes are seen as virtues in the Vitian culture, along with respect for nature, the appreciation of a good joke, loving one's family, excitement in learning new things, and a desire to pull one's own weight. At this point in the trip, I'd begun to dress like the local elders, in sandals, t-shirt, sulu and a hat or kerchief. For fun I'd made myself a shell lei, which unbeknownst to me was the traditional necklace of their chiefs. Rather than be offended, however, these venerable and socially powerful old men had laughingly taken to calling me "Ratu," meaning chief, and welcomed me into their circle that I might learn as much as I could about their traditions, language and culture; this was only one instance of the great kindnesses that the people of Nagigi showed us, as their guests.

I'd hopped the truck that Vuli and Kesa had called up for themselves to run into town for some errands, with the intent of buying an isulu vakataga, a Vitian man's kilt, and I dragged Benisa along to make sure I got a fair price. Being my age, we had much to talk about, ranging from girls to politics and from tattoos to the Vitian language. Sulu bought and donned, along with a good mahogany handled kitchen knife, we walked over to the produce market, and bought a coconut apiece from a neighbor’s stall for $FJ 1 each, or 50 cents American. Ben notched open the top, and we drained

the bu wai down our gullets, toasting to friendship and to Viti, and feeling more alive than I ever have.

The Vitian greeting, bula, literally means thrive; perhaps it takes a culture so acquainted with death to truly understand living, because never has such a word seemed so apt for a people. Over the first week in Nagigi, the volunteer crew that I was with began to realize that we were starting to laugh like Vitians, not our old American laughs. The American laugh is a matter of cheeks, chest and throat, with a measure and a precise duration and volume, conforming to what is socially allowable in a given context. The Vitian laugh is altogether different: your toes curl, your diaphragm flaps and your jaw pivots, forming a tube from craw to tonsil through which a jocular wave of involuntary sound and air rushes like a wave, and you're lost inside it, like an orgasm or a disorientating riptide, until you wash ashore and wipe the grinning tears form your eyes, dripping with the remaining titters and giggles.

The Vitian laugh is better to my way of thinking.

The truck we'd taken into town had broken down, and in a land where our bus driver had been necessitated to pour his drinking water into the radiator through a hole that had been gouged in the dashboard, the sentence "the truck broke down" has an entirely different significance. Vuli ordered a car for he and Kesa, as well as another for Ben and I, and we roared home in a left handed Mitsubishi with no working speedometer, our young Indo-Fijian driver named Chanil blasting thumbdrives full of international pop over through the buzzing stereo the whole way.

When we'd returned to Nagigi, Ben and I decided to swim to Naitilo... but having been called back to the kitchen by an imposing lady with a dark helmet of hair, Ben handed me over to Josefa, another guy our age who would soon become one of my greatest friends.

Hometown rugby star and effortlessly ripped, he gave me a run for my money heading out to Naitilo, swimming though we both were with equipment above our heads.

Naitilo is a long, thin island that connects to the reef that shelters Nagigi's lagoon, and once was part of it.

Covered in dense jungle, the trees feed on the coral

rocks that constitute the entire island, and give home to countless spiders, crustaceans and hermit crabs. The trees themselves provide similar shelter to myriads of birds, and one leafed behemoth is a fortress foundation for a colony of beka, flying foxes, who fly to the mainland every night to feed, and return with the sunrise to their green home.

Joe's grandfather, Vo, is the last patriarch of a subclan that traces its lineage back to the first settlers of Naitilo, and though the island is now solely inhabited by beka, Joe followed the invisible paths with the ease of one who grew on them. We crossed the island and descended through a crevice to the opposite edge, standing knee deep in the warm ocean and drinking niu, aged coconut, which is rather like kissing an otter.

We joked how we would never swim back, and just build a hut together and train the bats to pick fruit for us... and though we were joking, I realized in that moment that there was nothing I'd rather do.

Regrettably, we returned to the mainland, though happily in time for dinner. After feasting to rolling point, I sat with the elders, listening to them discuss the tenuous times ahead for their country.

Though you'd not know it from the brochures, resorts or the happiness of its people, Fiji is very politically instable. In 2006, increasingly frustrated with supposedly anti-Indo-Fijian political system, Commodore Frank Bainarama of the Fijian Navy wrested control of the government from the sitting president, declaring emergency powers and starting the fourth coup in the last three decades. Having missed the demands for immediate free elections, Fiji was again cut off from the Commonwealth; having lost such valuable economic allies, Bainarama's occupational forces turned to the Chinese government for diplomatic relations, taking out multimillion dollar loans for infrastructure overhauls, using Chinese prisoners as a labor force.

Since this period of economic cooperation has commenced, there's been a growing triad presence in Fiji, recruiting Indian immigrants and Fijian nationals for a slew of schemes, including organ farming and black

market fishing. Even licensed fishing ships are being allowed far too close to shore, take much too large of hauls, and are only turned a blind-eye to on account of China's fiscal stranglehold on the nation.

The country faces a growingly fed up population who are watching the economy sink into debt, an unmediated conflict between Indo-Fijians and the original Vitians, the rapid depletion of their oceans, and a general lack of respect for the the dignity and intelligence of a polite yet free-speaking people, and they are watching it spiral out of control.

Speech is free in Fiji, if it is either out of earshot or complimentary; only recently, a group of vocal dissidents were forced at gunpoint by members of the Fijian military into vans, taken to the barracks, and made to strip down to their underwear and run laps. This flagrant display of brute force was indeed whispered about throughout the archipelago, as was the intention, but instead of instilling fear, it has sparked indignation.

The Vitian peoples are all proud races, and disrespecting another Fijian so greatly, even opposition, is scowled on by their cultures' morals.

The unrest of the people combined with UN pressure has forced the occupying government to hold a free election this next year, 2014. The Fijian public is excited, yet apprehensive, wondering if a secondary coup will follow the election results, if those aren't to the liking of the current government.

I turned to Ben and asked who he'd vote for; though he's 19, the last free election in his country had been when he was 11. He told me softly that he was still listening to the candidates, as he wanted to make the best decision possible.

I couldn’t help but notice the extreme difference between American “civic-mindedness� and this intense, Vitian devotion to Fiji. Perhaps I was still cruising along in the ethnocentric concept that all nations secretly want to be or move to the United States.

The next morning when the water filtration crew and I went up to the school to continue our work on the slow sand filters, we arrived just in time to see the raising of

the colors. The color guard – three solemn third graders – began to pull the Fijian flag towards the sky it resembled, as the classes stood at attention, being led by their Headmaster in giving full throat to the Fijian anthem. Though there was some of the inevitable foot shuffling amongst the younger children, on a whole I was simply overwhelmed with the patriotic love that overflowed that hill… and it was then I realized that there had been and ever would be men and women who would only regret that they had but one life to give for Fiji.

After a full day’s work – which by Fijian standards begins at six and ends at four – Ben, Joe, Matt, Jordan and I sat with some of the girls on some of the fallen palm trees at the high tide line. The lukewarm brine of the waves played chicken with our toes, and Benisa and Josefa’s voices blended with the guitar string’s reverberations. I

stood there, isulu flapping at my hips where I’d tucked it, knee deep in the surf and swigging from yet another bu; I was happy, with a strange, wild contentment that I’d known as an acquaintance, but never really gotten to know personally until then. It was there, watching the sun set behind the trees and casting long violet and pink shadows on Naitilo… it was there, wrapped in the same breeze that gives flight to the seagull-sized beka flying homeward… it was there, listening to the voices mix of Americans and Vitians, worlds apart, but blending in laughter, light romance, and friendship that I saw what the feeling was, what it really was.

The feeling was the seed of that fierce and passionate devotion to Fiji, noqu Viti.

The feeling was Home.

the soul of

SANTA rosa

Tucked amongst scattered vineyards and fruitful farms, Santa Rosa is a northern California town that epitomizes everything there is to love about our bountiful state. Although the beauty is what draws people to Santa Rosa, its brains are what make people stay, the brains being the culture and the contagious positivity emanated from the people who live here.

Down town Santa Rosa is truly where the heart of the town lies; a place where the population of angsty hipsters, spunky retirees, and young families alike can collectively acknowledge the presence of something special. As you stroll down central 4th Street, talented

musicians will serenade you with their latest original, delectable scents from restaurants will waft and overwhelm your senses, and you will be able to enjoy the impeccable beauty of the sculptures and murals that ornament the streets and buildings. The pride and tenacity of the people is what proves Santa Rosa to be an eloquent marriage between agricultural bliss and rich historical lore. Perhaps these jumbled words do not describe the soul of Santa Rosa for everyone; rather they describe my experiences in this town, a town where my soul feels at home.

Panglobal Vibrations

Funky, fresh, and crisp; words which come to mind when the self-proclaimed artist of "Raging Disco Beats" take hold. Formed in the summer of 2010, this duo consists of two nineteen year olds, Ketil & Ulrik. Named after the professor who inspired them, Georges LemaĂŽtre, together they craft what I have dubbed indie electro. While performing these two combine both live and pre-recorded music, for a more engaging experience than a typical DJ would offer. Melodic synths and high's whose clarity is memorable separate LemaĂŽtre from other up-andcoming artists with electronic backgrounds. Their music is a sound purely unique to them, and because of that I advise even those who don't normally listen to electronic music to give them a try.

SHOWTIME Michael Jasso

Saturday Nights are reserved for those who have Broadway ambitions and Cadillac dreams Another day that becomes as sacred as the Sabbath to those who couldn't find comfort in the rest of the week A moment in time that belongs to the ones that have been forced to wear labels The ones who have trouble sleeping Because they slave away in the night to make their dreams realities I’m talking about the kids who have spent time hiding in the backstage The kind of kids who waltz along the rafters Drawing open the curtains Planning, reciting Working towards their spotlight moment

Cut to Scene 1 Action We are the ones who write the music to inspire others to dance We write the poems that ignite the masses And we paint the murals on the side of abandoned libraries to remind us of our journey A journey we all wear in one shape or another We were the ones who had our lunch money taken The ones tripped in the hallways Pointing Laughing We have been called every horrific name and they still think we can change They see us as different when all we did was discover our own definition of beauty They can call me crazy for imagining a world with The freaks as artists The outcasts as leaders The outsiders who attempt to take a stab at the monotony of society and call it a revolution

Cut to Scene 2 Action Maybe this is why I think scars are beautiful Representations of the final step of the healing process This is why we own those Saturday nights This is why we dream of bigger stages and luxuries they told us we couldn't have Much like boxers who tell stories of their bouts Our knockout moment was when we learned how to get up from the canvas after another barrage and onslaught of words cutting deep We are the marks society has self-inflicted upon her rough exterior And we have engraved ourselves deep in her subconscious We can heal We can move on And we can never be forgotten

Cut to Final Scene Action Saturday nights are sacred to us because we are the ones who build our stages upon pedestals since we dare reach further then they allowed us

By Sunday morning they will see us through a new perspective

By Sunday morning they will see us through our point of view They will see beauty redefined

Close curtain Take a bow Exit stage right

areopagus

IBN-TZU SKALD

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Areopagus, where the life, the universe and everything (even fish) are discussed. The discourse, as always, is in a dialogue form. Beginning our discussion today is The Electronic Skald of the North, having traveled far from the Land of Perpetual Green; following in a slightly more Socratic form is Ibn-Tzu, who has decided to join us from his mountainous retreat, the Ashram of Hedonism.

Let us proceed.

Today, I suggest the topic of selflessness: the notion that one can forgo themself as a priority and think of another foremost. As the term implies, they would be without self, if done to its utmost. Now, my take on it is that as humans, we are very limited in our attempts to attain complete selflessness. That is not to say, however, that we cannot be selfless to a rather high level; giving your for the sake of another, for instance, is a selfless act, if done for reasons other than building your own reputation as being selfless.

What prevents that instance from being selfless is that in order to pursue selflessness, you must neglect… you. If you’re acting ‘selflessly’ in order to benefit you, it’s not truly being selfless.

As you value selflessness, do you feel that selfish systems, like capitalism, are wrong… or more to the point, ineffectual?

By and large, such systems that depend on a frequency of avarice in its population have a greater success rate and survival length when compared to other systems that depend on mankind’s altruism.

I’m of the belief that almost every social system is flawed to some extent, though I tend to be more pro-socialism than capitalism. The problem that I have with capitalism, or rather, the many avarice-dependent social systems, is that it put a premium on commodity above its people. It establishes a society of materialism, and naturally, the price and value of goods then becomes greater than that of human interaction.

The ‘first world’ is ever-evolving into a more item-based community, even as we speak. Google Glass, as one example of many, shall blur the lines between human and technological interaction, as will any ‘enhanced reality’ systems. Everything you do will be integrated with technology to some extent, and the price and purpose of being human just seems to lose its value with each increase of enhancement. Though, to be honest, the concept of humans being quantified as having ‘value’ is a bit problematic for me to begin with.

Do you than take issue with the turn of phrase ‘I value you,’ or ‘I value our friendship,’ amongst other such expressions?

If someone values our friendship, I understand that they are trying to say that our friendship means something to them. What I take issue with is when a monetary figure is put on the head of a human, as if we’re worth more or less than something. An example is the upper class, who are often ‘worth’ millions. Why are they more ‘valuable’ than you or I? Are we not as human as they? But to stay on the topic of selflessness, when the commodity is more valuable than the person whom it is designed to help, where is the drive to be without self, and to act for others? Rather, wouldn’t you be pushed to purchase, or create another product that is ‘valuable,’ so that you in turn are deemed as more valuable?

The drive of altruism in a system where the commodity is of more use than the recipient is dependent upon the results of one’s examination into the value of life itself.

I agree; well said…. And honestly, with other discussion of late with philosophical comrades, Life in many ways seems to have little purpose, as it is… but I suppose that’s for another time.

In an evolutionary system, arisen from chance, life is in surplus, and with high supply comes limited demand and value; however, in an intelligent design scenario, god, goddess, aliens, what have you, life has an intrinsic value as a gift from the divine. As for the value of life being a discussion for another time, I don’t think that it is… because altruism is based upon a system of mental and emotional mores, and yes, values. Most altruism isn’t based in blind acts of meaningless generosity, but instead in the belief that this contributes to a better world, or is suitable for the treatment of something of value, such as life.

That is true. But we are learning creatures; the society we are raised in, and which envelopes us, is much more likely to play a role in what emotional archetype we develop. A society that is more socialistic and more focused on the people – not the individual – might be better for creating such a populus.

This is not to say that socialism is the answer to all of man’s

woes, as it is not. I’m strictly trying to say that a structure that focuses on ‘us,’ the ‘you and me,’ is ideal. And socialism, to me, seems to strive most for that out of the modern social structures. There are, of course, different views on if we as humans are even capable of genuine selflessness; the eastern cultures tend to declare that we are, whereas the western discourse, Machiavelli being an example, seems to dwell upon the human as a political creature, as opposed to a social one. In some sense, it’s up to personal flavor.

At that point you need to ask yourself if it really matters if there is genuine selflessness… The person who is hospitable to create a better world for their children, a better afterlife for themselves, or to give a gift of true kindness to a stranger all still behave in the same functional way. And though there are differing degrees of independence vs. interdependence buried in the differences between the first and third worlds, both stem from the same concerns, issues and viewpoints.

It depends on what you subscribe to, at that point. If you wish for a truly divine concept, genuine selflessness would be ideal… to think for the whole, and not the individual. If all were capable of this, you would not need to worry so much about yourself, as the collective mass would be ensuring your wellbeing, so long as you returned the favor. I still believe, regardless of if you feel a need for it to be genuine, or practical, that a society that encourages any form of altruism is ideal. Socialism itself, for instance, may not promote ‘real’ selflessness, but it does indeed put more emphasis on doing what is right for the group, as opposed to the Darwinian ‘survival of the fittest’ take on life. As I said, irrespective of how spiritual you view yourself to be, selflessness is generally viewed as a good thing, though there are a couple of philosophical sports. I just feel that we should promote such acts.

If we’re speaking of sheer ethical belief, I honestly feel that the different ways of achieving an altruistic act have no effect upon its result, in a practical sense... much like reaching and describing a mathematical point using either the Cartesian coordinate system, or distance and radians. What is your justification for your specific attitude about achieving such a state seeming ethically superior, or at least, spiritually advantageous?

Well I'll put it this way. The divine, the goddess, the god, whatever you view, has asked of you to act in a way that promotes the wellbeing of yourself and others. Observe the world as a collective, or better, the universe; boiled down to its most basic unit, the sum total of everything in the universe is constituted by energy. No matter which of the forces which govern the known universe is acting upon, it is all still energy.

We, as humans, then, are energy as well; in some circles, this is thought to be the reason that beings more in tune with nature - dogs and cats, for example - can sense natural disasters before they occur. The detection of changing energy if you will. Additionally, you have the results of tests on individuals communicating without the ability to see or hear or another, or even know who the other is. For instance, there was an experiment a couple of years ago in the States: two individuals chosen at random were placed in rooms surrounded in cement and soundproof doors. One had a light flash at random before their eyes, the other having no idea of what the other was experiencing, nor when; once the test had been completed, the subject without the lights was then questioned. Each reported having seen a flash of light come from nowhere.... Captured on video, the reaction of the patient without the actual flashing occurred at the same time as the other patient’s reaction to the physically present lights.

This is only one of several similar tests showcasing that perhaps we are all connected to some extent. The point I am trying to make is that is we are all connected, in ways that we are perhaps unable to perceive, especially without the commercial and material distractions from the divine.

Because of this, selflessness that isn’t genuine would affect us all, to some extent. The energy one would emit would not be that of true altruism, but that of an individual seeking to benefit themselves. The definition of the selflessness I profess to be true selflessness is acting to benefit the group as a whole, not just yourself. I suppose if an action is best for everyone involved, then - in a sense - I still feel it to be somewhat selfless, though I’m not trying to say you must always be selfless. As you are likely to have learned in Elementary Psychology, the optimal choice is always what is best for you AND the other person who is involved in that particular instance. If you are to act selflessly with a desire to help - and hopefully you do from time to time - that is genuine.

If this is true and we are all connected... can there ever truly be selflessness? If we are all connected, serving each other is serving ourselves. Which to some extent, makes sense...

areopagus

a r e o p a g u s

Gentlemen, we are beginning to run out of time.

Very well; if you would, just answer one more question: Is there any perceptible difference in action and effect between someone attempting to benefit the whole, and someone attempting to benefit themselves by improving the condition within which the whole consists?

I believe so. It really depends on in what way the person is benefitting themselves. If they are greedy – for instance, looking for more product or wealth – the act of benefitting themselves takes away from others. But if they are looking for a way to better their being, that in turn could improve how they treat others, which is ideal. If you're acting optimally, in my book, you're trying to better everyone involved… which very well might include yourself. But being greedy and trying to better only yourself isn't what I call optimal; it must be beneficial, a self-bettering according to a healthy moral standard… though I do understand morals differ per person.

These are just mine.

But that doesn't answer my question at all…What I asked was if is there an external difference between the behavior of one striving to benefit the whole and striving to benefit themselves, using altruistic behavior to benefit the whole group, of which they themselves are a subset?

I apologize, gentlemen, but we’ve run out of time this issue… Readers, we hope you have enjoyed this discourse, and that you tune back in next time to the AREOPAGUS!

C

hiron Eleutherios beheld the fractured crowd, scratched his beard, and spake, saying:

You see, I'm sitting in the everything. The spot of your mind that perceives. not the perceptions, not the concepts, but the Sum you are because you cogito. And in this moment of sharing a simultaneous Cartesian existence, we are a single mathematical point, infinitesimal, and infinite. I am You. And it hurts.

Because that's what existence is.

It's the separation from the oblivion, the lack of sensation, by the discomforts and pleasures you feel at every moment.

Reality can be found in the realization that everyone will leave you somehow, and in the mechanisms and mental gymnastics and contortions we attempt with the intention to avoid that very thought.

It's the realization that the inalienable rights are worthless; life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, love The life lived in dis- traction is no life at all, but the life observed is so disastrous, entire religions have formed attempting to leave it; liberty with complacency is no freedom, but liberty with zeal is the destruction of others; the pursuit of happiness is chasing a dragon that flies much faster than you can ever run, and you can feel the lactic acid build till your muscles are gone and it eats your bones and that dragon is still on the horizon. It laughs at you, snorting columns of smoky derision.

And love Love is the most exquisite form of pain that existence has ever encountered; it is reality in true fullness.

It is an expectant mother weeping over a coffin swathed in a blanket of flag that tries to keep the cold away.

It is the father that flings himself beneath a tractor wheel so that his own son may live to do the same for his son.

It is the God who can only sit in silence, and tell his prophet to marry a whore, for Hosea will love her with the sobbing fire of an omnipotent being who's hopelessly, unrequitedly, gut-wrenchingly in love with a race of beautifully broken people he created, that won't stop living to death without a glance of upward.

It is the man who weeps. Weeps that his love loves him not, but another but he will not stop her happiness to form his own. And love is forgiving the knife swung by a brother before it finishes its arc into one's chest.

And anyone who denies that is lying to you, My Loves, ye humans. But anyone who tells you that the alternative isn't worse by far is trying to turn you into a stone.

And it is in these lacks, in these inalienable Wrongs, that we rest. And it forms the boundaries, and it forms the hungers, and it fuels its fire, the fire of being. For what would we be if we didn't desire what we could never have? The taste of

the stars? The total love of those we care for? The total freedom to be your own identity? The ability to be original?

To be happy? To have lives full of meaning?

We must eventually realize that the most beautiful things that we are, collectively, are born from our greatest griefs, and borne by our most insatiable desires. The frolicking joy of sex, beauty incarnate made taboo, crafted from clay by the Creator, the closest two humans can be to being one, to understanding, to grokking each other its joy is distilled from our desire to be understood, and to still be loved. The joy of discovery, that ever-moving west, will only find a planet too well known to be intriguing; yet we will explore, for we must we search, and we don't know why.

We quest to find the face of God, and haven't thought it through. for how can a pure being be fully observed and imagined by a broken, imbecilic people; so we reject him or her or trine as being impossible. And we're right, the creative force is by necessity impossible, which is why the possible could fit inside it and be born.

But the Lover the lover-beloved of Song of Solomon and Hosea, an infinite being that would set limitations upon itself, and become a man, broken but unbowed, humble but not humbled, who would specifically select the period of history with one of the most painful forms of execution ever dreamed of by the darkness in the human soul in which to die, all for a people who knew him not, and couldn't love him back that is real.

Because it's pain. And it's love. It's life at the cost of someone else.

The most beautiful story of existence is the most tragic. And somewhere in you, you know that makes sense.

The greatest curse anyone could give to another is this: "May you fall in love." And at the same time, it is the greatest blessing one could bestow.

May you slowly be destroyed in the benefit of someone who'll never understand; may you strive for an ideal that, as an archetype of the Creator, is fully and gorgeously impossible. May you feel the same ache that you do when viewing the oceans, and redwoods, and the stars, whenever you catch that sliver of their vast soul that fires from their eyes into your lungs, so your breathe leaves before you know it's gone. May it come as a shock when they leave you, by death or departure; it means that you allowed yourself to forget that they all go.

May you do all this, and fully, and simply for it's the only form of emptiness that means something, and everything else is just as vacant.

THIS MESSAGE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE ORDER OF CHIRON MAY YOU GROK IN FULLNESS AND DR EAM IN SERENITY

Urban dictionary word of the issue

fuck off number 1

Lucid principles We’ve something to say: We have some principles we would like to lay out for future reference; this is so you, the reader, know what you’re in for, and so we, the staff, will never deviate from what we believe to be right, deviants though we may be.

In the publication of this magazine, We will never veer from an issue, but won’t be overly political – our focus is on humans, not hubrists; We will be respectful, but never respectable, and certainly not bashful; We will aim for a PG-13 audience or higher, as this magazine is for truth and intelligence; We will relatedly consider nothing to be taboo, or too explicit, be it sex, DMT, or organic gardens; We will do our best to be real, not ironic, and just love stuff, passionately; We will promote neither asceticism nor over-indulgence, but an ethical hedonism; We will go to awesome places to talk to awesome people about awesome things; We will explore topics that the media assumes that Americans are too stupid to discuss; We will have sexy people pictures, not out of objectification, but aesthetic appreciation; We will reserve the right to define what “sexy” means; We will never be ashamed of being intelligent, but will try to include everyone; We will foster growth and personal development of humanity in healthy and unique ways; We will never be owned by an ad company, and no review will ever be sponsored; We will always seek new content, new issues, new ideas and always originality; We will do our best to save the planet from ourselves, whether in digital form or in print; We will strive to be awesome, intelligent and creative people, as well as righteous and radical; We will make each issue so fun to produce, we’ll forget how much work it was; IN ADDITION We will never have an agenda besides sharing love, exploring the universe, loving life, and challenging the cruelty of merciless bastards.

If we ever forget this promise, we hold you, dear reader, to the responsibility of screaming at us until we remember times when we weren’t douchebags.

See you next month, don’t forget to be awesome, spread the love, do no harm, take no shit, and golden rule it, my lovely Lucidites.

Now fuck off. 