MQ 12 | December 2023 by Mowgli Studio

no.12 december 2023

M O W G L I Q U A R T E R L Y merry mashmish

M I X T A P E content SIDE SCOTT

Side david 01

KEEP THE FAITH - LIFELIKE REMIX / MOON BOOTS, NIC HANSON

WHY DON’T YOU / CLEO SOL

TIME AFTER TIME / CYNDI LAUPER

(PLEASE DON’T) LEAVE ME NOW / MADISON MCFERRIN

FALLING SLOWLY / GLEN HANSARD, MARKÉTA IRGLOVÁ

FIVE O’CLOCK WORLD / THE VOGUES

TUTTO NERO (PAINT IT BLACK) / CATERINA CASELLI

IF YOU COULD LOVE ME / EDWYN COLLINS

IDOLO / ADRIAN QUESADA, ANGÉLICA GARCIA

CA PLANE POUR MOI / THEE HEADCOATEES

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS / MATTIEL

FATHER AND SON / CAT STEVENS

CHERRY BLOSSOM / ALA.NI

RESURRECTION FERN / IRON & WINE

FRENCHETTE / SYLVAIN SYLVAIN

HOLDING BACK THE YEARS / SIMPLY RED

JEALOUS GUY / YOUSSOU N’DOUR

IN A SILENT WAY / MILES DAVIS

THINKING OF THE DAY / LEO NOCENTELLI

BAROONA / KOUROSH YAGHMAEI

FANTASTIC VOYAGE / LAKESIDE

SIDE hannah

SIDE anni 01

NOBODY’S FAULT BUT MINE / SISTER ROSETTA THARPE, MARIE KNIGHT

CRIMINAL / FIONA APPLE

LA-DI-DA-DI / DOUG E. FRESH + THE GET FRESH CREW

10X STRONGER / DOMINIC FIKE

RUNNING WITH THE WOLVES / AURORA

HOW TO BE ME / REN, CHINCHILLA

STAY WILD / THE BONES OF J.R. JONES

SLEEP DEPRIVATION / CHANCE PEÑA

EVERYBODY DROPS / REN

WITH A GIRL LIKE YOU / THAO & THE GET DOWN STAY DOWN

I DON’T CARE ANYMORE / JAX ANDERSON, K.FLAY

I’M SHAKIN’ / LITTLE WILLIE JOHN

TIPITINA / DR. JOHN

IT’S BEEN SO LONG / K.FLAY

SOMEBODY’S WATCHING YOU / THE SACRED FOUR

MODERN CHEMISTRY / OKEY DOKEY, LIZ COOPER

COLORS / BLACK PUMAS

THIS IS IT / BETTY DAVIS

HUMBUG MOUNTAIN SONG / FRUIT BATS

MEAN OL’ WORLD / PROFESSOR LONGHAIR

EVERGREEN / RICHY MITCH & THE COAL MINERS

LET IT BE / ARETHA FRANKLIN

P02 MIX TAPE P03 LETTER FROM ME P04 FEATURE: SCOTT P06 FEATURE: HANNAH P08 FEATURE: DAVID P09 FEATURE: ANNI P12 ROLL CREDITS

LETTERFROMME HAPPY MASHMISH! As I said to Scott, “This feels like our issue of WAIT! after my apartment burnt down,” (a deep cut for C-U friends who were around for the previous zine effort between Scott, two awesome others, and me 20 years ago). I lost my computer and my files weren't backed up elsewhere. Somehow we copied and pasted together an issue despite all of that. The result was pretty great. This feels similar in a fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants sort of way. The previously planned issue has been shuffled to Spring. Instead we bring you a mix of mashed up goodness, or mashmish (very much said like Tiny Chef in my head)

“

SCOTT: So this is the gonzo issue? ANNI: It doesn't even have a name yet... but I do like Gonzo and have been self-caring via lots of The Muppets.

It took a couple blinks for Scott to realize I was joking. Not about the Muppets—I'm a huge fan, but responding like I didn't know the term gonzo journalism. We're no Hunter S. Thompson, but the writers are indeed putting themselves 100% into each section. Please enjoy each editor's mini meltdown issue all in one, each from the perspective of a different ghost'? Muppet? Lola? A different persepctive of one of us. One of us! One of us! Wait... that took a turn. #yo #gabbagabba #gooblegobble It's best you just hit play on that mixtape. Happy New Year, gentle readers.

ANNI POPPEN

Owner/Artivist of Mowgli Studio Pitbull Mama to Gertie & Vinnie Vegan at Keep On Vegan On Beadworker at Made by Mowgli Studio

There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met —gonzo 03

M I X T A P E content SIDE SCOTT

Side david 01

KEEP THE FAITH - LIFELIKE REMIX / MOON BOOTS, NIC HANSON

WHY DON’T YOU / CLEO SOL

TIME AFTER TIME / CYNDI LAUPER

(PLEASE DON’T) LEAVE ME NOW / MADISON MCFERRIN

FALLING SLOWLY / GLEN HANSARD, MARKÉTA IRGLOVÁ

FIVE O’CLOCK WORLD / THE VOGUES

TUTTO NERO (PAINT IT BLACK) / CATERINA CASELLI

IF YOU COULD LOVE ME / EDWYN COLLINS

IDOLO / ADRIAN QUESADA, ANGÉLICA GARCIA

CA PLANE POUR MOI / THEE HEADCOATEES

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS / MATTIEL

FATHER AND SON / CAT STEVENS

CHERRY BLOSSOM / ALA.NI

RESURRECTION FERN / IRON & WINE

FRENCHETTE / SYLVAIN SYLVAIN

HOLDING BACK THE YEARS / SIMPLY RED

JEALOUS GUY / YOUSSOU N’DOUR

IN A SILENT WAY / MILES DAVIS

THINKING OF THE DAY / LEO NOCENTELLI

BAROONA / KOUROSH YAGHMAEI

FANTASTIC VOYAGE / LAKESIDE

SIDE hannah

SIDE anni 01

NOBODY’S FAULT BUT MINE / SISTER ROSETTA THARPE, MARIE KNIGHT

CRIMINAL / FIONA APPLE

LA-DI-DA-DI / DOUG E. FRESH + THE GET FRESH CREW

10X STRONGER / DOMINIC FIKE

RUNNING WITH THE WOLVES / AURORA

HOW TO BE ME / REN, CHINCHILLA

STAY WILD / THE BONES OF J.R. JONES

SLEEP DEPRIVATION / CHANCE PEÑA

EVERYBODY DROPS / REN

WITH A GIRL LIKE YOU / THAO & THE GET DOWN STAY DOWN

I DON’T CARE ANYMORE / JAX ANDERSON, K.FLAY

I’M SHAKIN’ / LITTLE WILLIE JOHN

TIPITINA / DR. JOHN

IT’S BEEN SO LONG / K.FLAY

SOMEBODY’S WATCHING YOU / THE SACRED FOUR

MODERN CHEMISTRY / OKEY DOKEY, LIZ COOPER

COLORS / BLACK PUMAS

THIS IS IT / BETTY DAVIS

HUMBUG MOUNTAIN SONG / FRUIT BATS

MEAN OL’ WORLD / PROFESSOR LONGHAIR

EVERGREEN / RICHY MITCH & THE COAL MINERS

LET IT BE / ARETHA FRANKLIN

P02 MIX TAPE P03 LETTER FROM ME P04 FEATURE: SCOTT P06 FEATURE: HANNAH P08 FEATURE: DAVID P09 FEATURE: ANNI P12 ROLL CREDITS

“

SCOTT: So this is the gonzo issue? ANNI: It doesn't even have a name yet... but I do like Gonzo and have been self-caring via lots of The Muppets.

ANNI POPPEN

Owner/Artivist of Mowgli Studio Pitbull Mama to Gertie & Vinnie Vegan at Keep On Vegan On Beadworker at Made by Mowgli Studio

There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met —gonzo 03

S C O T T

Mable Guac

A few poems I find myself rereading. Enjoy. Or not.

Mable was an elderly woman (somewhere in her late 80’s), who lived

PABLO NERUDA

PABLO NERUDA WALKING AROUND

story brownstone walk up, and Mable lived on the 2nd floor corner.

TONIGHT I CAN WRITE (THE SADDEST LINES)

She was always full of smiles, a kind word, spry, alert, and most of

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

The same night whitening the same trees.

Write, for example, ‘The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

in my apartment building in downtown Sacramento. It was a two-

all, full of stories. Many a time we would run into each other in the laundry room in the basement or on the front stoop, and after a little prompting, she would tell me about her life (stories to share another day). After about a year, she was gone. Not sure where or when. I came back from a long weekend away and she had vacated the building. The landlord only knew that a relative had contacted him to return the keys. I inquired if he had rented it out yet and if not, could Scott was born in a crossfire hurricane with a bad Moon rising, while on Thunder Road, out past the cornfields where the woods get heavy. Growing up within a brood of five, he was a big tow-headed kid who constantly wore his brother’s hand-me-downs, not because he had to (although upon reflection later, he did), but because his brother was and still is the coolest, vootiest, hoopy frood he knows. Fortunately, Scott’s body eventually grew into proportion to his head, and everyone collectively sighed their relief. He wonders what his next thought will be, feels that humans should be nicer to other living things, forgive themselves more, and that the rest of his life would be so much funnier if it was animated or sold as a pop-up book.

my favorites in all the rentals I’ve had.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

In settling into Mable’s old digs and cleaning up, I discovered a small

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.

I move into it. He agreed and so I did. That apartment is still one of

box back in a high up shelf within the hall closet. Inside the small box were a few books, pictures, knick-knacks, and a recipe card box

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

(again, stories for another time). Here is Mable’s recipe (and now

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

mine!) for guacamole.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

more as “pear” instead of “gonad”]

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

• Aquacates should give slightly when lightly squeezed, the similar

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

and these the last verses that I write for her.

• At least 2-3 aquacate [the Nahuatl word for avocados—translates

give as in tomatoes • Peeled/scooped [save the pit for a tincture!] • 2 diced jalapenos or serranos [I use both—Mable noted to keep the seeds in!] • 1 diced onion [your choice: sweet, red, green—Mable liked red for their bite of flavor] • Tomatoes, diced [your choice: cherry, plum, roma, ugli, beefy— Mable liked the plum and ugli] • 2-4 cloves of garlic finely chopped • A lime, halved and squeezed into the mixing bowl • Cayenne or cumin to taste [Mable used both!] • Salt and pepper to taste [Make sure to add pepper if you use cumin, otherwise cumin won’t be absorbed by your body] • Mix it all together • Eat with chips [Mable noted her preference for Ritz and Triscuits]

Enjoy!

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

It so happens I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens I am sick of being a man. Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

to go through the streets with a green knife

The night is starry and she is not with me.

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day. I don’t want so much misery.

S C O T T

Mable Guac

A few poems I find myself rereading. Enjoy. Or not.

Mable was an elderly woman (somewhere in her late 80’s), who lived

PABLO NERUDA

PABLO NERUDA WALKING AROUND

story brownstone walk up, and Mable lived on the 2nd floor corner.

TONIGHT I CAN WRITE (THE SADDEST LINES)

She was always full of smiles, a kind word, spry, alert, and most of

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

The same night whitening the same trees.

Write, for example, ‘The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

in my apartment building in downtown Sacramento. It was a two-

my favorites in all the rentals I’ve had.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

In settling into Mable’s old digs and cleaning up, I discovered a small

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.

I move into it. He agreed and so I did. That apartment is still one of

box back in a high up shelf within the hall closet. Inside the small box were a few books, pictures, knick-knacks, and a recipe card box

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

(again, stories for another time). Here is Mable’s recipe (and now

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

mine!) for guacamole.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

more as “pear” instead of “gonad”]

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

• Aquacates should give slightly when lightly squeezed, the similar

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

and these the last verses that I write for her.

• At least 2-3 aquacate [the Nahuatl word for avocados—translates

Enjoy!

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

to go through the streets with a green knife

The night is starry and she is not with me.

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief. That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night. And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin. There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

BLUEBIRD

FOR THE FOXES

there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you. there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he’s in there. there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody’s asleep. I say, I know that you’re there, so don’t be sad. then I put him back, but he’s singing a little in there, I haven’t quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?

Don’t feel sorry for me. I am a competent, satisfied human being. be sorry for the others who fidget complain who constantly rearrange their lives like furniture. juggling mates and attitudes their confusion is constant and it will touch whoever they deal with.

beware of them: one of their key words is ‘love.’ and beware those who only take instructions from their God for they have failed completely to live their own lives. don’t feel sorry for me because I am alone for even at the most terrible moments humor is my companion.

I am a telephone wire strung up in Toledo, Ohio I am a man eating a meal this night in the month of September. put your sympathy aside. they say water held up Christ: to come through you better be nearly as lucky.

I am a dog walking backwards I am a broken banjo

there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

WS MERWIN

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH

A DOOR

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand — How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep — while I weep! O God! Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day When the last fires will wave to me And the silence will set out Tireless traveler Like the beam of a lightless star Then I will no longer Find myself in life as in a strange garment

And then shamelessness of men As today writing after three days of rain Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease And bowing not knowing to what

This is a place where a door might be here where I am standing In the light outside all the walls there would be a shadow here all day long and a door into it where now there is me and somebody would come and knock on this air long after I have gone and there in front of me a life would open

Surprised at the earth And the love of one woman

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

BLUEBIRD

FOR THE FOXES

I am a dog walking backwards I am a broken banjo

EDGAR ALLAN POE

WS MERWIN

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH

A DOOR

And then shamelessness of men As today writing after three days of rain Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease And bowing not knowing to what

Surprised at the earth And the love of one woman

SHARON OLDS

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

SEX WITHOUT LOVE

INVICTUS

How do they do it, the ones who make love without love? Beautiful as dancers, gliding over each other like ice-skaters over the ice, fingers hooked inside each other’s bodies, faces red as steak, wine, wet as the children at birth whose mothers are going to give them away. How do they come to the come to the come to the God come to the still waters, and not love the one who came there with them, light rising slowly as steam off their joined skin? These are the true religious, the purists, the pros, the ones who will not accept a false Messiah, love the

priest instead of the God. They do not mistake the lover for their own pleasure, they are like great runners: they know they are alone with the road surface, the cold, the wind, the fit of their shoes, t heir over-all cardiovascular health— just factors, like the partner in the bed, and not the truth, which is the single body alone in the universe against its own best time.

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

JOHN KEATS

WHEN YOU ARE OLD

LOVE

BRIGHT STAR

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

We cannot live, except thus mutually We alternate, aware or unaware, The reflex act of life: and when we bear Our virtue onward most impulsively, Most full of invocation, and to be Most instantly compellent, certes, there We live most life, whoever breathes most air And counts his dying years by sun and sea. But when a soul, by choice and conscience, doth Throw out her full force on another soul, The conscience and the concentration both Make mere life, Love. For Life in perfect whole And aim consummated, is Love in sooth, As nature’s magnet-heat rounds pole with pole.

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task. Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

SHARON OLDS

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

SEX WITHOUT LOVE

INVICTUS

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

JOHN KEATS

WHEN YOU ARE OLD

LOVE

BRIGHT STAR

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

H A N NA H

Welcome to the pandemonium currently in my head. You caught me at a bad time. Emotions have been running higher lately. Crying over nothing and everything. Overthinking the trivial and underthinking the significant. It’s all irrelevant yet poignant and it’s what follows me through the days. Maybe it’s this moon being in conjunct with Neptune shenanigans. Maybe it’s just this end-of-the-year habit my brain has deemed the time to re-awaken meaning-of-life thoughts. It’s become tradition now, a ritual that my mind feels compelled to do toward the end of each year and mental battles ensue.

Let’s go over what’s important. Let’s figure out the meaning of life. You wanted to write more this year. What happened? Your Substack died. You wanted to take more pictures this year. What happened? You have no portfolio. Maybe you were just mentally prepping all year. Yeah, that’s it. You’ll succeed next year. There’s always next year. Your mindset

OUR MODEST HANNAH ASKED TO NOT HAVE A BIO. "I'M NOT BIG ON THEM," WAS HOW SHE PUT IT. I'M THE SAME, WHICH IS WHY I CRINGED WHEN I ASKED EDITORS TO GIVE ME A BIO AND HEADSHOT. HERE'S THE THING — THE PEOPLE WHO CONTRIBUTE TO THIS QUARTERLY HOLD A PLACE IN MY HEART DECORATED WITH LOTS OF PLANTS, COZY COTTAGE LIGHTING, MULTIPLE SNOOZING CATS, AND WALLS BUILT FROM BOOKS. THEY COMFORT MY SOUL. I'VE KNOWN HANNAH ALMOST AS LONG AS I'VE KNOWN SCOTT [HER UNCLE]. FROM THE SIDELINES, I HAVE HAD THE GREAT PRIVILEGE OF WATCHING THIS YOUNG PERSON BECOME AN ADULT. I STOOD IN ADMIRATION FOR THIS BEING, AND I STILL DO. READING HER WORDS OR VIEWING HER PHOTOGRAPHY OR TAKING IN DOSES OF HER HEART VIA MUSIC CHOICES... SEEING HOW SHE CONNECTS THE DOTS INFLUENCES ME IN THE BEST WAYS. FOR THAT AND MANY OTHER REASONS I AM GRATEFUL FOR HER. EVEN THOUGH SHE MAY NOT SPEAK TO ME AGAIN AFTER SHARING ALL OF THIS... IN BOLD CAPS.

is just a bit wrong right now, but you’ll work on it. You just need to get back to a better version of reality. You aren’t failing. You’re just feeling your feelings right now. I’m not lost, just wandering around trying to get back to a particular mindset. I thought it would be simple, though. I attained it once before, so I thought if I dug deep enough then I could remember, but it feels like I’m forcing nostalgia trying to get it back. I’m just eagerly waiting for that smell to trigger it, to trigger the feels you feel when remembering what once was. But it’s not just a memory, it’s something I could have again because it’s still at the core of my soul, my being, and it’s misplaced, or misguided, or forgotten because there have been so many other mindsets over time that buried this particular one. It’s like a stew. There are so many cooks in the kitchen growing up that you wind up taking ingredients from each one and as the years go on, the ingredients continue to pour in from outside sources and intermingle in a pot and the flavors evolve, creating good stages and bad stages in the cooking process, and god knows what the final taste will be in the end. But I’m trying to find one of the stages from early on that had the original ingredients, the fundamental ones, the ones that set the base for this stew, the ones that created and introduced the feelings of warmth and joy and simplicity and peace inside. These are the ingredients thrown in from growing up in the woods, from my parents, my brother, all sets of grandparents, close relatives, books, music, all the ingredients that help you evolve into a kind and simple version of human. The mindset I had as a kid was the important one, I think. It was the basic mindset before I started making everything pointlessly complex from needless ingredients. Find the basics, keep the basics, and evolve it into a wee bit more sophisticated version that will agree with my current cooking stage. Anni originally suggested this be a media issue. Anything goes: music, books, movies, tv shows, podcasts, what-have-you. Music is covered in the Spotify playlist, so this youtube channel is what I would like to share with readers. Since I’m on the quest for a better mindset, physical activity helps me most; preferably movement in nature. This channel is already helping. I joked (but was 100% serious) when I told a co-worker the other day that I wanted to be Nicole Coenen when I grew up. I showed her one of the videos, and she started cracking up. A few days later, she gave me an early Christmas present and, lo and behold, it was a mini axe. She wrote on the tag WORK YOUR WAY UP. I am stoked to say the least.

Let me belabor the obvious for a second. We’re all just looking for ways to improve life, whether it be mentally, physically, for the rest of it, or just for the next few minutes. We’re looking for a way to be happier, not sadder. A way to feel better, not worse. A way to not fake it. A way to be healthier in all aspects. A way to evolve for the better and maintain it. There is nowhere to go but up from here, so let’s do this 2024. Let’s do this Mowgli peeps. Getting back to nature. Getting back to the fundamentals. Climbing a friggin’ tree. Good music and good books along the way, axe in hand.

H A N NA H

PERSPECTIVE David Bradburn Writer-Director

Whether serving as writer, produce r, or director—Bradbur n wants to do litt le more than just make mo vies. His director ial approach draws on 20 years worth of experie nce as a high school En glish teacher and focuses on collaboration and inclusion. His lea dership and focus inspir e his crew’s motiva tion to realize his creativ e vision. Bradbur n’s films have appeared in over 70 film festivals worldwide, cable, and PBS.

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*includefolinrkksthtoemweanbs.coitem an @forkthem man facebook _the_ rk fo @ instragram e url the youtub + lookup eo m + vi ... upcomin

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One of the things about growing up just outside of Chicago was having access to all a major city has to offer: sports, the arts, museums, endless food options (to name a few), and in the case of Chicago—amazing architecture. When I was a kid, there were really two options for tourists to see the skyline from on high. One is the John Hancock building that anchors the north end of the Magnificent Mile. And holding down the west loop was the Sears Tower. Both buildings still exist but now its the Hancock and Willis Towers (yes it does pain the Second City locals to call it the Willis Tower). We can debate which has a better view: The Hancock sits a block off the lake and the Sears Tower (come at me or not, I don’t care) sits more inland. The Hancock sits on the north end of downtown and the Sears in the middle, north to south. And for many years the Sears Tower was the tallest in the world. It’s been decades since I’ve been to the top of either, in spite of living 40 miles or closer to them for over five decades. I do have strong memories of visiting them both. Most of these memories consist of gazing in wonderment at the distance and shift in my point of view. But I never managed to stay amazed for very long, before I would think of how sanitized the view was and how removed it was from all the struggle and pain below. I guess others may have taken that same view and saw more of the endless possibilities that existed below our gaze, but to know me is to know I lean towards a depressive view on life... That, however, is for a much different piece. When my feet are firmly on the terra firma, I often think of those I’m passing either seen or unseen. I wonder what is really going on, who is fighting the good fight and who is just fighting. Who’s having sex or who is not, who can pay their bills and who cannot. Who is in the middle of a glorious new adventure, and whose adventure is coming to a crashing end. Feet on the ground or 110 stories up in the air let us see the same things differently. Most of us see the same things every day. We take the same route to work, the same walk with the dog, the same path through the hardware or grocery store; and we often do this from the same mindset, same biases conscience. The problem with shifting perspective is we often rely on the wrong senses. We lean on our nose and notice the odor or our eyes and see their themness is contrary to ours. But what happens when we listen? More specifically, when we listen to hear and not to speak. Emerson said we emit above our wills. How is this not true? Pay attention. Desire to know people and groups can be realized in listening to hear and not speak. Riding the elevator to new heights doesn’t actually sanitize the world below, but rather it gives us an opportunity to look at it newly again. To listen newly to ourselves, to our surroundings, to our friends, to our families, to our coworkers, to our lovers, to those who are sorted into different groups than we are. And maybe as we listen we find a path forward to some private or collective healing. Or at least find a different beauty to make life a bit more bearable for a little while longer.

PERSPECTIVE David Bradburn Writer-Director

*includefolinrkksthtoemweanbs.coitem an @forkthem man facebook _the_ rk fo @ instragram e url the youtub + lookup eo m + vi ... upcomin

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anni LISTENING TO

Hello from the Magic Tavern Desert Oracle Ghost Story

READING TO

The Hanging Artist Matilda A Place of My Own

WATCHING TO

The Muppets Mayhem Abbott Elementary School Spirits Sex Education Carol + the End of the World

DRINKING TO

La Maldita Garnacha Tinta Montepulciano D'Abruzzo Shaka Tea Passion Orange Guava Water

CREATING TO

Beading earrings Sketching & floor plans Woodblock prints

SCROLLING TO The Matriarch Build Faire Magazine Arielle Egozi

GAMING TO Merge Mansion EverMerge Puzzles & Spells

S I L L Y R A B B I T

his quarterly started, in part, as an outlet to be creative around a single sentence I read, a simple color palette that caught my eye, a piece of music I heard in a movie—a spark of wonder inside of something. It sends me off to lookup a writer, illustrator, activisit, composer... and that person created this other piece of brilliance or volunteers for that organization doing really cool stuff or was inspired by a different writer, illustrator, activist, composer. The absolute comfort of going down the rabbit hole and sharing that discovery with a friend! I attempt this intention in my day-today, too (work, chores, health needs, etc). If something is speaking louder to me... I follow it. I suppose it's a bit Marie Kondo sparking barfy joy, and it drives those who prefer traditional schedules bananas... But, meh, this is why I freelance from home. To get my quality of life without others yucking my yum—as they say. I'm also enamored with other people who live a life of active curiosity. There's magic in saying, "What the hell do I know, let's see what happens"—accidental bits of enlightenment. If you've found yourself reading this far, thank you. Another reason I started MQ was to gather us curious folks together. As someone who truly loves her hermitage, I wanted an easier way to find you ("I will find you!"), to connect.

So I'm going to set some intentions (because fuck the word resolution):

1. What do I want to see happen over the next few years? 2. Who do I want to see it happen with? In the psuedo-metaverse of the quarterly, who and what overlap. I've answered this in a big picture sense of those who are curious, of course. But more specifically, hop on over to the Wish List article for details. In my personal life, my dream is a chunk of land and a small home to slow life down... This is one of those things that is speaking louder than other things that I can't seem to muster up the courage to follow. If you know how to help, I would love to [hear from you]. This could look like » • Leads to nonprofit clients in Madison, WI area • Leads to new online clients (preferably nonprofits) • Info on land for sale (wooded, any utilities if there isn't an existing structure, near an area with existing clients... college town is definitely a bonus) • Work in trade—a new website for electrical work, for example

here are topics I really want covered in MQ, and I want them coming from the appropriate voices (experts or those who follow these topics closely from within said community). It's not coming to fruition with our current efforts, so we need a new approach. I walked away from the computer to figure out how I really wanted to talk about this with you. In my marinating, I stumbled upon [this post] by Devon Johnson, which led me down another rabbit hole where I watched this one:

… Whiteness always operates outside of the issue from a distant vantage point. Whiteness has no experience in these matters. Whiteness is foreign to oppression. It can only analyze in a scholarly way. That doesn’t mean there are no white people doing good work. It means they cannot be a model for the work. They cannot be a centered voice in the work. He continues to say why (it's less than two minutes long, so please learn directly from him, for the same reasons quoted above). There is a followup hurdle in this effort I have been workshopping with the team, as well. When asked if we pay, the short answer is no. The longer answer is MQ costs me money while the editors volunteer their time/talents/energy. We have no advertisments (intentionally) or monthly supporters (unintentionally). We're all okay with that, short of wishing we could pay contributors.

So I'm pitching this idea to you... Make a specific, one-time impact by sponsoring a contributor. You likely know at least one person whom creates from inside the community. Help mold MQ into the media we have been working towards since day one! We've added this to [our wishlist], if the contributor fee is more or you can't afford the fee we set—please, [reach out]. Those of us on the core team who can contribute to the fee, will.

a huge thank you to my 2023 clients » A&S Rescue » Allerton Park & Retreat Center » Chris Wells » Clancy & Associates » Four Osprey » Georgia's Place Bird Sanctuary » Glow by Lola » Holly Melby » John Havlik » Lauren Elizabeth Animal Art » Naturally McHenry County » NISRA » Pioneer Center » Threshold Doula

mowgli 2024 TO DO » Drone license completed » Rebuild website (MBM shop, new quarterly page layout, portfolio goodness) » Prep for print editions of MQ » Get three Madison, WI nonprofit clients

MONTHLY MURMUR Become a monthly member and you'll gain entry to our brand new Discord channel, where we can brainstorm and discuss topics on past, current, or future issues. You'll also get early access to the quarterly!

$4/mo or save with $42/yr

anni LISTENING TO

Hello from the Magic Tavern Desert Oracle Ghost Story

READING TO

The Hanging Artist Matilda A Place of My Own

WATCHING TO

The Muppets Mayhem Abbott Elementary School Spirits Sex Education Carol + the End of the World

DRINKING TO

La Maldita Garnacha Tinta Montepulciano D'Abruzzo Shaka Tea Passion Orange Guava Water

CREATING TO

Beading earrings Sketching & floor plans Woodblock prints

SCROLLING TO The Matriarch Build Faire Magazine Arielle Egozi

GAMING TO Merge Mansion EverMerge Puzzles & Spells

S I L L Y R A B B I T

So I'm going to set some intentions (because fuck the word resolution):

mowgli 2024 TO DO » Drone license completed » Rebuild website (MBM shop, new quarterly page layout, portfolio goodness) » Prep for print editions of MQ » Get three Madison, WI nonprofit clients

$4/mo or save with $42/yr

roll credits PHOTOGRAPHY + VIDEOGRAPHY cover/spotify: hannah howell letter from me: selfie scott’s feature » bio pics: scott durfor crow in zion: unsplash/jesse van vliet hannah's feature » bio pics: hannah howell david's feature » background image: pexels/andrew neel headshot: devron enarson drone shots: david bradburn anni's feature » headshot: selfie this page background: pexels/luca chiandoni

DON'T WANT TO MISS THE NEXT ISSUE OF MQ? Subscribe [right here]! I promise I won't email you except for the four issues per year. Gotta love an email signup that promises that!

IF YOU'RE WITH A NON-PROFIT + WANT TO COLLABORATE Please email me at [anni@mowglistudio.com] to schedule a chat!

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