The snow hushed the city sounds and from far far off came a chorus
of howls and yelps. Mama, I hear wolves, she said. Hush, my dear.
There are no wolves near. It’s only the wind in the dried old cornstalks,
only the whine of the furnace turning on, said Mama. But the girl knew
no furnace yelped so high and wild, no wind howled so savage and
lonesome. She dreamt of dark fur speckled with glints of light like a
winter night sky, of a pool of warm red that spread across the fresh snow.
I can’t find the beginning, so I begin with the music. I put the records on and I listen to the voices of these women, and as they sing they appear before me, flickering like footage from an old film. There is Billie Holiday, Lady Day singing the blues with flowers in her hair and veins full of opiates. With her golden reed of a voice, she sings her own pain – good morning, heartache – and the deeper pain of topics no one else will touch: Blood on th...
And here we are, 21 years later. This cut & paste collage of a life, this punk rock anthem screamed at the wind, this spilling my thoughts onto Xeroxed pages, is all I’ve ever known. -from "all that's left/all I've ever known" (as appears in Reckless Chants #22: "Remember Who You Are")
Reckless Chants #22 is now available! You can order it via Storenvy, or find more info here.
Approximately 80 pages (subject to change slightly once the layout is completed) of stories from my life circa the ‘90s. Stories about how I got into zines, my dysfunctional family, shitty dudes, heartbreak, depression and self-destruction, trying to be cool (and failing miserably), being a terrible riot grrrl, sexual misadventures, bike rides, adventure, stick & poke tattoos, and (some of) the albums and books that changed my life; plus collages, choice excerpts from my teenage journal, and scans of pages from the zines I did in the '90s. And more!
RC 22 is half-legal size, and the covers are an homage to '90s grrrl zines - collage and rubber stamps on pink paper, adorned with glitter and leopard print Duck Tape.
you ever listen to a mix tape (or CD, or playlist - I forget sometimes that it’s 2015 and almost no one makes mix tapes anymore) so many times that you get used to the songs in their relation to other songs on the mix? you know what I mean - you hear, say, “Jeepster” by T. Rex, and you expect to hear Johnny Thunders’ “All By Myself” right after. and when you don’t, it throws you off.
you ever wonder what happened to all the people who once made mixes for you? you ever think: well, they’re out of my life, but I still have the music? mix from _____. he carved that into the cassette, but he may as well have carved it into your fucking soul.
I am twenty-five years old, and I am at Cafe Vesuvio in San Francisco. I have spent the last few days wandering this city at the edge of the land, knowing my way around somehow, though I’ve never been here before. I can feel my calf muscles tightening, getting stronger, from walking the hills. This is my last day here before I fly back to the midwest, so I have returned to North Beach and to Cafe Vesuvio. The bartender asks what I want. “Just a water,” I say. “Aw, c’mon,” says a middle-aged man sitting at the end of the bar. “You can’t just drink water here at Vesuvio.” He pauses, realizes he may have misspoke. “I mean,” he says, “unless you don’t drink.” “I drink,” I say, “it’s just that I don’t have enough money for anything but water, because I don’t have much money left and I have to live on this for the next two weeks. I’m hoping to make some money at my reading tonight, but I can’t count on anything.” “Your reading?” he asks. “Are you a writer?” I nod. “Hell. You’re a writer and...
All those traumas are true and real, but why can’t I be unrepentant about it all? I don’t want to offer up my wounds, I just want to be wounded. I don’t want to explain myself, I just want to tell you that I dropped out of college and went on road trips and fucked boys and girls and drank cut-rate sangria and swallowed a carnival of pills and made myself bleed because I could. Because I was alive in this body, in this world. If the boys could do it, why couldn’t I? (x)