#२-03/2008

Burnt images, the warmth of words, the gentle crackle of the flames of sound.

Issue #2 of Metta F features the prose of Jennifer Carey, Vanessa Carlyle, Ryk Myers, Heather Riccio, and Steve Sloane as well as burned house photo-documents taken by Shady Grove Oliver. Music links to the work of Carter Wallace, the Amazements, and the Fall.

Enjoy, happy spring and be brave but careful when handling fire --
the metta f combine

burning

burning up -- Heather Riccio/macao room by Shady Grove Oliver


I’m feeling, hot, hot, hot. Burning up.
“No, I’m serious, doctor. The sun has nothing on me.”
“Just stay calm, I’ll get that red out, Matilde."
My eyes, my eyes, oh my poor eyes. Violent, vibrant and ever-changing. Star-struck eyes that crack and tremble. Brad Pitt, no. Matt Damon, please. Prince William, now you’re talking.
I like the exotic, the weird, the abnormal.
“Oh doctor, is it true, can it be? Do I have x-ray vision? Can I see what the Sun sees? The Milky Way? Those little green creatures? Or are they blue, blue like the ink of my pen? Help me, help me, help me please. I’m a bird, no a plane, oh great, now I’m super woman. Hey, can I at least have a lasso? You can’t say no, how can you? Nice try, but with my super powers I can have whatever I want. With my flaming eyes, my telepathic brain and my x-ray vision nothing will go away; I am invincible.”

2nanofictions

2 nano fictions -- Vanessa Carlyle/Burnt Barometer by Shady Grove Oliver




What He Remembered, And Wished He Could Change

She said she loved his signature.
“It’s so ridiculous!” she cried, clutching their dinner receipt.
All he could think to say was, “It’s French.”



Over Drinks

Jocelyn told us she’d had an affair with her garbage man. He was great with his tongue, she said, but she broke it off because he wouldn’t use his hands.

conspiracy

conspiracy with prawns -- Ryk Myers /downstairs photo by Shady Grove Oliver

Strangers tell me to jump to the flatbed of the moving
truck. I'm scared, it's moving faster. But I have to
get to town. I have to reach the party, where a fat
lady from Wisconsin blocks the table of Louisiana
jumbo prawns.

If I don't show, the old ambassador, who slew numerous
rebels in the recent uprising of migrant nuclear power
plant workers, and who wears a human ear around his
neck, will send out the gendarmes.

I leap to the truck bed, my whoop startles the
strangers. The ambassador won't know she isn't from
Wisconsin.

cartoon

Cartoon -- Stephen Sloane/found photo, philosophy library UC Riverside


Today at school, Mrs. Belvedere had us all watch a murder. You don’t have to watch it if you don’t want to, she said, but it’s part of our national history. I’d never seen a murder before, and thought it might be kind of cool. She closed the curtains from the sun, and pressed play. It was all shaky, but I could see a car come along the street and people waving. They looked happy. Suddenly the man in the back seat leant forward and grabbed his throat. Then the top of his head blew away and it was all red. Mrs. Belvedere told us it was his wife sitting next to him when it happened. I don’t want to get married, I said to Kelly sitting next to me, because I don’t want to get covered in gooey red. When I got home, Mom asked me to close the curtains because it was dark. I turned on T.V. and watched the Simpsons. Itchy & Scratchy were on, and Itchy took out Scratchy’s brain, sliced it up and munched on it. Then Itchy’s eyeballs fell out and red poured out of the sockets. Next day I told Mrs. Belvedere and she said we shouldn’t watch things like that. I didn’t say anything, because I thought it was cool. It was so cool, I don’t know why, but I felt like maybe I wanted to be a wife again some day.

marriage

perdue dans les rêves de Paris – Jennifer Carey/computers -- Shady Grove Oliver




I couldn’t think anymore. The truth came to light and I was wrenched from my loving contentment and champagne bliss with my actor husband by the shrill cry of my alarm clock, informing me that if I didn’t get up now, that I could very easily be late for school.
But I wanted to be back in Paris, surrounded by strong arms, held and loved. I wanted to hear his words whispering against my skin, telling me how wonderful I am, how beautiful I am, and whatever else that musky voice wanted to tell me. Why is it that I only feel emotionally whole in my dreams? And it’s only in some dreams and not in others. It’s only in my dreams where I come to some understanding about my life and about myself.
I don’t even always remember my ‘Plateau of Enlightenment’ that often takes me some time to reach over the course of my dream. In real time, that’s only about five minutes because dreams never ever last as long as we think that they do, or want them to, say, the length of forever. I’m a student engulfed in the mundane and the predictable, who, had she been in Paris over a real-life play of my dream, would have been a member of the horde of fangirls, another girl with a dream of life being something more than she has, another girl who just wants to be happy and deeply loved...and who wants to love deeply back.
But I cannot dwell on the course of dreams or what I most deeply desire. Because in the course of my life, if I’m not centered on what is really happening around me, I will get caught within the swell of my dreams and my desires, and will not be able to get out until my energy is drained and the real life I had will retreat into the recesses of my mind, along with the actual memories of my fantasies.