Los Angeles Locations:
Soul Central Books
Los Angeles Locations:
Soul Central Books
BY MARÍA CRISTINA HALL
For decades, communities of undocumented immigrants have been shrouded in poverty and institutional neglect. Their migratory status—sometimes an imposed condition, as is the case with children brought to the United States—condemns immigrants to a life in the shadows.
In this interview at the University Tecnologico de Monterrey in Mexico City, deported persons shared what it’s like to have to leave the country, what it’s like to be recruited in a gang, and what it’s like to adapt to Mexico having lived an entire life in the USA. They shared their stories and the stories of their mothers, sisters, and friends back home. Please give it a listen.
REVIEWED BY AMANDA HILDEBRAND
Following Excavation: A Memoir and Hollywood Notebook, Wendy C. Ortiz’s third experiment in memoir, Bruja, is a similar manifestation of Ortiz’s self-evaluative journeys through the magic and mystery of inner consciousness. When presented with this dumping-ground of a one-time blog project, in which she recorded detailed accounts of her own dreams over months, composed of “threads” of themes and narratives instead of a followable structure, Ortiz and publisher Michael J. Seidlinger termed the book’s genre as “dreamoir.” In Bruja, Ortiz reminds us of the peculiar ways dreams present themselves: as symbols, as images, as reflections, as reminders themselves, each wrapped in an unconscious narrative that makes all dreams seem not only familiar, but connected. Ortiz lets her dreams speak their own surreal, uncertain truths, revealing inner worlds of memory and witchcraft that bound beyond their dream-forms.
BY STEVEN GRAY
There used to be a video rental store in San Francisco which specialized in Japanese films. This was in the 1980s. I wandered in one afternoon, not planning on renting any tapes but curious what they had. In the back was a section for X-rated films. I started reading the titles and descriptions since the translations were so demented. In going from Japanese to English the words passed through a warp which left them scrambled.
The prophet buried
in the soil of Eden
to balance the clock
and the globe
BY STEVEN GRAY
I was sitting in a dark room with a few others. On the opposite wall were atom bombs blooming in slow motion. The circle of a shock wave expanded over the water. A split-second expansion. Who bombs the ocean? A cloud of white noise engulfed one destroyer after another. The boats were empty, being obsolete or broken down. They were placed near the explosion to see how much damage it could do. An enormous column of water vapor rose up and spread out at a certain altitude. The mushroom cloud from the bomb that fell on Hiroshima was over 60,000 feet high.
Just in time for Trump’s Presidential Inauguration, Reverend Steven Johnson Leyba of the Coyotel Church and Peter Kalisch drop their spoken word collaboration entitled FUCK YOUR FREEDOM. In our interview together, Leyba discusses the fascist state of America, The American Dream, the concept behind the video and how we as a collective may be able to finally incite a revolution among the people using the concept of #ARTWAR. Pay close fucking attention.
BY TRISTENE ROMAN
“…and all you dudes out there that don’t eat pussy: stop callin’ my phone! I mean it, Los Angeles. I do Pilates three times a week to keep the insides of my thighs tight and smooth. You ain’t never seen a bitch with thighs this velvety smooth. I get a Brazilian wax every two weeks. I douche—hell—my cootie pie is everything but shellacked. From time to time I expect somebody to get on down there and take a gander or two. Shit, take the full tour; check out the décor—I digress. This is Miss Margo and you’re listening to Middle of the Night with Margo. Stay right there because I’ll be right back with the dirty-dirty’s own: Big Brady.”
Usually we think of things how they seem. We’re elastic bands though we may seem
like human beings.
I like licking the white plastic torn pure from the top of white yogurt containers—
vanilla. Millions of live bacteria trying to see her
in Manila without color and without eyes
help to maintain my bodily balance.
Looking out from ideas mistaken for eyes for one another
is time: a weird diamond
getting harder and full of emptier,
we are deaf ear tempters clenching diamonds because we come from black holes.
BY ANNA UREÑA
Luka Fisher has been an unofficial patron of the arts for DRYLAND since its inception in 2015. I don’t know how she heard about us back then but I liked the work she sent us and published her short films and multimedia pieces. After that, we were showcasing photographers, filmmakers, performance artists, and poets like Gina Canavan, Kayla Tange, Matthew Kaundart, Chelsea Bayouth, Leila Jarma, and Mike Leisz—artists who were all tracing back to Luka Fisher. After a non-investigation into who she was (I don’t lurk, I’m oldschool like that), it was clear that this would one day require a meet up.
the optimum time
What you think you’re doing?
Peeking through a plank with a five inch-knothole.
Fake ID from three different states.
Sneaking into the old movie house without paying.
Staring at the Old Master and declaring,
I can paint better than this shit.
My window is adorned with planets.
Waiting is the small orgy
of wet arms and parabola necks.
Someone had to flirt with the errors
we face, when midnight blurs a teary star
from the face of the ancients.
This is the edge of hope
where curtains fall
and follow through with an actor’s murder.
Flexing her biceps again and again until she actually grew a tad woozy from doing so, Pearl nevertheless kept feeling her left arm with her right fingers (and vice versa, of course) over and over, until one day, she skipped through her living room and on into the powder room with its mirror and visual confirmation that if she craved to bulk up and grow strong enough to truly go Cro-Magnon, then she was going to have to become sufficiently buff to be able to club her lover on his fedora-wearing head so he’d drop like a deflated judy-doll, and it would then be okay for Pearl to lose her thick, thick club of oak and drag her lover to the daybed in her duplex— well, in order for Pearl to accomplish all that, she was going to have to polish off even more than her standard fare of four nice bowls of steel-cut oatmeal every morning, an overstuffed hero sandwich near noon, and a sixteen-ounce rare porterhouse with Jujubes come dinnertime.
The sea foams turquoise
A gull’s screech staggers softly
I long for salt breath
It escapes like breath
Water sound on my eardrum
Tall grass in high tide
A woman carries
a basket on her should