x e n i t h
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o issue 10C (#40) o www.xenith.net x o
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o july 26, 2003 s o best-of-the-issues issue o
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s i n c e j u l y 9 , 1 9 9 7 .
circulation : 4,000
So much to say, so let's get down to it. All you new people probably found your way to Xenith through Guiness Zine Records, where Xenith held the record for the longest running zine (6 years) for a while. So if you're wondering what the hell this zine is, that's Xenith.
»Xenith's 6th birthday and the "best-of" issues.
First off, Xenith just passed its 6-year anniversary and in celebration, and I'm releasing a series of three issues featuring the best writing to appear in Xenith in the past six years. This issue showcases the best writing taken from all of Xenith's issues. The second features the best writing from An Out-of-Xenith Experience, a weekly feature found only on our website. And the final issue contains the best writing taken from Xenith's very active message boards (populated by lunatics with amazing writing talent).
It was hard to pick the best writing for this issue. I couldn't include all of the writing that I thought deserved a place, unfortunately. So I judged on diversity of content, length, and style. I didn't include any writing from the issue immediately preceding this one (#39), because I figured it would be too fresh in people's minds. Above each piece of writing you will find a little blurb from me telling a bit about the piece and any memories I have of it. Consider it your guide to the past six years. Enjoy.
»New staff wanted:
I'll be remodeling Xenith's website soon, and I'm looking to add a few new staff members for new features on the site, including columnists, comic strip artists, and serial fiction writers/novelists. Some vital stats on the site: updated frequently; 40,000+ hits per month; 4,000+ mailing list; 11,000+ posts on message boards; featured in the New York Times Upfront Magazine, Suite101.com, Netscape.com, ACLU, various libraries and k-12 schools; many college-aged readers, including students from Stanford, Harvard, Bryn Mawr, University of Michigan, UCLA, Northwestern, Rutgers, and many more. 60% American, 40% foreign. As you can see, there's much diversity and your work would go straight to an audience hungry for writing and new ideas. I've been told the feedback rate Xenith writers receive from being featured is excellent.
Click here to get more info on Xenith's open staff positions.
This is one of my favorite poems of the past six years.
The subject of the poem hooked me, but it was its
simple and sweetly minimal presentation style that
made me love it. The most talented writers are the ones
who can express the maximum with a minimal amount of words. 6
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fingerpainting ' § . ( ç ¤ , ë × ` å \ ð ! , » ¹ o o o o o issue 9B (#37): august 20, 2000 .................................................................................................................
She wasn?t allowed
To create her own designs...
Couldn?t color her own rainbows
Or paint with her fingers.
Instead, she was forced
To color within the lines. "She was forced
It was required to color within the lines..."
That she paint by the numbers.
But once, in secret, she reached
Into a fresh jar of paint, by natalie s. aubele
For the first time (naubele@wilson.edu)
Feeling gooey liquid,
Smearing it
Onto the paper before her...
And the artist was freed.
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Ah, yes, Tarma! I never talked to her and she never gave any
feedback or interacted with the zine, and when she sent me her
writing, she just sent me her writing, no extra sentences at the top
saying "hi" or "here?s my work" or anything. But everything she sent me
was wonderful and usually the best thing I had read lately. I published
everything she ever sent me--three things that all appear in this best-of issue. 6 .................................................................................................................
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trainism: high above + ; / ¡ , . « " ß µ . ' ± ; ° ² o o o o o issue 7A (#26): february 8, 1999
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The nights worn away in the calm of the summer
Cali air were divine, up on the train bridge drinking mini- by tarma
mart sodas and identifying constellations in the haze of (black15@aol.com)
a flashlight painted red to reduce glare. I brought different
people there every time I went--it was my way of evangelizing. I worshipped the great metallic mammoth that clunked and sparked and rolled by every half-hour or so. The funny thing was that you never saw the conductor and he never saw you--because, of course, if he actually saw your dark shape frozen far down the tracks, cowering in the glow of the train's huge single headlight, he'd have to shut the whole deal down.
There was a platform in the middle of the bridge where I stood time after time. That space was my safety, my cozy little niche that could keep me close to the trains I admired so much, yet I could still remain out of the path of the enormous iron deity. The main drawback was that in order to get there, you'd have to run half the length of the bridge and just hope the train didn't show up along the way. It was this hazard that kept many of the friends that I'd brought from venturing out with me to my nice little spot. Whether or not they'd go through with it, though, I'd always make the effort--which more than once had brought me uncomfortably close to the unstoppable hulk of the train. At the last second, though, (always!) I'd run, leap, and push myself off the tracks onto the security of the side platform, stopping myself somewhere between death on the rail and death over the edge of the high bridge.
At the time, I was seeing this boy--and thus brought him ceremonially to the location well after midnight. (To go during daylight hours would be blasphemy!) Although he was apprehensive at first, having a fear of trains from childhood, I led him out onto the bridge and we made our way to the center, darting and bounding over the flattened and bug-heavy planks supporting the tracks. Upon arriving, we huddled against the outer railing and waited. And waited. Waited more. Then decided to pass time with some meaningless recreation. We tossed rocks over the edge and tried to hit electrical wires. We ate chips and talked about nature. We realized how alone we were.
Then, in the distance, there came a white light, like the culminating exit of a near-endless hall. My eyes opened wide as I felt a rush of anticipation (or something more like impatience). Playing the role of the experienced one, I advised him briefly on how to act when the train would come by--this was all an act, of course; no one ever really gets used to the train. The air was heavy with silence, then we heard the tingling of metal like a tortured insect; the buzzing of the vibrating rails through the night. We crouched against the edge as the hissing grew louder, but the characteristic grind of the tons of steel could still not be heard--a strange game the train plays with your mind.
The boy took my hand and gazed at me hopefully--not long now. I shifted my weight nervously. I kept my eyes on his face.
Then, it was there--right in front of us baring its heavy soul of metal and fire as it sped by--a passenger train doing maybe 70mph as the heat, noise, and rush of air blasted us backward. It was a relatively long train, so I'd have the chance to crawl to my feet and face it. I rose from the rickety platform that shook and jolted with the weight of each rhythmic passing wheel. The gust from thick air between cars ran across my face, as if the train wanted to grab me by the hair and take me with it. I raised my head to the sky and enjoyed the feeling.
I felt the boy grasp my leg firmly. He was still on the ground in a fetal position, his eyes shut tight with fear. I took his hand and tried to pull him up towards me, but he refused to even speak, let alone experience the train face to face. I tried again, pulling up on his body with all my strength, but he was immovable, content with the blind awe of the mere knowledge of the power that slid by. With a great deal of difficulty, I resorted to pulling myself out of his grip and walked closer with measured, careful steps. Bridge, train, watchers, and passengers all swayed uniformly through the air with all the anxious instability of an untested looping roller coaster that pushes the riders into a daze, while evermore bringing them closer to the sky. . . the train itself had the effect of being larger than humanly possible, as if I was in the front row of a grand theatre. The lights were out within the passenger cars--they were asleep while I had never felt more awake.
I turned my head in the direction of the train's motion as the last car passed by. The train was gone, and only the familiar lingering buzzing remained. My boy was still up against the railing. He saw that it was over and stood up next to me.
"That was incredible!" he said to me with a look of amusement. I hid the feeling of contempt I began to feel. He hadn't even looked at it! But that didn't matter now. If the train had taken anything with it, it had only grasped my impurities and all my sins and dragged those demons, writhing and kicking, down along the gravel and dirt below the tracks. I remained safe on my platform, completing the process with a glance over the side of the bridge, as if I expected the ground far below to have vanished entirely. (It hadn't, but had instead gained the grand feature of seeming unimaginably far away, perhaps a trick of my temporarily acute senses. The dirt glowed.) He turned away from me and followed the train's path back to the solid ground he knew.
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A writer living in Ireland sent me this poem.
Kurt Cobain and an aching nostalgia...
how could you go wrong with that? 6 :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
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past avatar ë , ¥ ' } ; ø - ` î ¨ { ` Þ * ' ¸ ñ ` , - » o o o o o issue 9D (#37): february 19, 2001 .................................................................................................................
Going home from work one day
On the subway
Listening to "Lithium"
I thought of the way
things used to be. by shwetha janarthanan
(shwetha@another.com)
I was a frequently intoxicated,
Bell-bottom denim clad
Hippie chick.
You were a punk
With slashed jeans
And an amazing voice.
You and me in our
One bedroom flat.
Dope and drink
And your six string guitar.
Standing on streets
Playing Jimi Hendrix,
Living on spare change.
We hitched a ride to San Francisco
On a whim
to see if all the stories were true.
Met hundreds of people just like us
All singing "smells like teen spirit"
Felt like home at last. "sometimes...
Living in Ashford I wonder what happened to you
In a friend?s spare room whether you still think of me,
Making love in the afternoon. your lover, and the times we spent together."
We lost our youth
The day Cobain died
We grieved a friend
I sat and cried.
Disillusioned, I packed my bags.
I told you I was starting a new life but
You were too drunk to notice.
I changed from my tattered rags
And kissed you goodbye
While you were still sleeping.
I knew when I walked out that door
That I couldn?t love you anymore.
I went back home to see my family
And led the American suburban life
I used to hate.
Sometimes, on a day like today
I wonder what happened to you,
Whether you still think of me, your lover,
And the times we spent together.
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Ever wonder what the hell is up with
people on the web? This is a brilliant insight
into the inner workings of net geeks everywhere. 6 .................................................................................................................
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web dancer Ç ¨ ] ¸ ` ¿ ' ) Å , ` ¶ " ¡ õ « £ , o o o o o issue 9C (#36): december 31, 2000
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Enter amidst a hurricane of potential data.
It takes skill, experience to ride the current. Where by catia c.
to skim through, screaming past interlaced webs of (catia7728@hotmail.com)
electronic filigree faster than the speed of sound,
barely touching, and where to slow and examine the strands of borrowed time. Hard not to get distracted by the flashing neon beckons of companies made for the mind, not to get enmeshed in silver boxes with ignorant persons unaware of the shifting ethereality beneath the customer-friendly pretense.
Riding over the waves of information, the ultimate escape, the ultimate jump of the conscious from body to mind to something else, something that cannot be completely named. Searching for an elusive slip of fact without getting caught in the rip tides of misinterpretation, knowing and then confirming with a twitching synapse then hunting for more. Traps abound; malicious non-beings that cannot be said to exist in the flesh lurk beyond the emphasis of every doorway. Too many have been dragged down by the lure.
Jump to a safe haven and test the waters. Go out too far and you'll find yourself immersed in bad information and unwanted data. Join computerized synapses with other beings that aren't, slip into the lingo, the webtalk.
It's easy to piss off the wrong skimmer. Everyone will do it, probably repeatedly, when they forget that this place is of the mind, not flesh, and even then something more, and so must not be treated with physical habits. It's easy to forget that others can't see as you see; they are on the other side of the screen, after all.
But this environment is tantalizing. Prisons of the flesh feel flung away, and anything seems possible. Slash across your circuit with two fingers in the data pool, and you'll raise them with a plethora of new facts to contemplate and relationships to work on and interests to pursue.
When connected, when thinking beyond ourselves, we feel more than human, more than flesh and bone. But for all the superior might of it, we cannot forget what the body, and, though we will never admit it, the deepest parts of our selves yearn for. We slow down our metaphysical rips across time and nonspace, turn slightly toward places of gathering, toward another mind.
Most are uncouth places, populated by people that skim with their bodies and not minds, and that therefore never go beyond webtalk, and never experience the joy of stretching a thought and reaching across the world with the click of a button. They only use this realm, only use their minds to fulfill the wants of their flesh. They are aware most despise them but too busy being trivial to see their own ignorance.
A new site, then, claiming to be dedicated to the destruction of ignorance, helping people to create manuals on life. Recommended highly caught your eye, leaping out of a thick index of new jumps.
Of course, the need to connect, talk, share information claws its way to the top of our attention. The forums look clumsy, the topics slightly dull, and altogether the minds there seem intelligent but too accustomed to one another to welcome a newbie. That's what we're looking for, belonging to a community even though we're isolated from the world.
All the forums seem to be this way. We're experienced, we know not to linger if there's no interest, so we're about to take another cosmic and mental leap when Chat catches our eye.
Chats? Chats tend to be full of
idiots that can't appreciate the wealth "Chats tend to be full of idiots
of information here, idiots that yammer ...that yammer endlessly in
endlessly in webtalk and lamer-ese webtalk and lamer-ese about
about actions they will probably never actions they will probably
give or receive. But hey, we're skimmers, never give or receive."
we can tell sites, and this one seems different.
Stare at the login screen, surprised there's no need to register. Go to enough places, and we see that these sorts of communities are always in trouble. But sure enough, it's strange, it piques our curiosity long enough to dig a name out of our mental cache and type it in. Names are so superficial, but there's no anchor to hold on long enough to know the person otherwise, no way to refer to that person again without a page-long description.
How strange, only a few people. And interesting names they have chosen for themselves. Anonymity is common nature in this place that isn't, so we've gotten well at seeing through it to the person inside. Or so we think.
We offer a greeting, they return it. No webtalk here and everyone seems quite friendly. What an odd place, we reflect without thinking, knowing it. I like it.
No one asks a/s/l right away, which we are grateful for. That's one of the worst aspects of webtalk, how much it pries without caring, like they are about to scoop your brains out and analyze them and not care a bit, they've done it so much. So impersonal.
Gender is brought up soon enough, but that's fair. It may be predominantly a characteristic of the body, but we do need it to refer to people as, to categorize them into friends or potential partners. Interesting, how much of the flesh seeps into our minds.
Location, a little after, but it's easy to be vague. Location is good for small talk. How's the weather? Oh, that must be beautiful country. I went there on vacation. Et cetera.
Age only comes up as an afterthought, a guessing contest, and it turns out that the people we've been conversing with that sounded so mature were our age. An instant connection is fused.
Add this page to our extensive directory, and place it on our usual circuit. Cyberspace is about to get more interesting.
A week flies by, a month, two. Even though it goes against all our skimmer know-how and intuition, we stick around, make ourselves popular, begin to possibly fit in, or at least as much as you can in this devious plane. Just by sending our attention down threads of electronic impulse, we've conversed with people from around the world, minds we could not have ever met otherwise.
No webtalk, here; not among the typical crowd, and the people here have brains. The older ones are more experienced in the world of the body, the younger ones in this, the abode of the mind, and it makes for a peculiar combination. The minds with skimmer savvy smile knowingly to each other when newbies to the tech get flustered when a typical webtalk user appears. They have yet to realize that most people in cyberspace are idiots like this, and intelligent minds are quite the minority when it comes to chat room experience.
Just like in previous chats, we immediately click with a few compatible minds and form a friendship outside of the main chat area. It is exactly like panning for gold; sift out the people it would be difficult to pay attention to and keep those that aren't. Simple screen names become personalities, a few words mean more than either know. Romantic pursuits are taken up and then dropped just as quickly; questions are answered and good times are had. The mind is in its element, siphoning relevant information and worthwhile friendships from the bulk effortlessly, just as any half-good regular of this void can do in their sleep.
Meanwhile, the longer we stay the more fun and novelty wears off. Yes, we've met the people we'll keep from here, we've met the jerks and idiots and nice but ultimately unworkable people. We've learned a lot, but we're skimmers, searching and learning without stopping, and we've spent long enough here. The fun is gone; there's nothing of worth to me left to learn. Let's meet more people, go more places, go, go go.
This is what our intuition is saying to us, but we ignore it. This chat is such a wonderful place to be. We belong, and fit in. Never mind the growing resentment of the people that think this electronic paradise is full of geniuses. Forget that they are trying to limit our access to minds and information. Ignore the fact that we can hold a mature conversation on topic just as well as they. Don't pay attention to the fact that they judge us by our flesh and not our mind. They don't understand the beauty of the place.
Finally, we're cut off from the very thing we liked so much. The minds we enjoy connecting with best are banned, and we're not far from it.
Rage and disappointment seethe through us. But truly, we were expecting it. Skimmers have been there. We have done the chat thing. Stop moving and we'll go into a state of entropy. Go into entropy, and be blocked from the all-important data flow.
Oh well, we know everything is passed or passed over. Leave the chat. Always better to leave than be left, abandon before being abandoned. All minds learn it soon enough here. Just as the data flow is never the same as it was the instant before, unreality waits for no one, and there's no expecting it to go into entropy for us. Don't cry over a wrecked chat or their masters, the equivalent of a newbie webtalk user fifteen years from now. There are plenty of other opportunities and places to explore, out there in the web.
We're a little out of practice from being an insider, so we'll ride slow for a bit to warm up...
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I saw Eli perform this poem at the 2001 National Youth
Poetry Slam Finals. He was a member of the Connecticut
team and a junior in high school then. It?s a slam poem, inspired
by hip-hop and meant to be spoken--and there?s nothing like
seeing a writer interpret his own work live. This poem originally
appeared in the issue dedicated to slam poetry. 6 .................................................................................................................
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untitled § ` ] , & ^ , Î ' Þ , ² × ` ý ¨ ð o o o o o issue 10A (#38): august 13, 2001
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Girl walks up to the mic
visibly
she trembles
her voice box
vibrating to the sounds by eli rosenblatt
(gearheadmtb@aol.com)
She predicts her next diction
movement into the next nation
praying she won?t be caught
and her privilege to speak revoked
by an authority not realizing the
power of the spoken word.
She speaks of school
where her third step is second guessed
pressed into the ground
where her self expression
cannot be found until the sound of her voice
cracks through
her own footprints
"but teacher I can?t ask questions
in equation form
because my problems ain?t gonna be solved
by some theorem."
She says my facility is words
It's my third step pressed
second guessed by the ground
I found
this soil that grows my
tree my poet tree
is love for my people
my generation
300 feet it?s gonna be
students be seein' my words
flying to the air
searing their hearts open
and hopin' that ya?ll gonna
have the courage to speak
like baby girl getting up
to the mic and screwing metal spikes
on her words so that the people
we?ll puncture her soul
make it them
translate their experience
to hers wrap warm literary furs
around her words.
She keeps performing words
forming their contours
like the sculptor Michelangelo
flowin' and growin' as she finds
more truth than any textbook
gonna afford her work. "but teacher, the beats of my ancestors
cannot be captured in
She is a gifted child Houghton Mifflin, second edition..."
with the motivation to
craft creation and fashion her
personal styles into the poetic files
in the cabinet of her mind.
"but teacher, the beats of my ancestors
cannot be captured in
Houghton Mifflin second edition
it is my mission to echo their cries
and fly to the moon where
the monsoon of memory
sustains my soul."
She speaks of her sharp skill
being able to form concrete poems
on scantron sheets
and fillin' in the blanks with
symbolistic symbols of wrong answers
"if I fill in the wrong answer creatively
then maybe I?ll get partial credit."
not in a world where sub-urban creation
is pacified and homogenized until it swallows
like 1% milk.
She writes her reality on history tests
and math exams
she is the ambassador to beats of peace
and personal truth.
so why are her teachers
assuming her to be merely
uncouth.
god forbid intelligence speaks
above her teacher.
the only thing that can teach
experience is knowledge
so then why is college admission
based on how well you bubble in answers?
so. There we sat at the Poet?s Café
in between
the split of the scene and
the motion of the dancers
prancers ranters lanterns "now I know why
burning bright at the mic. I write poetry...
now I know why to feel the love of my generation."
I write poetry.
to feel the love of my generation.
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Again, one of my very favorite pieces (and judging by
the response from that issue, a reader favorite too). Maybe it?s
just because I have an inner wannabe musician. 6 .................................................................................................................
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musician ^ , `` . { } . `` % , _ ) # ` . * > - ` . ¡ o o o o o issue 9B (#35): august 20, 2000
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As far back into my existence I can
remember, I have loved to sing. Music by molly burkett
and voice are my passion. I dreamt of (isaydea@aol.com)
singing on a dark stage, with one single
spotlight shining on me. The piano would begin; I would take a deep breath; and pour my heart, spirit and soul out through a song. The audience would listen intently.
Then I would always wake up from the daydream and realize how the cliché celebrity status I was thinking of is so completely out of reach that I can barely see myself with it.
So today, I dream of myself sitting on a platform, in a cozy coffeehouse smelling of tobacco, in a small town called Terre Haute. A few lone poets are lingering about the tables, sipping their lattes, paging through journals and their eyes wander up as they hear the strumming of a rickety folk guitar.
A girl in front brushes her hair away from her face in an attempt to see who is performing, why, it's a young girl, seems to me nothing more than 15, fingering some strings. Let's see what she's got.
And I sing, and I sing, and I close my eyes and envision what this song is about, a tear fails to escape but the emotion is there; you can hear the tears. I think of where I am, I take in the moment, I eyeball the passing cars through the front window, and I breathe. And I pick through the last chord. And I nod at the applause.
And I live. And I am a musician.
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"Easy reading is damned hard writing." --Nathaniel Hawthorne
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