SLING Magazine
Feb. 15 2015 Issue 4: Funny Love
Issue 4: Funny Love Contents
What's In Your Sling?
Issue 4: Funny Love
Poetry
Sexy Onion - Kurt Newton
Cactis Skin Tree - Arian Ernesto Cepeda
How To Properly Flirt With Someone You're Attracted To - Ebony Stewart
First Love - Felicia Gustin
Forbidden Fruit - Melissa Tweedie
I Wanna Be A Drag Queen - Sarah Cooper
Funny Kind Of Love - Edward Currelley
Fiction & Non-Fiction
OK Cupid Love - Tamara MC, PhD
Spicy Love - Jennifer Porter
Art
Blue Girl
Kyle Hemmings
Music Review on Zap Mama - Eclectic FLaSH
Hope Johnson
Interview with Romance Novelist, Eric Jerome Dickey
Bonita Lee Penn
Art Review of Fantastic Journey - Wangechi Mutu
& Owner, Creative Director's Notes
Hope Johnson
Page 1
with Romance Novelist Eric Jerome Dickey
Sling Interview
Bonita Lee Penn
Eric Jerome Dickey was born in Memphis, Tennessee and attended the University of Memphis (the former Memphis State), where he earned his degree in Computer System Technology. In 1983, he moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in engineering. Eric Jerome Dickey's novels, Chasing Destiny, Liar's Game, Between Lovers, Thieves' Paradise, The Other Woman, Drive Me Crazy, Genevieve, Naughty or Nice, Sleeping with Strangers, Waking with Enemies, and Pleasure have all earned him the success of a spot on The New York Times bestseller list. Liar's Game, Thieves' Paradise, The Other Woman, and Genevieve have also given Dickey the added distinction of being nominated for an NAACP Image Award in the category of Outstanding Literary Work in 2001, 2002, 2004, and 2005. In 2006, he was honored with the awards for Best Contemporary Fiction and Author of the Year (Male) at the 2006 African American Literary Award Show. In 2008, Eric was nominated for Storyteller of the Year at the 1st annual ESSENCE Literary Awards. His books have held steady positions on regional bestseller lists and have been featured in many publications, including ESSENCE, The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Los Angeles Times. Dickey's last novel, Pleasure, held true to form and landed on bestseller lists for The New York Times, USA Today, and ESSENCE.
Sling: Eric, your novels have been best sellers and on the top of everyone's reading list, how was the beginning author struggle, what kept you going, when did you know you arrived?
EJD: It’s all about dedication to the craft, as it is with any other occupation. Basically, you have to ask yourself: is this an occupation you like? Can you deal with the solitude and the deadlines? It’s a learning process, for all writers--newbies and the ones who have been around for a while. They learn that writing is one part, but selling to the unknown and unseen is the larger part in the end. You have hits and misses and learn from the latter and hopefully you continue to better yourself bit by bit. It’s not a relaxing occupation. It’s not an idiot’s occupation. It feels like being in finals week in university over and over again. Each book is starting over with a new blank page to taunt you, and with each effort you feel like you’ve arrived at a brand new semester, but you need the prior knowledge to keep on keeping on. It’s rewarding, but it’s not fun; you feel good after each achievement, but it’s not a barrel of monkeys. If there is a struggle, that struggle never ends. It’s about the start of the career, in my opinion. How do you see it? What’s your approach? What was important to me was getting a better understanding of the craft, and long before I considered trying to publish any work I enrolled in writing classes at UCLA. Being an author is a journey into both the unpredictable and the unknown. Not for fame. Definitely not for fortune. I simply enjoyed creating characters and stories. The entire career is a journey, its duration different for all involved. If you enjoy doing what you’re doing, that is more than enough to keep you going.
Sling: There have been many changes in the way authors publish and promote their books, especially with the decline of big publishing houses. What advice do you have to offer to those embarking on their own writing career? What should they pay close attention to?
EJD: My advice now is the same as it was then. You have to study the market, the ever changing market, see what’s available and learn how to use it to promote yourself. But you have to have a product that is sellable before all of that. Many skip that part. They want to pass go and collect without going around the board. People need to focus as much on the craft as they do on trying to sell. If you skip the former you might have a short shelf life, if you make it the (these days, metaphorical) shelf at all.
Now it seems that a much heavier load has been placed on the writer to promote and remain active on social media, to maintain websites, which can distract many from their work. Actor/director Juney Smith once told me while we were working on a production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, “If you’re watching television all day, you’re watching other people work.” Well, if you’re on social media all day, you’re watching other people avoid work. Writing is writing is writing.
Sling: Starting out as a writer you joined the IBWA (International Black Writers and Artists), through this membership you received scholarships to writing workshops. Do you feel being part of the IBWA assisted in your development as a writer? Do you feel that as a community we should all be an activate member of writing organizations?
EJD: Joining IBWA gave me the confidence I needed to make the transition from software engineer and entered a world I admired and respected, but knew nothing about. Novels were both magic and magical to me, and they still are. To start with nothing but a thought, an idea, and to solidify it with words, to have it become coherent and give suspense, or thrill, or mystify, that’s amazing. We work alone as writers, that’s just part of the creative process, be it in a small room, cafe, or in the attic. But we all need to confer with others sometimes, to share and get direction from those who have a great eye for both storytelling and the craft. We need to read to keep the brain active and we need to live life as well. Without IBWA, my life—so far as my career—might have taken a different direction. Each writer, as an individual, is different. You have to see the individual first. We’re not part of a collective. It’s more about what the writer needs at that moment, his or her temperament during that part of his or her journey. Some need company, others a shot of jack and coke.
Sling: In June of 2000 you embarked on a book tour to Paris, where you celebrated the French publication of Milk in My Coffee (Cafe Noisette) how were you received by your French fans?
EJD: That tour was amazing. It was my first time away from American soil and my first time being called an American. I was over there for the release of the French version of Milk in My Coffee. It was a small tour, as Paris isn’t that large but the tour was tremendous. I was struggling to get interviews in the US, but in France I was on their version of Oprah. I was the American no one knew, but everyone wanted to meet. They thought that I was part French, since my first and middle names, for them, are French. And I loved the way they spoke my name.
They had no idea that racism existed in America. They spoke about it like it had been wiped away. All they knew was what they had seen on television. I had to take a breath and gently correct them. I wonder what they are thinking now, close to two decades later.
.
Anyway, I had an interview with a woman from Africa who was outraged that I was referred to as African-American, since she thought that all Black Americans calling themselves Africans was blasphemy. That was the only awkward moment. She was professional and her opinion was respected, although her angle threw me for a loop. I’d never had anyone of color look at me that way. I think she resented me, the book, its theme, and because she looked like she could pass for a cousin was sent to interview me.
I went to Paris as a celebrity, as an American writer, and I was simply referred to as an American writer for the duration, and the experience was awesome. Their respect for literature and their interpretation of materials both fiction and nonfiction remain unparalleled.
Sling: Along with your novels you have contributed short stories to several anthologies; the last I read was “Cafe Piel” in Got to Be Real: Four Original Love Stories. You even contributed to Black Silk: A Collection of African American Erotica (Warner Books). Do you find it a challenge to go from 300 pages to 30?
EJD: I started with short stories, then screenplays, and soon moved to writing novels. You recognize the type of story you’re doing and use the craft to make it happen. For example, what I covered in a few pages of The Education of Nia Simone Bijou could have easily been expanded to the length of a novel, but that wasn't the intent for that piece. I did a sci-fi short that was only 500 words or so back in the day. A story’s length all depends on the objective.
Sling: Along with your contemporary romance novels and short stories, you authored a six series graphic novel for Marvel Enterprises featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. Plus the crime novels (Gideon Series) following the dangerous adventure of a professional assassin. How do you keep these intriguing characters separate in your head? Has there ever been a time they clashed within your imagination?
EJD: They’ve never really clashed. I guess you can say it’s like playing baseball, finishing up, then going to the sandlot to shoot hoops. They’re both sports, but they are different and each game has its own rules, but for each you have to flex the same muscles, only in different ways. It’s the same for the genres. At the core of all sports, there is training. Same for the writing. I took classes for romance, mystery, short story, novel writing, took seminars where they talked about writing eight hours a day for three or four days. You have to show up. You have to do the work. When someone hasn’t trained, you can tell. They tire. It becomes too hard because you don’t have the tools you need. The foundation is the training and enables you to transition from one genre and lend something to the other. I love doing a blur the genre lines, but I need to know how to do each separately for the mix to be effective.
Sling: In 1998 you developed a screenplay "Cappuccino," which made its debut during the Pan African Film Festival in Los Angeles (directed by Craig Ross, Jr.) Since then, have you been approached to write a screenplay for another of your novels? If you could choose one of your novels to be on the big screen, which would it be?
EJD: The (forced) relationship between literature and Hollywood amazes me. Maybe because once you enter that arena, you as a writer, well the writer of the novel, are basically paid to go away. They throw money at you, you throw them your book, and as you drive away you hope the money isn’t counterfeit. There are a lot of Hollywood horror stories. I backed away from screenplays and stuck to writing novels as a way to remove myself from that machine, yet I am thrown back in that direction all the time. It says a lot about America and what we see as validation; it’s like a novel itself will never quite be enough. I think every writer wants their books to sell like crazy because people simply love to read and enjoy what came from the author’s heart, as we’ve seen with Harry Potter and 50 Shades of Grey. I know how it goes.
I’ve had talks, some awesome lunches, but never made it over the hump. Signing a contact is a marriage and you have to be careful whom you marry, because one bad contract can leave you ruined while someone else profits from your intellectual property. Better not to sign than have many sleepless nights. As for which novel would I love to be able to buy a ticket for, grab some popcorn and Raisinets and watch on the big screen? Hard call. I’d prefer A Wanted Woman anything Gideon, An Accidental Affair, or Drive Me Crazy. Then there’s Thieves’ Paradise, but Sister Sister, Naughty or Nice, or Friends and Lovers would be just as fun. I’ll let you decide.
Each novel has its own personality and my nose remains too close to the tree to see the forest.
Page 2
Zap mama
Eclectic FLaSH
Music Review
Hope Johnson
"Bandy Bandy" Featuring Erykah Badu
Ancestry In Progress
2004
"Papidit"
Eclectic Flash
2015
The Voice is an instrument itself…it’s the original instrument. The primary instrument. The most soulful instrument, the human voice – Marie Daulne
I remember my grandmother, mother, and aunts singing in the kitchen as my sister and I followed along with our small girl-voices, mine nearly a squeak. That “rounding” (as we called it) we made together seems to stick like a lullaby; a re-conjured memory over my usual morning cup of coffee while listening to “Time For Love” on Zap Mama’s most recent album “Eclectic FLaSH”.
Vocalist Marie Daulne founded Zap Mama, an Afro-European music group, with the release of their first album, “A Ma Zone” in 1999. After releasing albums: "Ancestry in Progress" in 2004, "Supermoon" in 2007, and "Recreation" in 2009, Zap Mama has become a global music sensation, touring Europe to Asia, Africa to America.
My interest in Marie Daulne grew after I discovered "Ancestry in Progress" in 2010. Actually, my aunt discovered the album at a local library and brought it to share over Sunday dinner. The African inspired polyphonic vocal play seemed to capture us all. Daulne’s life and escape with her mother and sisters from the Democratic Republic of Congo during civil war provided deeper background into her work. Her story of attempted forced assimilation into European society is one of inspiration and hope of saving African Diaspora history, tradition, and roots.
Although Zap Mama tends to infuse African vocal techniques with hip-hop and pop, the group is also inspired by neo-soul, jazz, and other music genres. Zap Mama’s lyrics provide an eclectic range of word-sound and meaning, combining French, English, and African World Music root languages. In previous work, you may encounter featured popular artists such as Common, Erykah Badu, and others chiming in.
Zap Mama's new album Eclectic FLaSH (2014) is nothing short of tradition, roots, and love combined; extraordinary. The intertwining voices of background singers, Tanja Saw, Stery Rugurika, and Dierdre Dubois take me back home to the kitchen with my grandmother cooking, dancing, and singing with us girls. Musicians, Bert Gielen, Martijn Van Renterghem, and Roxorloops provide additional instrument-voices that perfectly complement the ensemble. Current performance videos are stellar and, similar to Zap Mama’s prior albums, each set of lyrics and vocal combinations is unique and creative. My recommendations for this album are:
“We Go” featuring Sly and Robbie: The Spanish guitar fusion with European pop is mesmerizing in this song. The lyrics, “You may hear that sound, it echos…through the heart of every soul” musically mimics an empty heart, filling.
"Time For Love": There have been few instances when I have rhetorically whispered I want to be her while listening to a song. Tanya Saw’s voice in this song brought forth those words. It seemed to make time stop; I leaned in. I believe anyone who has ever been in love or is still in love can relate to the lyrics “Love is like a smile, love is like a song, reminds me of you”. The combination of voices in this song is simply astonishing. (Cover)
"Papidit": Unlike the two songs above, “Papidit” contains musical combinations that typically create Jazz including: vocal improvisation (scat / call and response), syncopation (beat-pattern shifting), and blues. Lyrics in “Papidit” are a mixture of languages, adding to syncopation of sound. If you close your eyes and listen to “Papidit” you may suddenly begin to visualize yourself in a 1930’s Harlem or Chicago theater, a Milk and Gin famously being served to the pianist between sets.
Although the album is still nearing official international release in stores, it is worth the wait. When it does officially release, get it! If you have an opportunity to make it to a show during Zap Mama’s international tour happening as we speak, make it! Zap Mama is on fiya!
Poetry
Page 3
Sexy Onion
Cactus Skin Tree
Adrian Ernesto Cepeda
Kurt Newton
You sexy onion!
You peel away
one layer at a time,
a slow strip tease
that flares my nostrils
and brings tears to my eyes.
I bite into you
and you taste
sometimes bitter,
sometimes sweet,
a Vidalia one day
a Bermuda the next.
A Yellow Onion
when you need to be strong,
a cocktail pearl
for those lazy crazy nights
when we just let go and roll
in each other's arms.
You sexy onion!
Each day I get closer
and closer to the center,
to the core,
to that juicy pulp that is you.
I can't wait to taste you then.
When I first kneeled down
to taste her
under Rosa’s favorite pink lingerie
as I would rub her southernmost skin
while feeling her up,
I know she could feel my instant hesitation.
Rosa’s legs felt all prickly,
when her skin was like a cactus tree
she would whisper—
pretend we’re in Paris;
during our secret dance, she hummed
the softest Sarah Vaughan tune;
I pictured the softest accordions
serenading with each taste
from her decadent flare,
discovering so much more than her hair
but I didn’t care; her aromas
arched me closer enjoying each curve
from my Champs-Élysées.
While canvasing her body,
Rosa showed me all her secret places,
her voice was my map.
Wet like the Seine,
splashing much deeper my face
licking up her sweetness
from so many layers,
to my mouth, she was already
open like my favorite Pâtisserie,
tasting so many flavors;
now it was her turn for cravings.
With her teeth unzipping a favor,
remembering her glare,
so intensely demanding,
I could feel all the délices
she spread.
Needing to see my Eiffel Tower,
she said, forget the stairs;
Rosa wanted to ride my escalator instead.
Page 4
How To Properly Flirt With Someone You Are Attracted To...
Ebony Stewart
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Get back over here with my heart!
You smell good.
What is that… forever?
You make me wanna eat my words and spit out my spine.
I’d abandon all my awful,
for you.
Baby - can I call you baby?
No?
Okay…
You got me blushing in rainbows
You got me wanting to share the other half of my sandwich.
If we were spiders I’d web for you,
have a million of your babies,
and then… eat… you.
If I were a caterpillar I’d chew through everything just to become a butterfly in your stomach.
A chrysalis, I’d break through all this hard for you.
I was an actress once…
A lion tamer, a magician.
I’d stop planning my escape for you.
Stop bad mouthing love.
Start believing that love is in me and found more of it in you.
You make me wanna figure out,
how much wood
would a woodchuck chuck
if a woodchuck could chuck
wood?
When I’m with you, I know that the things that hurt don’t have too.
Us survivor women know how to build walls and make our bodies a fort.
Know how to be survivors of war
our expectoration in a constant state of revolution.
Won’t you rise with me.
Won’t you hip hop and jazz with me.
Won’t you be totally punk rock and scream ‘I love you’ with me.
When I’m with you,
my pulse is a hummingbird.
My body a parachute.
Reminding me, that I was not meant to live alone
nor is my heart remote from saving.
Can we go through seasons together?
So what if November comes,
I still won’t leave or change.
So what if my milk shake brings all the boys to the yard.
You make my heart an adobe home.
Even when they try to earthquake us loose…
I’ll be mud brick and hold strong.
You are in a dream I’m having a hundred years from now.
You keep saying,
You’ll be you and allow me to call you mine.
I’d squeeze your pimples or shave your back for you.
You remind me there are easier ways to do things, I just never took them.
I forget to be afraid when I’m with you.
So I’m sayin like…
can we be an item or a pair or like, share space together and stuff?
No?
Okay...
Page 5
Melissa Tweedie
Felicia Gustin
Forbidden Fruit
First Love
I search for you, crossing broken
pathways of my memories,
making my way down
the hillside shrouded in fog
until I come to the tiered gardens
of the old Spanish mansion.
I follow the stone walkway
to our secret place.
There behind the bamboo
that thirsts for the sky,
the koi pond glistens still. Streams
of sunlight capture flashes
of orange fish amidst
green moss and lily pads.
I don’t remember the falling
only the being
in love
when we were fourteen
when we were here
there was no other world but this.
Ours was laughter and an everlasting kiss.
You were my first love.
Birds held their breath as we
embraced and tasted each others’ innocence.
It stirred us and we dove deeper,
rarely coming up for air. Then,
a gasp so loud the birds took flight.
The bamboo’s shade tried to cool our passion.
We explored, without fear,
headfirst into the depths of our emotions.
You were my first love.
Autumn gave way to Winter, then Spring
The gardens died and then reborn
The pond chilled then warmed
Behind the bamboo the laughter
became tears.
We pledged to stay true even after
your parents stole you from me,
moving thousands of miles away.
I was breaking, drowning, choking
You were my first love lost,
My first broken heart.
With muscles abounding, the bluest of eyes
The sexiest of men, inches from my thighs.
He speaks but I cannot hear, I catch his musky scent.
Imagine my hands on his body, relishing without relent.
Lust at first sight, my body begins to quiver,
His hand brushes mine, but I’m forbidden to deliver.
Oh that forbidden fruit, how sweet you taste,
Yearning for your lips, exploring you in every which way.
I can’t help but imagine, our bodies intertwined,
Sensual pleasures abounding, ecstasy defined.
How I earn for your appetite, I can feel it in my center.
Longing and needing, begging you to enter…
I nod my head yes, in answer to an unknown question,
As I fantasize you moaning while I release all your tension.
My heart is racing, as I fight these carnal desires,
This unbearable attraction like unquenchable fires.
Grabbing a hold of your essence and bringing it close to mine,
Envisioning us forever lost in passions so divine.
Accidentally my body releases a tiny subtle sigh,
As you look over and smile, I notice a twinkle in your eye.
I turn my head away, blood rushing to my face,
As I imagine us running away to a secret little space.
Excuse me for a moment, for I must take a break
This engulfing desire needs a cold shower right away…
Page 6
I Wanna Be A Drag Queen
Sarah Cooper
You would decorate
me with sequins, ribbons, hair bands
and strapless dresses.
I wanted to be
just like you, wanted to walk
on stage and feel the lights bounce
across my sculpted thighs.
My calves, lean like tenderloin
would stand in salute above stilettos. My eyes
fiercely painted in thirteen shades of blue would lure
the audience into my performance – lips
would part, pucker to “I’m Coming Out.”
My product-filled hair curled, teased
and shining would cascade
down my freshly shaven arms
because when I grew up I would be a drag queen.
You will applaud my eyelashes pressed on,
double-curled, mascara-capped. All will cheer
for my hips, structured like books on shelves, curving
as I swerve and sway, lips pursed, syncing.
I want to bend, stand like you, fold my arms
under my breast line and sass the audience;
a presentress of gender, a bender of beauty, a person.
Page 7
Funny Kind Of Love
Edward Currelley
I’ve been with this man more years then I care to count. I hate his guts. We argue, cuss, yell.
Sometimes I just want to knock his damn block off. He’s never raised a hand to me or called me
Out of name, suppose that counts for something … always saying he loves me. I give it right back, “Yeah, I love you too!” pain in my ass always trying to look out for me, like I can’t take care of myself. The love making is good, real good. Raw, rough, done in a way only we understand and know it to be gentle. The kids respect and love him, two aren’t even his, that don’t seem to matter. They all get equal love … that has always mattered to me. What the hell is his problem? We want the same things guess we’re just two strong personalities. Compromise
Is never a problem, as long as I get my way … well, most the time. There’s nothing like the gleam in his eyes as he comes through the door and sees me after a long hard day. You can almost feel the joy in his heart. No matter, how bad the day, for him it’s all worth it. Out there doing what he has to, providing … I like that, old school manning up. Some of the bums he calls friends, his hanging buddies, homeys. Homeys, what the hell is that? People see you in the neighborhood and automatically some how you’re related. They tell him that he’s crazy caring for someone else’s rug rats. He responds, love the lady love the kids. Truth be told, he scares me with all this love business. It’s just a bit too real for me … all I’ve ever wanted. Now that I have it, I’m terrified.
Fiction / Non-Fiction
Page 8
OK Cupid Love
Tamara MC, PhD
Each night, for five nights, before I went to bed, I imagined him. I imagined exactly what he would look like. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin. He was tall—he had to be over 6-foot. I imagined his face with full lips, high cheekbones, and a long neck like the fashion model, Iman. His feet would match his hands—all equally large. I imagined the way his skin would feel—smooth like the leftover silver ornament that was sitting on the counter of “The Market Restaurant” in Beverly Hills where I was eating a veggie burger. I wanted to see him and not smell him so I imagined he would be odorless—his body, breath, and hair. I imagined his abdomen. It would be so rock solid that the one-two punches I learned in kickboxing class could not penetrate him. I saw his limbs. They were long, but not lanky, and I imagined that his legs could extend to and touch the end of my king-size bed. I saw him on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. On Friday, I told my girlfriend, “I’ve decided I only care about looks in my next partner. I want a gorgeous, gorgeous man. And he must be dark… and my age.” I continued, “I’m ready to move on. I cannot cry anymore. My Botox will not allow me.”
My girlfriend and I finished our meal at Sabor, the only Colombian restaurant in our town. Before leaving, we said good-bye to the wedding party. The bride and groom came over and kissed us on each cheek. Along with our delicious Colombian food, we enjoyed the Mariachi’s who sang love songs to the budding couple as well as the dancing and rhythmic clapping from the other happy guests. Sabrina and I, though uninvited guests to the actual wedding became part of the wedding because we were sitting in the space where the festivities were happening. After Sabrina and I paid our bill, we agreed we to walk off our spinach and mushroom empanadas. We drove and parked our car at the university and in the dark and in high heels we strolled through the campus for two hours. Both of us wore jeans that night. In all the years we had known each other (nearly sixteen) neither of us had ever worn jeans when we were together or apart. This was a historical night. Sabrina looked over at me, “You look real good in jeans.” I had a secret though. I wasn’t wearing just any pair of jeans. I was wearing Kymoro Body Shaping Jeans. During one of my many fits with insomnia and late night/early morning TV watching, I had ordered them through one of their infamous commercials. Supposedly Kymoro had a special pleat that lifted and shaped the butt and a special technology for slimming the thighs. So, it was no surprise that Sabrina admired my perky new shape. I could have told her the truth, but instead I simply responded with a “Thank you”.
After our walk, Sabrina brought me home to an empty house. It was the holidays and my soon to be ex-husband had taken our two boys to LA to visit his uncle and left me alone in our large and lonely house (that would soon become only mine). After Sabrina dropped me off at my front door, I unlocked it knowing I was safe because my dog, Li’lGuy, was waiting for me quietly as I arrived. After entering the house, I went directly to my office, turned on the light, and opened my laptop computer. And just as suddenly, an intense and inescapable loneliness and panic swept over me and I became instantly desperate for companionship. I remembered a month back a writer friend of mine suggested I check out the online dating site “OKCupid.” With hesitation, but also with a deep longing for a man, I Goggled the site and subsequently input my basic information, and answered silly questions such as, “Do you have a car?” I then created my username, SuperAnaisNin, and although I knew most of my audience would not be familiar with the name, and thus the real meaning behind my name, I didn’t care. On this night, I wanted to fully embody Anaïs Nin’s mysterious and transverse ways. I wanted to live freely and carefree like she had done so elegantly in her life. After completing my profile, I clicked on the icon “online now” and the screen before me displayed several pages of members that were currently available for IM’ing. I scrolled through three pages of faces when I came across a familiar-looking face. Initially I scrolled right past the face, then after realizing I may know this person, I retraced my online steps by hitting the backspace button several times.
I did in fact know this person. I went to high school with him and I had only seen him three weeks prior at our twenty-year high school reunion. Although we knew of each other in high school, we were not terribly friendly during our four-year stint. We were both part of the same “group,” the popular one, however while he remained popular, I flew away by sophomore year to become an independent… of sorts.
At the reunion, we spoke briefly. We stood outside of The Hut, the location of our reunion (a bar on the artsy street in our town), and he told me he was a football coach for one of our local high schools. I told him I had two boys, one of whom was also a football player for a rival freshman team. We said good-bye that night, and I never thought of him again. I barely noticed him that night, though I do remember telling my best friend I thought Ty was cute. I was still dazed the night of the reunion. It had only been three days since my husband of seventeen years told me out of the blue that he wanted a divorce. His reasoning, “I am turning forty and I want to spend the next twenty years carefree. I do not want to be married anymore.” And as an aside, he added, “I do not love you anymore.” I was clearly still recovering from this most clichéd and fearful moment when I met Ty on the first night of our reunion.
I looked at my computer screen again and decided to click on the familiar face. I clicked again using the IM function. “Hi,” I wrote.
“Hi,” he wrote back.
We continued chatting but Ty had no idea who I was or that I knew him. I purposefully suspended my identity. After all, I was online. I was feeling a little feisty, a little Nin-like, and besides I wanted to test him a little. I was fishing, according to another dating site, PlentyOfFish, and as such I was curious as to what sort of scraps or treasures I could drudge up from his sea. After much back-and-forth banter, we finally got to a point in our conversation where he insisted that I reveal myself. Because my only intent of joining the site was to be a voyeur, I did not post a picture so Ty had no idea what I looked like or who I was. And besides, I wasn’t even divorced yet. How would it have looked if the whole city of Tucson knew I was getting divorced before my mother even knew? As the minutes passed, Ty became increasingly persistent in wanting to view me, but each time he asked me for a photo, I came up with a new excuse, such as “I’m too pretty for photos.” Or “Oops, my uploader isn’t working.” Or “My photo file is too large.” Alas, he threatened to disconnect. My excuses were no longer working. So, I began using a new tactic to keep him online and connected with our chat. I slowly started slipping in mysterious hints that I knew him. I wrote, “You don’t need to see a photo of me because you already know what I look like.”
“Huh?” He responded confused.
His username was “BullDog” but I sent another IM stating his real name, “Ty, I know you.”
“What?” He questioned hesitantly. He continued, “How do you know me?”
I began giving him what I thought to be subtle hints about myself. “I’m short.” I wrote. “I
went to high school with you.”
“Are you Tatiana? Tatiana Mikeloviz?
I was found out.
That night Ty came to my place. He was exactly what I had imagined. He was tall, dark, and handsome. He had long legs, long arms, and a long svelte neck. When he took off his shirt, I could almost see a twelve-pack, and when I got close to his body, I couldn’t smell a thing.
Page 9
Spicy Love
Jennifer Porter
Poppy Fields was a buxom beauty with hair the color of an apricot allowed to fully ripen on the tree. It wasn’t easy finding haute couture that fit right.
Poppy was also a certified Zumba instructor in the metropolitan-Detroit area, but she hadn’t always been a certified Zumba instructor. Her doctor didn’t think someone of her size could Zumba for an hour. She put on a demonstration in the doctor’s lobby and when all of his waiting patients and office staff joined her in the Belly Dance Hip Shimmy, he signed the health waiver.
Poppy often wondered if she would ever get married, especially on her thirty-fifth birthday.
The economy tanked, and so did the demand for Zumba. Poppy needed to make extra money. But that is a deceptive statement: She needed to pay her rent. Extra money should go toward buying vintage yellow hats with peacock feathers, not for paying rent.
During an unscheduled but not unprecedented break in her last remaining Zumba class, Poppy’s best friend Pattycakes suggested Poppy sell Spicy Love products at home parties. Poppy was moving the industrial floor fans, aiming them entirely at herself and not at her ladies.
“You mean like sex toys,” Poppy said, her giggles scattered by the fans’ winds.
Poppy kept her Spicy Love products in the trunk of her champagne-colored Chevy Malibu. These products ranged from purple dildos to see-through babydoll nighties to bubble-gum flavored lubricants to feathered nipple clamps. Poppy’s Spicy Love parties became highly sought after events.
Stefan Pfeifenberger performed in a comedy troupe when he was not the certified accountant for Abco Auto Bolts. He was also a Canadian, and he looked like a six foot stick figure from a child’s drawing of a man with the eyes of a tarsier.
Stefan was fast approaching fifty and wondered most every night if he would ever get married.
Stefan and Poppy were out the night of the summer solstice. Poppy had just left a Spicy Love party where all ten women (on Poppy’s personal recommendation) bought a silver bullet vibrator in hot pink. Stefan was on his way home from grocery shopping where he’d been hanging around the produce aisles, fondling the melons until a geriatric grocery store greeter told him to “Get a move on now.”
Poppy was driving in front of a gravel train dump truck. Stefan was in his puce-colored Chevy Geo, exiting the store parking lot. He watched as Poppy and the gravel train began to pass by.
Poppy slammed on the brakes. A possum finished crossing the road. The gravel train bumped into the back of Poppy’s Malibu with enough force to pop open the trunk.
It was windy. The Spicy Love products burst out of the trunk: billowing in the breeze, rolling across the asphalt.
Stefan watched Poppy haul herself out of her Malibu and attempt to run after the Spicy Love products. She ran this way and that way as the wind and fate blew and rolled the items of his fantasies everywhere. Stefan fell madly in love.
The gravel train truck driver did not exit his vehicle.
Stefan threw his Geo into park and hustled over. He gathered up five crotchless panties from a nearby bush, two masturbation sleeves and a ten-function clitoral vibrator that had landed in a pothole, and a jar of tingle cream he found beneath Poppy’s front driver-side tire. Poppy returned to her car out of breath, her cheeks flushed, her ample bosom rising in jagged heaves. She had her hands full of possibilities.
“Thank you for stopping and helping me,” she said. “I can’t believe that jack-ass truck driver didn’t know I was going to stop for the little critter.” Poppy looked down at her hands. “These aren’t my things. I’m a Spicy Love representative.”
“Here let me help you,” Stefan said. He took the accoutrements from her and packed them away in their bins and boxes. The truck driver honked his horn. Poppy gave him the finger.
Stefan closed the lid of Poppy’s trunk.
“I’m Canadian,” he said, getting that sorry item out of the way as soon as possible.
Poppy pictured Stefan driving over the Ambassador Bridge, his eyes bulging as the winds shook his little car. “I’m really a Zumba instructor,” Poppy said, wiping the sweat from her brow with a crotchless panty. “But the Ladies had to cut back due to the bad economy.”
The truck driver blasted his horn and Stefan jumped, startled out of his Spicy Love reverie.
“Are you okay?” Poppy asked. He nodded, dumb-struck; she still had the panty in her hand. “I think we better get out of the road,” she said. And for a large woman, Poppy moved remarkably fast. Stefan watched Poppy check her face in her rearview mirror, the ginger tendrils of her hair floating in the surging air conditioning. She lifted her elbows, leaned forward and Stefan could see the look of satisfaction in her eyes as the cooled air hit her pits. He wanted that look for himself.
The light was going to turn green at any moment.
Stefan bolted forward. But what should he say?
He banged on the driver-side window. Poppy stared. He hysterically motioned for her to roll down the window. The light turned green.
“What?” Poppy said, curling the left half of her upper lip.
“I… Uh… Have you ever been to Windsor?”
“No,” said Poppy. “But, I’ve always wanted to visit a foreign country. Why? Are you asking me to go?”
Stefan nodded, his eyes like a pair of full moons.
Poppy looked him over. “Okay, get in,” she said. Stefan skipped around the front of her car, his skinny knobby knees protruding through his khakis.
“Ready?” she asked him after he buckled in.
“Yes,” he said. “But first we’ll have to move my car.”
Art
Page 10
Blue Girl
Kyle Hemmings
Blue Girl (Slide 1) - Red Clock (Slide 2) - Green Girl (Slide 3)
Page 11
Once Upon A Time
Art Review of "Fantastic Journey" by Wangechi Mutu
Hope Johnson
Once upon a time, she was no longer afraid and so her enemies became afraid of her…
- Wangechi Mutu
In 2013, one of my MFA instructors gave me and two other young poets an artist inspration for one poem each month. I was given the name Wangechi Mutu. One of the first pieces that caught my eye was from her collection “Fantastic Journey”. It was called “Riding Death In My Sleep”. Before knowing the name of this piece, I imagined myself as the featured woman, riding some other world, her hands large enough to grasp entire continents; to make an seemingly impossible thing possible.
The above quote is how Wangechi Mutu, master sculptor, begins a short video presentation of her exhibition “Fantastic Journey” at Duke University in North Carolina, however I believe her work collectively could begin this way. Once upon a time, there was a young artist growing up in Nairobi, Kenya in search of success pursuing her art. Once upon a time, the struggles she faced took the form of wild beast-machine fusions, trying to stop her. Once upon a time, she prevailed in the form of...
Wangechi Mutu
Her work is a combination of beautiful and unusual, wordly and mythological. Best known for her large scale figures and sculpture on canvass, Wangechi Mutu explores issues of race, gender, colonization, black female body erotization, war and love. Although her art involves various cultural beliefs and techniques, it has been described as “Afrofuturistic”, an aesthetic that combines elements of science fiction, historical fiction, fantasy, and magical realism with non-Western cosmologies to critique or explain historical and present-day dilemmas of people of color. Her combination of cultures from Kenyan to Native American and indiginous peoples abroad create works that are lush in color and meaning.
Although the entire “Fantastic Journey” collection cannot be separated in my opinion, there are a few individual pieces that continue to capture me:
"Riding Death In My Sleep" is an empowering piece, dream-like. The combination of collage materials and the scene itself produce a powerful image of what it means to be confident, female and the extraordinary power women have over world change. I view the roundness and blue color of the ground she stands on as earth, so she is something above earth. Mushrooms are significant of having a much larger root system underneath. The only sign of that root system is a single mushroom; what is on the surface is not what is beneath.
"Family Tree" captures the essence of what a family tree really is. It's not quite a tree with sure branches and roots; perfectly functioning as if a machine. The representation of roots made of two bloodlines, one oxygenated, one not – both needing each other to survive – and the pieces that make up the family, the eyelashes, the legs, heart, ribs. Perhaps a family tree is really a disfigured, seemingly difunctional body that somehow is still able to create beauty and life.
"The End of Eating Everything" is probably most powerful for me, an animated video piece featuring actress Santigold. Immediately, I connected with words, “I never meant to leave. I needed to escape. It’s been like this for a very long time…We’ve been alone and hungry together”. The way in which Santigold sniffs out her prey and then attacks wonderfully demonstrates the meaning of this piece. I found it extremely personal, real, and dipping into the depths of the artist-heart.
These pieces, like all of her work, put her audience in a state of wonder – what would it be like to live in that world or, do I live in that world but have yet to open my eyes to it?
Wangechi Mutu (Kenyan, b. 1972). Le Noble Savage, 2006. Ink and collage on Mylar, 91¾ x 54 in. (233 x 137.2 cm). Collection of Martin and Rebecca Eisenberg, Scarsdale, New York. Image courtesy of the artist. © Wangechi Mutu
Wangechi Mutu (Kenyan, b. 1972). The End of eating Everything (still), 2013. Animated video, color, sound, 8 min. Courtesy of the artist. Commissioned by the Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University, Durham, North Carolina. © Wangechi Mutu
Wangechi Mutu (Kenyan, b. 1972). Family Tree, 2012. One from a suite of thirteen mixed-media collages on paper, 20 x 14½ inches (50.8 x 36.2 cm). Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University. Museum purchase with additional funds provided by Trent Carmichael, Blake Byrne, Marjorie and Michael Levine, Stefanie and Douglas Kahn, and Christen and Derek Wilson, 2013.1.1. Image courtesy of Susanne Vielmetter Los Angeles Projects. © Wangechi Mutu. (Photo: Robert
Wangechi Mutu (Kenyan, b. 1972). Riding Death in My Sleep, 2002. Ink, collage on paper, 60 x 44 inches (152.4 x 111.76 cm). Collection of Peter Norton, New York. © Wangechi Mutu
Owner, Creative Director's Notes
I still can’t believe it’s been 4 issues. I never thought, in a million years, that all of those years playing around with the idea of a magazine would actually come to life. I look back at each issue, picking through them, reading each artist’s story, poem, interview, and review. You see? I am looking for something as a young artist.
I suppose it’s community. Sometimes, we forget community when we are in our art-minds. We are living in a time and space where art and writing are largely unappreciated; where support financially and physically are lacking; where we have been made to believe we are in competition with each other or even the world. I suppose that’s why I started this magazine.
The idea came from a book by New York Times Best Selling Author Malcolm Gladwell, “David & Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits, & The Art of Battling Giants” – I remember reading that book when I first arrived in New York trying to figure out why I was not being called in for job interviews. I remember, after reading the book, asking myself What’s In Your Sling, Hope? – what skills do you have (rocks) and how well have you nearly perfected them (sling-skill) that if slung at the right time, in the right place, at the perfect distance could kill a giant in one blow?
And so, this magazine was born to help you and me learn what those things are.
Now that we are 4 issues old and you have heard from me, I pose this same question to you and encourage you to keep following your dreams.
I want to thank my great friend and Managing Editor, Bonita Lee Penn for her hard hard work and dedication to this magazine from day 1 and my friend Marianna Moneymaker for her social media advice and support. I also want to thank my friend and Prose Reader/Editor Kaela McNeil for her hard work. We wish her well as she completes her thesis and MFA in Creative Writing.
I want to thank my family and my new friends, Charlie Rauh, Milly Choi Sullivan, and Adam Sullivan for their inspiration, encouragement, and continuous support.
Most importantly, I want to thank you for your support and stories. I've learned so much from you and your work. Without you, this magazine would just be empty pages.
Until 4 more...
Yours truly,
Hope Johnson
Owner, Creative Director
Sling Magazine