Author Topic: The Cenacle | 104 | June 2018 | *Just Released*  (Read 574 times)

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The Cenacle | 104 | June 2018 | *Just Released*
« on: July 30, 2018, 07:29:40 PM »
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Hello everyone,

Here comes the just-released Cenacle  | 104 | June 2018. This is a black & white issue, to fully contrast the colorful April issue just past. The contents are amazing as ever, words in every color of the dictionary. These include:

From Soulard’s Notebooks:
[Sample] Some stories meant to be written, painted, fucked eaten?

Feedback on Cenacle 103:
[Sample] We start at one point that is grounded. We move to discovery with each new crag. And then we come to the conclusion at the climb’s summit. It’s beautifully searching with its repetitious lists that are mining for more revelations. And it brings you on a splendid journey. [Gregory Kelly]

Secret Joy Amongst These Times: History of Scriptor Press by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Sample] But then there was a day when I was at home, took a shit, clogged up the pipes, & spent hours up to my arms in my own shit, trying to clear the pipes & then clean up the mess on the floor & me. This is how I felt at my worst. Like the failure was my own, the pipes would never clear, & I’d never get it all cleaned up. What’s peculiar, & deeply lovely, is that while this messy job hunting stretch went on & on, something else was going on too: the making of Cenacle | 77 | April 2011. 16th anniversary issue, debuted at the 4/23/2011 Jellicle Literary Guild meeting.

Same Same Shackles, But Different (Travel Journal) by Leia Friedman:
[Sample] The readily available pocket-skyweb-picture-taking device impedes my travel writing. When I see something beautiful, unique, ironic, absurd, I don’t take notice of the fine details like I used to (in the days before one could swipe a thumb up, press the white dot on the black glass, and look elsewhere). I remember traveling to Canada as a child, then Prague, Israel, Italy, Mozambique, Brazil, Jamaica, Peru, Latvia, and attempting to immortalize every last tiny detail of something so that I could write about it later. I would try to burn the image, the scent, the feeling, the sound into my brain.

Poetry by Martina Newberry:
I watched a tall woman
in fringed boots carrying sunflowers
in her bag. It looked to me like her
feet hurt. It made me sad for her but
then I thought Hell! It’s been a bad year
for everyone.

The Millennial Artist’s Omelette (Classic Cenacle Essay) by John Barton:
[Sample] Something ends, and the Western world experiences fin de siècle; but if something ends, then something else begins. Is Father Time’s hourglass half empty or half full? The Christians choose to be pessimistic; l don’t. At this transitional time, all is in flux, there are “undirected ships & dreams,” and “crashings” are as inevitable as the course of the sun.

Poetry by Judih Haggai:
steps slow down
sounds of nature, sense of ground
slight breeze on skin

Jehrico’s Tub (Fiction) by Tom Sheehan:
[Sample] From the top of the ravine wall, in a remote canyon of the Drago Mountains, Jehrico Taxico spotted an old wagon on the canyon floor, hundreds of feet below him. It was hidden from any lower view by a few trees and brush and a huge chunk of palisade wall that had fallen long ago like a dish on its edge. He judged that the wagon had not fallen from the high escarpment because it looked to be still in one piece. Probably its driver and occupants had sought safety by hiding in that place, he thought, only to get caught by whatever they were hiding from, or yielded at length to animals or nature getting as cruel as it could. No survivors lurked in the scene, or any horse or mule or ox that had hauled the wagon to this point. Only the long shafts for a single animal hitch appeared solid still sitting at an angle on the ground. A fallen rock had crushed one of the rear wheels. There were no other traces at all. And not a bone to be seen.

Many Musics (Poetry) by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
He approached me, huffing & snarling.
 Reached deep in me, crumpled the mask
I had worn for two unloving Kings. Led me
 far deeper in the White Woods than ever
my runts & I had gone. Lay with me as
 more than man, the Beast men have
mucked over deep within, till a war or
 an unresponsive woman bursts him
sloppily, blindly to the fore.

Same Moon Shining (Memoir Excerpts) by Tamara Miles:
[Sample] This is a couple who have been married since she was fifteen and he was eighteen, with the exception of a brief divorce when they were still young. It was his fault, and he realized after about six months that he couldn’t live without her and the children. Barbara has always taken care of him exceedingly well, to the point that she jokes, “If I am ever reincarnated, I want to come back as Frank Miles.” So, I think for her to be willing to separate from him over the treatment of their granddaughter stunned him.

Poetry by Tamara Miles:
Where, the nexus? between the now that flowers,
and the land of elephants in my mind, waiting for the day’s first taste,
held in the fibrous tunic of my own mammalian eye,
fastened on an elephant carcass, bones baked by midday sun?

Many Blooms: A Sampler of Modern Women Poets
[Sample from Adrienne Rich]
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

Notes from New England by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Sample] I’d had this dream, you see. It was 1974. I was at a Paul Simon concert. I’d come back here from 2018. All the girls wore fringed bell-bottom blue jeans. Simon was young again, not like when I’d seen him in the future, then a genius wizard grandpa minstrel going on his final concert tour. Big stage. Many musicians.

Poetry by Colin James:
The cleaning was continuous.
I never found my guest amongst the carnage.
Must remember to get blood checked for parasites.

Notes on Conspiracies and Corruption by Jimmy Heffernan:
[Sample] It’s much scarier to posit that no one has a handle on the world. In truth, the population is susceptible to a legion of potential crises. And no one, or group, really has control of the planet in any meaningful way.

Poetry by Gregory Kelly:
i had potential once
like a match stick.

Wooden Spacecraft (Travel Journal) by Nathan D. Horowitz:
[Sample] And then there’s the mythic dimension. This practice reminds us that we’re living in an ancient myth, as the present is the antiquity of the distant future. Like gods and heroes, we quaff slumbering thunderstorms and bathe in molten ice. Our every action has infinite ramifications, even as we are ramifications of infinite previous actions. We reverberate through people whose souls we touch, and those they touch, as others reverberate through us, on and on. And some nights we drink a liquid yoga that yokes us to the uncreated ineffable. Like bees to flowers, we return to that great mystery. And that’s another “thing” “shamanism” “is”—a sucking of the nectar of the blossoms that sway behind the visible world.

Poetry by Nathan D. Horowitz:
It’s 2007 and my father is about to die again.
Standing in a courtyard in Vienna, he operates a hand pump
from which issues fire rather than water.
From my apartment window, I watch,
writing with the brisk pencil of solitude.
The courtyard burns like paper.
My father dons the starry glasses of summer
and vanishes in the flames.

Bags End Book #10: Beagle for a Day!:
[Sample] Princess Crissy is so nice to me & smart & funny & cute, not to mention how she protects me from the crazed plans of certain all-about-me big guys in Bags End, that I came up with this strange idea to thank her & to show her what being a Beagle is really like!

Sapphire Sins [Travel Journal] by Charlie Beyer:
[Sample] When the ATV goes up with a load, it’s 45 minutes until it returns. I’m alone. It’s getting dark deep in this canyon. The mosquitoes are crazy, the air feels ice cold. I am overwhelmed with loneliness, despair, depression, darkness as I survey the wreckage of my dream. Now disappearing, heap by heap, back to the barren condition of cold naked forest floor. All homeyness torn down. No more cat perch in the center of camp. The mixed heaps are looking like an impossible and an interminable task to get all this shit outta here.

Poetry by Ace Boggess:
The singer died a few years back,
unnoticed then. We still listen
to his screeching, morbid laughter
as he mourns a day when he will die,
we will, or the world.

Questions & Answers About Using Psychedelics by Rick Doblin:
[Sample] The beauty of psychedelics is that we don’t have psychedelic experiences; we have experiences of ourselves catalyzed by psychedelics. Stan Grof has said that LSD is a “nonspecific amplifier of the unconscious,” so that what we experience depends on who we are. LSD is like dreaming: it’s not uniform content, it’s a way of processing content.

Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Sample] The hallway descends down a little steeper now, & the goooooo seems to allow them to levitate down its grade. Their hatted, dreadlocked leader continues: “So you’ll read it aloud, & then you’ll find that you’re trapped by all these people in/on this book-movie-Island. You’re trapped & events will accumulate, & you may be able to wiggle yourself free, unfold, reveal, find a way out, through the document, read your way in & around & under the document. It is many columns long, many pages, little pictures, static, this place, events accumulate!”

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« Last Edit: December 02, 2018, 09:25:44 PM by cenacle »