Nothing. No One. Nowhere.

Guest Editors Wanted, Apply Within

2012-01-31T05:35:00.000-06:00

We are seeking guest editors for our publication Nothing. No One. Nowhere. The job of the editor will be to receive submissions, read, select, and send to the editor-in-chief for review and formatting for publication. There is no pay for this position, however, the editor in question shall receive a contributor's copy. The length of editorship shall be determined during correspondence.

If you are interested in being a guest editor for Nothing. No One. Nowhere. Please send a cover letter, resume, bibliography, and bio to michael.aaron.casares@gmail.com. Put NNN Editor/ (last name) in the subject line.

Thank you for your interest. We look forward.

Call for Submissions

2012-01-30T17:03:00.000-06:00

Updates for Issue 3

2011-09-06T12:48:00.004-05:00

Good day,

Things are warming up nicely for the third issue of Nothing. No One. Nowhere.

That means, if you want to catch the gravy train you must send us

poetry - flash fiction - prose - reviews - articles - photos - drawings -

and include a bio and mailing address.

The details are located on our submissions page.

Click the submissions tab.

Thank you.

Nothing. No One. Nowhere. No. 2 - "The Belated" Ed. Note

2011-08-30T17:42:00.000-05:00

....the second issue of Nothing. No One. Nowhere. To forever be cheerfully referred to as, “The Belated” I extend my greatest apologies to readers, and especially the writers of this publication. I know the anxieties of patience are nothing when awaiting the promises of accepted publication, which is why, at the behest of our dear and good publisher, I am writing to you now. To be sure, there will be changes here at Nothing. No One. Nowhere., but a good revolution always served the better purpose. To that end, I ask, should your interest still be perked regarding our wayward publication, to stay abreast on guidelines and expectations and we will most assuredly do the same for you. Thank you, again, to each contributor and to you who have taken the time to gaze into our magazine.

Best Regards,
Amelia Hoff
Editor

Prose: Michael Mc Aloran

2011-08-30T17:19:00.000-05:00

Untitled #22-

(…I was dreaming that I was lost at the edges of the sky, where death and breath inter-mingled, silent as the nothingness breaking throughout the night…)

…The welts are like the kisses of the tomb, silently the dead flesh laughs its silent victory, as the bandaged eyes know that they will never heal, as blood drips from a mouth stapled stretched wide, the teeth are a frenzy of fission and reflected light, only the orifice of night acknowledges the silence, dreaming, the darkness reflected in dead eyes is the love unknown the love unspoken, reaching through the scars of dead implements, surgical implements made of flesh and bone, this all appears in the limitless sky, in the limited sky, the blood rocks to sleep in a silent lullaby, opiate smoke inhaled erases everything but the depth of breath exhaled, inhaled, walls and windows dying out in the sudden irremovable, I awakened to cigarette burns in my fingers, a dead cock, I died in mimicry of death so much the never having lost my face in the dirt, speech lay conjuring in the throat of my death, I could have torn out my livid veins, played the musicality of my absurdity, I arose and walked 4a.m streets without any real direction, I was nothing, I was dead, shut down more dead than the gathered ice within me, something will come and put out this frenzy in me, I lie to myself…something…A hammer obliterates a human face, shatters the mirrors that line the hallway, tears echo, a blind cane, how beautifully they tap blindly through the ravenous dark, unknowing the presence of intent, my hands grip your hair as we fuck and I expend myself in you, yet something is dead, is it you or I, your face seeps away into another dreamscape in which I fold, naked, draped, abandoned to the stench sheets of desire and death…As if it could be, the socket like some receptacle, my seared tongue severed by impotency, you are dead and I am laughing the laughter of the hyenas, craven, beautiful, to keep the wolves at bay, I am desert now, no-one else has spoken of it, through the very teeth of my depths, through my obsidian teeth, I am, this nothing more…Laughter like a dead stone church, my death, in my dreaming all the while, the reek of stale piss in the confessional boxes, a trail of bloody footprints and screaming, a child spits out the severed cock of a clergyman, death was in the aisles, waiting, and in that waiting either way knowing that the sunlight blessed and beckoned through the stained glass windows, the child smiled, the child was elated by death, from then on he knew…The shit smeared sky, somewhere else, it was clear blue, the fields were green, I remember, I remember nothing, the shores were rocks broke by the seas, and so it went on, time spilling its intestines upon the sands, withdrawing them, the water was never warm enough, the misery never left me, then out of the depths came the great charge, a cacophonous sounding of blades lacerating as they arose and I was thrown from one room to another, there almost to end in my septic, the flowers had long died then, barely alive, the sky rained blood, the sky rained blood and everything was night…

Reviews: Labasheeda

2011-08-30T16:33:00.001-05:00

Labasheeda –
The Twilight State
(Presto Chango, 2010)

Labasheeda sent me their cd The Twilight State. Labasheeda is Saskia van der Giessen on vocals, guitar and violin; Arne Wolfswinkel on guitar; Thanos Fotiadis on bass; and Dyan Ramekers on drums. The Twilight State was recorded in Amsterdam in June 2009 and February 2010 and released by Presto Chango in 2010. Labasheeda’s, The Twilight State is a moody rock album, reminiscent of grungy times. The album has spacy, anthemic numbers you can really lose your head in, such as “Bad News for Batman.” The delicacy of their craft comes out in “Headquarter,” a stripped, elegant song emboldened by sonic guitar accents and violin solos. But this is just a display of musical diversity; there are plenty of driving and intense songs, all with their own hook and dynamic; if you enjoy this you will enjoy “Winter,” “Indulgent,” “Way Out,” and “Duplicated.” Still, I really liked the songs like “White Leather” that are moody and mystic and strung in the musical intricacy of the band playing together as one, and well worth the note. I really enjoyed listening to “The Crash Within Without You.” All in all, The Twilight State is an album that paints a midnight pasture of music, organic in its nature, real to the touch, and musical to the ear. I recommend this to any rock n’ roll fans, classic rock fans, grunge fans or anyone who just likes real, good music. Visit http://www.labasheeda.nl/ for more information.

Reviews: Susan Morgan Bosler

2011-08-30T16:29:00.000-05:00

Colloquy
by Susan Morgan Bosler
Lulu Publishing, 2010
Reviewed by Michael Aaron Casares

Colloquy by Susan Morgan Bosler is both pensive and thought provoking. Colloquy seems an inner dialogue, a collection of poetry to one’s self that explores and wanders through the hallmarks of existential thought and even validation towards that existence. Concepts upon concepts are explored. The first poem alone attacks ideas of life changes, rationalizations, and transcendent, metaphysical allegory and takes us into death. A view on death that is somewhat lonely for in this particular piece, Bosler writes, “Death is a state of being with oneself / Alone (A giant echo resounds.) / In life, I am always with myself / … In death, I will have no choice.”(19) Must we truly be so lonely? Loneliness, however, and the recognition of the importance of being content with oneself, is a prevalent theme in this book, and perhaps may serve as a method of coping in one’s state of existence, if not for the writer, definitely for the reader.
Parts of Colloquy are written as stream of thought/conscious writing, but reflect an inner dialogue, or conversation with the self. Colloquy has a definite sense of searching and questions the bigger picture. There is much discourse about love, including the love of one’s self, and an examination of emotions. There is also a sense of struggle. The voice of the inner child seems to struggle with the higher individual, or the growing conscious. One such poem that represents this is about being afraid of not being remembered, as if life were futile, but there is also a reaffirming of one as a selfless, light worker making the world a better place.
All in all, Colloquy deals with the self, and is a dialogue with what may be the higher self, or inner child, the voice to listen to resounding from your gut, avowed by your heart and dealt with by the mind; it is a collection of verse and writing that may bring answers to those looking for something a little deeper in literature and poetry.

Reviews: Paul Richmond

2011-08-30T16:22:00.000-05:00

Ready or Not. Living
in the Break Down Lane
by Paul Richmond
Human Error Publishing, 2009
Review by Michael Aaron Casares

Ready or Not… Living in the Break Down Lane by Paul Richmond is a down to earth collection of poems from an unassuming poet and writer espousing the truths of his universe. The collection is a gathering of episodic verse, told mostly in the second person that captures moments of humor, everyday life musings and, every now and then, offers an insight that borders on profundity. I enjoyed reading the collection, grateful to have received a copy from the poet himself, and appreciate its everyman’s quality, one that does not ride on pretension or presumption, but rather is a humble offering that has much to say. The laymen verse, highlighted by colloquial, almost vernacular language is set from the onset with the opening poem, “10 Men,” a poem about his men’s group (to whom the book is dedicated), which does offer some food for thought. Still, too, there are other poems that touch on weightier matters. “Contest” touches on war, pointing to the fact that nobody ever wins (unless considering the profiteers). There is also, “No You Can’t,” a political lambast that against Bush and Cheney reminiscent of our current administration, make for an interesting juxtapose of political ideas to the point of almost braking the left/right paradigm. “Dust Old Town” is a rather thought provoking piece in which Richmond writes of a parade like any other with floats throwing candy, police cars, firemen and firetrucks, “Miss Montana waving” from her car. But, then a float depicting two men camping in the woods with a dead body hanging from a tree rolls by. People boo. Richmond laments, “Is it what the wild west was like? / Or still is?”(11) One can also consider the poem, “Bagging Groceries:”

I was in the super market
check out
I noticed the person bagging my food
We got to talking
He was in his nineties
I asked why was he here bagging groceries
He said
I have bills
and I am not dead yet
(13)

Need I say more.

The anecdotal quality of Richmond’s writing in much of “…Ready or Not…” makes this book light and digestible. As such, I have chosen to focus on the poems that are strikingly dissimilar in their context. I enjoyed very much, “Ruth Stone the Poet Laureate of VT.” This poem about the poet laureate, Ruth Stone, and her daughter giving a reading together is touching as inspiring. I also enjoyed “Mercury Retrograding” which plays with the superstition—or fact—that some have come to know about this peculiar station of the planets. Other highlighst include, “Work with in our System, The Illegal Alien,” Stimulus Package,” and “Talking to God Costs Money.” …Ready or Not, Living in the Break Down Lane is worthy of a read, pick it up if you get a chance.

Poetry: Subhankar Das

2011-08-30T16:18:00.000-05:00

Camel

I wipe it off with sand so that no one can
step on the words, so that the lungs hold
more air for a scented solace.
The sea won’t come to this place.
Here, people walk, shit and make love,
Here, natural laws and mischief take place every hour.
The girl who dreamt of a black sea,
now sitting on the shore, realized that it was
only carbon-blue, a sheet of paper.
Using a broken typewriter I am engraving words
inside my head, applying froth on my body.
Take me away, I know you will.
Standing on the seashore a camel is enjoying
this spectacle of fun.
Had it seen the oceanic desert?

Subhankar Das

Poetry: Peter Magliocco

2011-08-30T16:07:00.000-05:00

Benazir Bhutto

In sleep your disarray of hair
patterns like seaweed in nocturnal mode
old waterways across the country you led,
& your face in quiet repose gleams
under moonlight the sky casts down.
What is drawn to fire in fields
now bristles at your visions
only unworldly dreamers harvest.
Lilting songs parade over villages
of the silent martyrs you joined
singing the national anthem.
Who'll lead the still living citizenry
in pursuit of justice now remains
a mystery poised, perhaps, on your lips
dawn will patiently seal
under its wilting flower.

Nothing. No One. Nowhere. No. 2: Roll Call

2011-04-19T23:01:00.001-05:00

Poetry

New Morning
Explanation Comes to an End
by Howie Good

EMP
She Saw
by RL Raymond

Benazir Bhutto
Weight of the Long Darkness
Media for Misnomers
Glass
by Peter Magliocco

The Unbelievable Film Noir of Her Life
The Long and Short of Absurdity
Notes on a Forgotten Dreamer
by J.J. Steinfeld

The Jennin Freedom Theater Today
Build that Mosque
by Joshua Baumgarten

The Big Away Conference
Dark Hammer Zone
Burn Card Bust
Prisoner's Diemma
by David S. Pointer

Camel
by Subhankar Das

Prose

The Grackle Tree
by James Brush

Untitled No. 22
Untitled No. 29
Untitled No. 30
by Michael Mc Aloran

Lion's Den
Diet Pills
Do Not Duplicate
by Joe Karmia

Eternal Recurrence of the Same
by Howie Good

Art

Untitled '03 - Michael Mc Aloran
Untitled '03 - Michael Mc Aloran
Untitled '03 - Michael Mc Aloran

Untitled - David S. Pointer

Lit in Review

...Ready or Not
by Paul Richmond

Colloquy
by Susan Bosler

Music in Review

Phosophene Dream
by The Black Angels

The Twilight State
by Labesheeda

Abnormally Attracted to Sin
by Tori Amos

Release Today

2011-01-18T23:49:00.001-06:00

I am happy to announce the official release of Nothing. No One. Nowhere No. 1. I appreciate your patience, writer & reader. I thank all those who submitted for the inaugural issue of NNN. The decisions were tough in some instances, nevertheless, I am grateful to present this sacred text. I believe I've contacted all those whose work was published; if I have not, your submission may be in hold over for the second issue and I will contact soon. I was quite eager to see this text put together and bound in Virgogray's signature chapbook style, and the collection is handsome, indeed. Nothing. No One. Nowhere No. 1 has poetry, art, reviews, prose-- and is not short of talent. A sample is provided in the box to left or click the links. Thanks again to all those involved. I know the peeps at Virgogray and all those in their readerdom will enjoy this novel zine.

~A.H.

Prose: Danny Fahey

2011-01-18T16:16:00.000-06:00

Dada’s Seed
Danny Fahey

Before dada first did me harm
he sat on my bed and stroked
my right leg, the one he would soon ruin.

I watched his Adam's apple heft the axe
and split his thoughts into sounds.
He let loose hardwood splinters.

They slid beneath my love, attached themselves
to my heart, buried themselves deep,
formed black lumps so that in later life,
whenever I was hugged, a splinter shaped
the responses that escaped my mouth.

'My heart,' dada began, 'you see, or soon will
if you do not already, or if, sadly, your mother
has failed to warn you, is as black as the inside
of a coffin with the thick lid nailed shut;
made that way when my da took revenge in the night
for the things done to him, over an apple, long ago.'

A single tear clung to the thick lashes
of his left eye – a mountaineer poised on the cusp
before the advancing avalanche. 'I have to warn you,'
he continued, 'that I am unable to love properly,
I find the touch of your mother's lips intolerable.'

His nails scratched the skin
beneath my shoulder blades raw while dada
continued talking. 'Unlike you, my da
made me sleep in a Hessian sack, would you believe,
and, with nuncle Pat as his side-kick, threatened
to throw me in a river if I forgot myself and fell asleep.

I'll do no such thing to you,' he said, 'but must
release the hellhounds that gnaw my organs
in a fashion that allows me to keep breathing.
So in fairness and in warning, my scion, and to ease
the hammer that thunked the flesh inside my chest,
in three days time, I shall begin to hurt you.'

Dada wept several tears. I watched them
slide down his cheeks and lost them in the stubble
and shadow of his chin and throat.

He said, 'I would like
to be brave but find it easier to send
you down into the darkness
than to make the difficult journey myself.'

Three days I waited.
I felt walls crouch close
and nip at the air before it passed my lips.

Three days I waited.
I forced myself to sleep with an eye open
and my hands placed firmly between my legs.

Three days later he began on my leg.
He manacled my arms to the bed,
pulled back the sheet and took hold of the leg
where it stuck out of my pajama pants.

His left hand held it firm. His right hand
grasped the arch of my foot.
As he sung Goodnight Irene he began to twist
until first the ankle cracked and then the knee was ruined.

He revisited that leg every night for forty nights.
I fought, sought pity, thrashed - a fish
trapped in a plastic bucket, swimming in pain -
the bones crushed and re-crushed
until marrow escaped, muscle fled and the leg, from
the knee and all below, flopped and puddled
beneath the thigh, the colour and consistency of porridge.

Next he fed me the flesh carved from the back of mother.
He cut the meat into thin strips, sautéed in peanut butter,
skewered and fed to me with bowls of Basmati rice
and gentle green tea. If I vomited
he returned to the kitchen. I heard my mother's screams
and then he brought me a fresh batch of meat.
To hold her meat down I bit the pillowslip.

Mother came to me every morning.
Gingerly, she lifted her shirt
and showed me the flesh missing in patches across her back
beneath the tight horizontal strap of her black brassiere.

My teens were spent in dada's cellar,
fearful of his visits where he would whisper
his love
and pound my spine or pluck single hairs
from my head
or bite the knuckle of my thumb
until it bled.

One night, with pliers, he snipped off
my left hand's little finger.

He told me about a brother I should have had
if dada had let him live. 'That one,' he whispered, his hot breath
forced into my right ear, 'sleeps at the bottom of a river.
I had to, don't you see, rid myself
of the fear of that damn Hessian sack.'

I wet my mattress at night. During the day I dried it
with the heat that emanated from my frail body.
I coughed up the best years
of my adolescence and spent myself time over
on the soiled, spoiled sheets of that prison bed.

At 21 dada released me.
Mother kissed me. She touched my forehead
with her hand and handed me a crutch
to hobble with.

As a final gesture, dada pushed me out the door
and shoved me down the steps. He laughed
as I fell and put a front tooth
through the flesh of my bottom lip.

I found a job sitting beside a beach
polishing hermit shells I stole off the crabs
as they wandered the shoreline
beneath the lapping light of the half- moon.

I sold the shells to children, told them
it was not the ocean they could hear
but the cries of crabs lost upon the ocean's dark floor,
seeking their mothers' familiar claws
or fearful of the snip if they encountered their fathers'.

I found a wife and brought her home
to meet the family. Was shocked
when dada seduced her; he forced
my mother and I to watch
while he coupled her.

She, I forgave,
but blood should not be forged into a weapon.
I plucked out my eyes
and threw them at dada.
He never paused but rushed onwards, faster
than a breached dam.

The dogs barked as he rutted
and when she cried out part of me went missing forever.

I left that place, took my wife,
or let her take me, rather,
but soon lost her and never sought
to discover if she went to that home,
to his bed
where I was first brought into existence.

Eventually, months and years diminished
my revulsion and I was drawn north to south.
I slithered over the back fence
and took up residence in the back shed, fed
by my mother in secret. Blind in the darkness, heartless,
I listened to the dull leather sound as dada
beat my mother. I offered no solace
when she brought me food in the morning.

Finally I left the shack
and discovered, like others before me,
that the road back is harder still
than the slide into the darkness.

I found a new woman who had three children,
lived with her beside a river,
ate apples every day
and planted their seeds at night. I watered them
with my tears and the gentle stories
I told her children.

My ears heard the laughter
as water scampered across tickling rocks
or the joyful squeals of her children
as she chased them, pretending to be a monster.
I found a large boulder and placed it
upon my own monster. I know
a seed cannot grow without light.

I found, one winter, a son that she gave me
and bit my tongue off while I held him; smelt
the skull that had captured sunshine
and the scent of the deep blue wings of a butterfly.

She stood beside me, her hand
around my shoulder, her lips
painting, with breath, the hairs
of my ears and I thought of my mother

and the apple trees blossomed
and shed their petals
as gently as death
or love
or snow.

Flash Fiction: Catfish McDaris

2011-01-18T16:08:00.000-06:00

Praise the Lord and Pass the Gopher Meat
Catfish McDaris

My daughter recently graduated from college. We had a big party and she got lots of envelopes. My holy roller Aunt came with my cousin, I grew up with. Right away my cousin started passing out religious pamphlets. I asked her if she wanted a cheeseburger, she said yes. I sprinkled habanero flakes on hers and my Aunt’s. She kept talking about God, until she bit into that burger. Nobody could believe she was related to me. My Aunt checked her food and got an Italian sausage for herself. She started quizzing my kid about her degree and how her boy friend was a decorated veteran. She said she kept a loaded pistol by the toilet and another by her bed. How she’d been sitting on the pot in the dark and how my Uncle came into pee and she almost blew his nuts off. That sure brought a lull to the conversation. Aunt then told about my cousin’s kids killing gophers with a sledge hammer. People were aghast. She said gophers don’t have souls. Then I remembered why we haven’t gone over to dinner or spoken in seven years.

Poetry: Lee Clark Zumpe

2011-01-18T12:23:00.000-06:00

Playing Solitaire
Lee Clark Zumpe

playing solitaire on the floor outside her bedroom
one night

her muffled voice seeping through the crack
beneath the bolted door
along with the light of the lamp
on her nightstand

confessing her sins to the boy she did not want
anesthetizing herself with her whisky logic

her guardian angel struggling to keep his eyes open
while she strung webs
losing herself in a soft twilit madness

Poetry: Damon Mc Laughlin

2011-01-18T12:22:00.000-06:00

Brownsville 451
Damon McLaughlin

That route between her shoulders and up her
neck, fingers trembling like a smoker’s

sentenced to his fix, I pull the trigger at Pump 6—
Blonde hair collapses.

I’m at a Shell near Austin, Kansas City, Des Moines.
In Brownsville, she dreams she’s water at Boca Chica.

Near St. Paul, I hear the ocean eddy
up her back. I’m a slick about to burn.

Her heart, she said, was this island I wouldn’t find
on any map, skull-shaped and lava-ridden.

I said my heart is the old, blind-in-one-eye black man
who sets fire to white women’s hair,

who sees things nobody dares believe.

Poetry: Carly Bryson

2011-01-18T12:20:00.000-06:00

Karmic
Carly Bryson

The damage we do will outlive us all; yet
we are still in our savagery--complicit
in our denial.

I see faces in the wreckage,
each pixel made of flesh and history;

if only we took the same care
as with a simple caress
but like a porcelain arm, she bruises well.

The truth will be a scythe-the dirt a path
and the story--how progress prevailed
wrapped in flags and apple pies;

how we embraced the disease
without diagnosis, eating the sugar cube placebos.

The stone shifters knew their stuff;
we revered them but even their pillars
won't survive the shifting plates.

When the seeds are gone, the roots will perish
our resilience will lie in karmic purgatory
reduced once again to simple matter.

Interview: Zara Kand

2011-01-18T12:16:00.000-06:00

Nothing. No One. Nowhere. No. 1. January 18, 2011

An Interview with
Zara Kand

By Michael Aaron Casares

Having been a fan of Gitane demone might not have any meaning when talking about artist Zara Kand until you link them as mother and daughter. Interestingly enough, I discovered Zara’s work independent of Gitane. However, with a last name like Kand, Valor comes to mind almost instantaneously. In short, I was quite honored to share an interview with Zara Kand and to gain her perspective on art and artists, among other things. Zara is a prolific painter and musician who shows her work frequently in her home state of California and has logged quite a few miles in on the road with her band as well. I corresponded via e-mail with Ms. Kand throughout the duration of this interview.

MAC: How long have you been painting?

ZK: I have always drawn and painted since I can remember, but I have been seriously painting as a career choice for nearly 7 years.

MAC: Did you take classes to learn how to draw and paint? What are your views on this?

ZK: I took a beginners painting and two drawing classes a few years back at college.. They did help me somewhat familiarize with my tools and mediums. But beyond that I found them slightly annoying; I was gonna do things the way I envisioned them, no teacher could embed in me an orthodox way of 'creating', or convince me to believe what is good art and what is bad art.....Once I got what I needed I bailed!

MAC: What are your favorite medium(s)?

ZK: Well I should give a little more credit to that painting class -it introduced me to using oils, which I thought would be very difficult...but I fell INLOVE! Acrylics, sorry but, you no longer hold the flame. As for other mediums (as far as visual arts go), I love ballpoint pen on paper, I love using natural materials for sculpture -bones, shells, coral... I love working with clay.

MAC: What is a constant source of inspiration in your work?

ZK: Life. In every aspect: the natural world, the emotional world, the physical world, the mental world, the metaphysical world. To narrow it down; nature inspires me, because to me there is no greater artist. So definitively yet delicately it exists, in all it's intricate designs and color schemes.. as human artists we only attempt to create our own version of such a perfection that needs not prove or conceptualize anything -it states that life JUST IS. The emotional, physical, and mental parts of being human are what confuse me and therefore drive me to do art.. Expressing how we deal with this complex role and the various transitions we face in order to come to acceptance -or not. The metaphysical ties it all together; that there is a living force behind everything, so infinite that we are often blind to seeing past our own bubbles, and how everything, through this play of energy, happens for a reason. *I say 'we' not blamefully but generally..

MAC: Which of the paintings submitted is your favorite? Why?

ZK: I'm not sure.. I like 'Repression' a lot, it's truly surrealistic. And I like my self-portrait 'Ocean Premonition', it's honest, somewhat revealing. I also like 'Preservation' because it's one of my later pieces inwhich you can see how my painting skill has improved.

MAC: Where have you shown your work?

ZK: Particularly in the LA area, I started out exhibiting at various coffeeshops, local art festivals..in '07 I did a group art show titled 'Story Book Paintings' with respective artists in a gallery downtown LA... my last showings have been at the Hive Gallery (downtown LA) this last year. I’m currently working on a whole new collection which I excitedly plan on showing soon...stay tuned!

MAC: Are there any artists who inspire your work? If so, who?

ZK: Well of course Salvador Dali, Frida Khalo...Jan Svankmeyer.. any artist that can tap into the subconcious.
How do you define art? Art is life, creation. You give and share life by creating.

MAC: Do you think the artist has a role in society? If yes, what?

ZK: Whether or not the majority of society finds this significant or not, 'giving and sharing life by creating' is what the artist does, in whatever form that expresses their view on things, in hopes to a lead to a heightened perspective by others.

(For the rest of the interview, pick up a copy of Nothing. No One. Nowhere. No. 1)

Contact Zara at ubiquitousbliss@hotmail.com for information on purchasing her art & music or visit http://www.myspace.com/zaravoodoo, or facebook.

Nothing. No One. Nowhere. No 1: January 18, 2011

2011-01-10T14:59:00.000-06:00

Poetry

Karmic
by Carly Bryson

Findings
A Dab of International Economics
The Murder of Walter Liggett
by David S. Pointer

The Martyr
The Parasite Inside
Behind the Camera
by David McLean

Playing Solitaire
Reliquary
by Lee Clark Zumpe

Poseidon Dies like a Fool in the Modern World
by Doug Draime

Print
by Santosh Kalwar

Brownsville 451
by Damon McLaughlin

Pursuit of Happiness
by Martin Willitis Jr.

Prose & Short Fiction

Anti-Ismism
by Jennifer Hollie Bowles

The Thin Blue Snake
by Kathryn Mockler

Dada’s Seed
by Danny Fahey

Legs
by A. Molotkov

Flash Fiction

Praise the Lord and Pass the Gopher Meat
by Catfish McDaris

Art

Seatime Lullaby - Zara Kand
Repression - Zara Kand
Preservation - Zara Kand
The Newborn - Zara Kand
Take a Slice of My Heart - Zara Kand
Ocean Premonition - Zara Kand
Sharks in the Water - Michael Aaron Casares

Interviews

An Interview with Zara Kand
by Michael Aaron Casares

Lit In Review

What Use Am I a Hungry Ghost
By Marc Olmsted

Beaux Papillons
By Thom Moon Ten

Music In Review

Hai!
by The Creatures

Fever Ray
by Fever Ray

Attach & Detach
by The Crystelles