#as we left we were met by this deserted concrete building covered with art and graffiti

[frenchpsychiatrymuderedmycnut]

by unofficial

street art parables

somewhere in Bordeaux

——-

this photo is documentation that a concrete structure existed and was covered in art and graffiti on the edge of the parking lot @ Stokomani in Bordeaux  FRANCE sometime in mid-10/2022 in the late afternoon

[solitaria-fantasma]

Dark Arts and Demons - Ch. 38

With every step they took away from the restaurant, Penn felt more and more vulnerable.

He tried to stuff his hands in his pockets, but the left hand missed again, and he fumbled it awkwardly before just letting it drop by his side. It was still covered in chocolate, anyway, and he probably shouldn’t smear that all over Arthur’s clothes - not while the guy was right here! Penn felt a knot tying itself in his chest, and started to hunch his shoulders.

The flip-flips felt weird on his feet, and some of the blisters were starting to hurt again. Oh, but what he wouldn’t give to just go back to the booth, where he could sit down and drink spicy milkshakes and not feel this weird aching in his chest-

“So,” Arthur broke the silence, and Penn came out of his thoughts with a startled jump. “You walked all the way back to town from that factory? All in one night?”

“Um….w-well, I didn’t walk all the way…” Penn admitted hesitantly. “I walked for a bit, and...then there was this nice guy with a dog who gave me a ride for some of the way...then I walked some more, and a nice lady in this vehicle with, uh...colorful lights on top picked me up, and brought me the rest of the way.” He had also stopped into a bar during one of those walks to ask for directions, and nearly gotten killed by some angry drunk guy who thought he looked familiar.

But he wasn’t about to tell Arthur that.

“Sounds like you met Hentrietta Kelling.” Arthur nodded knowingly, looking down at his shoes. His feet seemed to glide along the concrete, as if he walked on ice. “She probably thought you were me, taking a long walk at night. I, ah...used to do that a lot, a while back.” He admitted with a somewhat nervous shrug. Penn didn’t know what he had to be nervous about. “I’ll have to think up something to tell her when we-...uh...when this is...all over.”

Silence fell between them again, and Penn wondered if it was his imagination that made it feel just a little bit lighter. They were approaching the edge of the downtown area, now, and the desert stretched out before them. In the distance, he could see the blocky shape of home-....of Kingsmen Mechanics. That weighty feeling returned, and Penn dug his hands further into his pockets.

Kingsmen Mechanics was not his home, and Lance was not his family. He didn’t have a home; he didn’t have a family. The thought seemed to worsen the tightness in his chest. Did he have a home, somewhere? Had it been that creepy factory he’d woken up outside of? Gosh, he hoped not...that place had been cold, and draughty, and frightening.

“Hey...” Something warm was suddenly laid across his shoulders, and Penn froze up in shock as Arthur pulled him to a stop with his ghostfire arm. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” The spirit said. “But I’ve seen that face in the mirror way too many times to not know you’re thinking something sad. What’s on your mind?”

“Um.” Penn’s brain stopped working for a second. “Don’t you mean your mind?” Arthur made a sound through his teeth, and laughed.

“The brain might be mine, but not the thoughts in it.” He pulled back slightly, and turned Penn to face him more fully. Penn immediately turned his eyes down to somewhere near Arthur’s shoulder. “But I was serious. What’s on your mind?”

“Why do you want to know?” Penn asked sullenly, staring at the pins attached to Arthur’s vest. There was a simple blue circle, a large, golden star, and a skull-shape outlined in purple, and split between black and white. He wondered what they meant.

“Because Vivi doesn’t trust you,” Penn winced, and Arthur softened his tone. “But Mystery doesn’t want to hurt you, and Lewis seems to like you.” He leveled Penn with an unreadable look. ”I want to form my own opinion of you, and I figured that being up front and talking to you would be the easiest way to do that.”

Penn said nothing as Arthur nudged his shoulder, and they resumed walking. A car drove past on the other side of the guardrail, and its tailwind kicked up a small cloud of dust around their feet.

“....I was thinking of home,” Penn admitted after a few moments of silence. “And how I don’t seem to have one. That place,” He nodded ahead, to Kingsmen Mechanics in the near distance. “Felt like home, before I found out I wasn’t who I thought I was. “The only other place I know is that factory…” Penn shook his head. “And I don’t want that to be home. It feels too...too...” He trailed off, not sure how to best describe the place.

“Too...creepy?” Arthur supplied. “Yeah. That place was certified haunted. That’s why we were there. We-...uh.” He suddenly stopped, and coughed into his hand. Penn wondered if ghosts needed to cough. “My friends and I investigate stuff like that.” He explained. “As a hobby.”

“Interesting hobby.” Penn couldn’t quite make his smile reach his voice. Arthur seemed to appreciate the gesture anyway, and they walked in silence for the rest of the trek. When they reached Kingsmen Mechanics, Arthur floated up the steps, unburdened by gravity, and Penn paused at the bottom. He frowned at the worn, wooden steps before hesitantly beginning to climb them.

That was twice now he’d had to climb these damn things while in pain…

Arthur was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, holding a key he’d retrieved from some hidden location, and he waved Penn across the threshold ahead of him. Unlike the last time Penn had walked into this building, he did not feel relieved….the interior lighting now felt harsh, and the cluttered walls too close. He followed silently as Arthur ‘walked’ to his bedroom, and stopped at the door, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yoooooouuuuu didn’t happen to move any keys while you were digging through my closet, did you?” Arthur asked over his shoulder as he dug through a woven basket in the corner, throwing out dirty and oil stained clothes as he went.

“No?” Penn shook his head, even though Arthur couldn’t see. “I didn’t ‘dig through’ anything,” He hadn’t wanted to touch anything, once he knew it wasn’t his. “I only touched the first clothes I found in the closet.” Arthur popped out of the basket with a frown on his face, and quickly shoved all the dirty clothes back into it.

“Lance must’ve done some laundry.” He muttered to himself as he moved to searching the clothes thrown on the floor. “Remind me to thank him. I haven’t seen that Hamtaro shirt in weeks-ah!” Arthur made a sudden, triumphant noise that made Penn jump, and held up a vehicle key on a metal ring with some colorful attachment. “Here they are!” He dropped the pants, and tossed the keys up in the air before catching them with a smile. 

“Now we can send Lewis back to pick up the van.” Arthur ‘walked’ back to the door, and Penn backed up into the hallway to let him through. “I appreciate that you didn’t try to drive it, by the way…” Penn decided not to mention that he didn’t know how, and simply followed Arthur as he moved further down the hallway.

“Let’s get that hand cleaned up, now.” Arthur held the bathroom door open for Penn - or, at least, he tried to. Part of his fiery left arm seemed to sink right through the wood to the other side. Penn stared at it in quiet shock as he shuffled past, and Arthur made a point of not looking at it.

“It’ll only take a few minutes, I promise. Then we can head back to Pepper Paradiso.”

[rayj-drash]

Berlin Sketches pt 1

by T. Frank

My grandmother cannot fathom entering Germany. She was a child of the Great Depression and lived through the war safely from the Catskill Mountains of New York while her husband fixed radios on home turf. However, Germany represents a taboo in history for my grandparents as Jews. They would no sooner visit the Brandenberg Gate than they would try scuba diving without an oxygen tank.

 I constantly reflect on the trusted feeling of Home since I lived in Berlin for six weeks in fall of 2018. Previously, the longest trip I took was a ten-day tour of Israel through the organization Birthright: from the peak of a mountain overlooking three desert countries, to the crowded rush of the Jerusalem shuk, and my aversion to a display of American-Israeli nationalism on a military campus. The scenes and feelings form a whirlwind of hazy memories, much like any experience on new land. 

A few days after I arrived back in the Bay Area, I sat in Strawberry Creek Park watching the sun go down and the light blue sky grow faint as night approached, seeking those moments of "awe" that came so suddenly in Berlin. This bright green park reminded me of the open recreational space I loved over there, even though the grass was literally greener on this side of the pond!  I distinctly remember the moment when I scarcely had to look up at the street signs and felt like whichever path I took, I would find my way. Nevertheless, five months ago, I had sent in an application for an unusual art residency, an immersion into the study of grief. I reflected on those periods of my life that had led to some of my deepest creations. Drawings of cancer cells and lungs, struggles to breathe and heal in the midst of choking emotion, flowers and vines winding through the dark themes. I yearned to express my observations of the world through whatever moved me, again.

~~~~~

The journey to Berlin was a three-legged trip with two layovers, leaving Friday evening and arriving at 10:00PM on Saturday. A huge, crowded economy flight, cheap and minimal. I tried to rest as the crew turned off all lights on board. No sooner did I close my eyes than it seemed like the sun was creeping over the horizon, and we touched down to a windy, barren tarmac. It was 9:00AM, as all the passengers disembarked in Reykjavik, Iceland, we felt the chill burrowing through our thin layers and shivered.

On the second leg, as the plane glided to the lowlands, I appreciated the bucolic farmland. I was alone in the Copenhagen airport. The crowds in Reykjavik were more diverse, like a burgeoning metropolis.  By contrast, everyone arriving in this Danish terminal looked alike: tall, blond, and, permit me, Aryan. They traveled in clusters of family groups, chatting, gesturing, smiling. I dragged my suitcase past designer boutiques to a desolate, unfinished terminal, where passengers awaited their flights without customary notice; but learned to say, Takk, Danish for "Thank you". When I finally reached Germany, I connected to the U-bahn, the underground subway. The ride was over an hour long, and I gazed at the subterranean signage, lost once more. Until I arrived at Rathaus Neukölln, and my new roommate Shimon met me outside in the rain.

The next day, I left the mattress that our hostess Amelia had set up on the floor, staggering about with jet lag. Luckily there's oatmeal, my favorite companion. Shimon and his friend Devorah from Tel Aviv are home. We discuss the neighborhood. ‘What if I get terribly lost, not only physically, but mentally, too?’ I thought. ‘Is this a dream? Why am I so far from anyplace I know?’ Devorah suggested a walk to the canal, with a Sunday flea market. Late afternoon, I ventured outdoors and discovered a slice of paradise.

At the end of the block, a large mosaic mural adorned a staircase which I took to have the impression of a rooftop. A large concrete lot surrounded a beautiful community garden. Raised flower beds were home to a bounty of colorful flowers, tall green vegetables grew under the sunshine and painted poles flanked handmade structures. I spotted a concrete ping-pong table, and mustered up the courage to join two men playing. One of them wore a baseball cap with "Cal" emblazoned in blue and yellow; by chance, he attended law school at UC Berkeley, and lived several blocks away from me! After a few rounds of ping-pong, the Germans drank beer and suggested that I check out a nearby landmark before sunset.

Cheered, I walked along and found an "I Love SF" sweatshirt at a pop-up flea market. More surprises awaited. I heard music, and pushed aside brambles to emerge in Hasenheide Park, where a large circle of guitarists and drummers jammed for casual onlookers. I saw an ornate mosque with blue and gold trim, a wide courtyard, and an outdoor faucet for washing hands or drinking cool, crisp water. Next door was Tempelhof Field. A former airport utilized during World War Two to fly-in supplies from the West, the unused tarmac was reinvented as an open recreational wonderland. I entered the gates and was met with flocks of activity: bicyclists, joggers, even a pair doing synchronized roller-skating. Dry, dull grass covered the fields, but a victory garden shined under the setting sun, and the barista of an on-site cafe recommended finding a good perch. 

I joined two boys from Afghanistan, Hasan and Muhamed, watching the sky from tall ladder-seats. Muhamed and I grinned, struggling to hold a conversation between the lack of a common language. Google helped, but broken English got us farther. "Do you know there are still American police in my country?,” he exclaimed. My conscience bristling, I say that most people do not speak of the Afghan-American war anymore. The sun set in deep purple and vivid pink hues. Hasan saw my eyes light up at the sight of his bicycle, and offered me a ride--so, I sat sideways on the frame, clutching his black leather jacket, and answering "Ya" when asked, "Alles Gut?"until I grimaced from discomfort and Hasan laughed--"Kaput!" The two friends saw me off at a bus stop, and I stumbled on board as the passengers stared.

~~~~~

The following Monday, I walked twenty minutes from the apartment to arrive in front of a white-painted gallery, and no one around. Feeling nervous that the entire program was a hoax (just like my parents thought when they read the acceptance letter from the dubious-sounding organization),  I noticed a middle-aged man at a computer in the corner. I knocked on the window, and he let me inside. Here was a room devoid of decoration, save for a long rectangular table and six chairs, three of which were filled by women. Soon, another man entered the room and offered tea, introducing himself as our "mentor". We never referred to him by any name other than his own, even when I suggested “Alek”. He's over six feet tall, shaved head, and wore all black from his long-sleeved turtleneck to his sturdy dress shoes.

The participants introduced themselves. Sarah researched environmental grief, such as the devastation left behind from man-made disasters. Gwen studied grief theories in graduate school. Jasmine hoped to connect to refugees of war. And Sara--no error, there are two--prepared to make an installation honoring a departed friend. Linda would join us the following afternoon and plunge into an exploration of feeling othered through found objects. After we went over studio policies, we shared a bit on why we study grief, bringing several girls to tears. It felt like a group therapy session--and it wouldn't be the last. 

~~~~~

Dear Talya, Gone to synagogue. It's a short walk from the canal. I forget the street name-'Pflug'-something. Come join me for Yom Kippur services. Love, Devorah. Without consulting a map, I asked for directions from three different shopkeepers to find the synagogue. Luckily, they understood English and didn’t express unsavory reactions to my Jewish-ness. Once I found the path parallel to the Canal, the temple came into view: a large building curving around a tranquil block, with stained glass windows and a grand façade. Security officers were stationed outside, and I was screened before entering. "Are you Jewish?" they ask.. "Yes." Unmoved, they question, "Do you pray?" 

In August, I went to Washington, DC for my cousin’s wedding. Her family and friends are modern orthodox, or, religious. The day before the wedding, we were in shul for Shabbat services. During the long morning prayers, I read the English version of the Torah portion. The text alluded to the treatment of rape by virtue of marriage or the punishment of execution. By coincidence, this was the same chapter I studied for my Bat Mitzvah twelve years ago, but I must have been too young to grasp such explicit content. I left the room and spent the rest of services out in the hallway, tending to the potted plants as a distraction. 

Did I pray? Not willfully on that day in the synagogue. Internally, yes, throughout my life: the inner dialogue between my spirit and the spirit of a G-d. But in practice, only with family over Shabbat blessings. So I answered, "No. But my Israeli friend is in there, can I go in?" 

Yom Kippur services were surprisingly welcoming in Germany. Although the congregation was divided amongst the men and women, the dress code was more relaxed (jeans, white t-shirts), and several of the men held babies on their shoulders as the rabbi sang in Hebrew. I found Devorah and stood beside her. I recognized the somber prayer, "Avinu Malkeinu", and it felt no different than my family's congregation. The prayer books here were German on one side, and Hebrew on the other.

 After the ceremony, we passed by plenty of people enjoying the balmy weather at dusk. Devorah was reminded of holidays in her country, riding her bike freely while everyone took time off to relax. Shimon met us to break the fast with noodle phơ. I was lucky to connect with "my people", thousands of miles away from home. As a child, I remember feeling like my relatives’ religious differences divided us. However, my cultural upbringing is something I've retained and appreciate. Joining Israelis in Germany for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was akin to sharing a secret amongst friends.

~~~~~

  As the weeks went by, I developed a habit of visiting the community garden, mornings before heading to the studio and nights on my way home. One weekend, I felt antsy as I read a book called The Truth Will Set You Free by Alice Miller. There was a campfire at the garden as they observed summer changing to chilly Autumn. I surveyed the party scene before resting into a corner of a homemade wooden bench under the dim glow from industrial lights around the lot.  Although the setting was not condusive to reading, I was shy to join the group. But, when I repositioned myself next to the fire, it was apparent that these young, hip, multinational guests preferred to speak in English. Rosa asked what I’m doing in Berlin. When I told her I’m studying grief, her voice got excited and she invited her friends into the conversation.

Annika was vivacious and full of life. I noticed her wisps of fuzzy blonde hair, bright in the glow of the fire. She was working on a memoir, and was also the subject of a photoshoot documenting her journey with cancer. As she spoke, I folded a paper crane and gave it to her, provoking a sense of delight. My idea for the residency then was to make a handmade book for participants to share their experiences of grief, and to make origami together. Annika agreed to be interviewed the following week.

~~~~~

I took the S-bahn, the above-ground trolley, several miles northwest where the buildings  are close to the city center. Annika told her story: how, at age 26, she discovered the cancer in her breast and rushed into several months of intensive treatment including antibody therapy, anti-hormone medicine, and chemotherapy. She ultimately received a double mastectomy and chose breast implants. For a month after surgery, Annika couldn't lift her arms over her head. It was painful, but her energy was focused on how to function normally again. Now, she was in recovery, undergoing radiation and daily physical therapy. She wholeheartedly embraced her body, and I felt a mixture of awe and love for her resilience and positive attitude.

I encouraged Annika to leave her mark in a communal scrapbook of stories. She drew a breast in pastel colors with words circling the nipple, such as "soft"-, "round"-, "hope"-, and "loss".- After I left the apartment, I boarded the train and closed my eyes. In the dark, I envisioned a bare, cream-colored orb, shiny and wet, like a peeled lychee fruit. Perhaps, I reasoned, this represented Annika's true self.

Back in the studio, I was at a loss to contribute during our group discussion. I almost broke down, overcome with emotions that arose from the interview. So I took a break from the sterile white walls, and sat under the chestnut tree in the courtyard. I picked up a spiny shell, cracked it open to reveal a creamy-brown belly. I wrote a meditation on the seed of the tree. I reflected on impermanence, on patience, on Annika taking her time to heal yet reveling in every healthy moment. I like taking my time.

"Hey Aleksander," I remarked in the midst of studio time, "Since the interview with Annika, I’ve been feeling down.” My mentor was sitting at a desk, drinking tea and writing in one of his many small notebooks. "Do you feel your own grief surface?," he replied. "No, more like I put myself in her shoes, and feel compassion." He advised, "Keep a journal--one just for yourself, your thoughts and daily experiences. And one for your work in the residency; write down everything you're thinking. It'll help, trust me."

----- Talia Frank lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She contributes to the Donut Club, an East Bay writer’s group. Visiting Berlin in 2018 inspired a love of community gardens and allowed her to re-examine Judiasm within a global context.

Reach the author: tfrank@cca.edu 

Visual art: www.cargocollective.com/taliafrank

Blog: https://wanderlustblumen.wordpress.com

[mitsunari]

I am trying not to overthink when it comes to my story featuring Otabek, but I find that it is incredibly difficult to avoid when it comes to figuring out plots and angles and build-up, etc etc. I think of things and sometimes i come up with blanks when I try to take it out of my head and write it down, or I start writing and too much builds up which causes me to freeze and struggle to get started. (This is even with notes/outlines.)

But now I present Chapter 4 of the untitled “Otabek Meets A Dragon AU”. This includes some more morning routine, a flashback to how Katsuki Yuuri and Otabek meet, more business regarding the star. The next chapter will probably be from Yuuri’s POV and it will have our first look of Fantasy Animals!

Otabek speaks Russian to the Aral Sea but he can speak other languages with the same effect or say nothing at all. To perform magic, intent is key. Speaking is one of many ways of directing the spirit’s power out, and it also forms a path/a connection) for a spirit (or spirits) to act. A silent Otabek miiight be the most dangerous. ;)

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS one - two - three

CHAPTER 4 - OTABEK THE NEXT MORNING

Dawn did not mean Otabek’s valley had sunshine, for the sun had far to travel in the morning to give his side of the mountains light. He awoke in the dark and saw to the goats and Karazhal’s food before his own. As usual, it was time to do the patrol.

He pulled his long black hair into a low ponytail, tugging his fur cap on to keep the chill away. While he ate, he wrapped the art box in cloth and placed it near his saddle and gear at the doorway. The cooker was quenched but the fireplace coals could stay. Otabek carefully looked over the house to make sure nothing was out of place before he stepped out.

Swinging his saddle over one shoulder and carrying the rest of his belongings in the other arm, Otabek whistled for Karazhal to let her know they were off. He dropped his things by the gate he opened. The black mare swung her head up in his direction, trotting over and sideways so he could dump the saddle onto her back. Otabek knelt to secure every belt, pad, and rope. The frame fitted flat against Otabek’s back in a bag, and the metal box of art supplies sat on its side next to the wooden frame. Otabek laid an animal skin cover over the bag’s opening, belting it down tight as it could go. With one hand on her pommel, he mounted his horse, pulling her reins so he could lock the paddock.

The usual scout around the fenceline proved to be secure. He had Karazhal jump the driveway gate instead of unlocking it too. Gently pulling the reins, he directed her uphill, going up a deer trail. When the hill flattened out, Otabek inhaled deeply, feeling the mountain wind rush across the plateau. He reached out with a gloved hand to pat Karazhal’s thick neck. She snorted fondly, earning a chuckle from him.

His eyes moved past the horse to the mountainous terrain. He watched the ground for sight of other things. They could be friend or foe, and Otabek did not want to outrace a pack of wolves. Then, he checked up in the trees, this time for hunters and their supplies, like their food tied up high to fool bears or the perches built to hold snipers. The latter was rare. Hunting outside of the season was reported to the rangers by falcon. To date, he’d only found four dead while scouting. Otabek had never killed a man. Nature was not as merciful as Otabek.

At his land’s highest ridge, the grass became stone and crevice. Otabek stayed especially careful here. Karazhal’s hooves dislodged pebbles with each footprint. Suddenly, a gray shape whirled backward, dragging a half-eaten goat with it; Otabek could only glimpse the snow leopard--or “barys” as he knew it in Kazakh--before it darted into a den in the steep mountainside. He encouraged the mare to quicken over the ridge before they met any more predators.

He stood on the mountain edge using the antelope paths. The sun greeted him harshly, blinding Otabek with light across snow peaks and Big Almaty’s ice. He pulled his hat brim down, then paused, braving the sunlight for a chance to see that star even in daytime. Otabek wished he hadn’t broken his sunglasses, but whatever, he used his hand to shield what he could.

At the edge of their world, Yuuri’s new star shone just as it had last night. Otabek spotted an eagle wheeling around, and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he reached with the spirit of animals. His head jerked back as the connection was met. Otabek lowered it toward his saddle pommel, remembering to breath carefully, especially in this thin air.

“Batir,” the eagle acknowledged him with the Kazakh word ‘hero’. “I see you.”

“And I, you,” Otabek responded with a respectful tone. Karazhal continued to tread carefully, as Otabek had considerably loosened his grip on the reins. “What else is to be seen?”

“Hare, I see. Silver fox, I see.” The eagle descended casually. “I could not fly over your large nests. Stink!” An annoyed squawk echoed from the bird.

“Our nests do not have feathers in them. We have many fires burning for warm nests,” Otabek said. It wasn’t his first time explaining cities.

“Gah!” The eagle clearly thought humans were crazy...utilizing a disaster for their nests! Shaking its head, it changed the subject, “Ah, Batir, I see the spotted ones together many nights!”

The snow leopards? “We passed one with prey earlier. Should I be worried?”

The eagle cocked its head, searching the ground in a broad sweep over Karazhal’s position. “I see none now. “ Suddenly, Otabek could feel a surge of killing instinct through him at the same time the eagle stooped and dove down to the ground. The predator might not have seen more snow leopards, but it’d certainly seen prey. Otabek shuddered from his hips up to his head, stretching his shoulders back until the illusionary feeling of feathers growing out of him went away. Sucking in a sharp breath, Otabek’s eyes opened, snapping out of the spiritual connection. The eagle was gone.

His mare pushed on relentlessly on drifts of hard-packed snow. Five times, Otabek dismounted and led her on foot across the terrain. The tall evergreens sang with the mountain wind, accompanied by birds and deer. Otabek hummed to himself to the beat of stones crunching underfoot. When he’d first been chosen, hearing nature wherever he went had been difficult to get used to, but over the years, it had become more bearable, almost natural now. Otabek hummed more than he sang--if he contributed at all--but this time he sang to keep his feet steady on the mountain, focusing on it instead of the edge.

“There was a field in my old town Where we always played hand in hand. The wind was gently touching the grass. We were so young, so fearless.”

As the Kazakh words finished slipping through his teeth, Otabek got back into the saddle, riding the steep pathway around the bowl. The ride took hours, long enough for the sun to fill the valley once he’d trotted through the last pass. Standing 2735m above sea level, the valley with Big Almaty Lake was a painting in itself, coated with glossy white snow contrasting greatly with the dark gray mountains and dark green trees. Ice partially covered the pale blue water which barely reached 8 C even on the hottest days. With its white roofs, the Observatory did not stand out much in the snow.

Karazhal picked up the pace at her master’s command. Otabek descended to another flat ridge and followed it for several kilometers, then urged her up some rocks up to the parking lot. He saw lots of tracks in the snow, mostly from trucks and cars pulling into parking spaces, but not as from tourists in this season. He urged his mare up to a green-roofed building with one large garage door open. As Otabek trotted by, horse hooves clapping loudly on concrete at the garage’s entrance instead of snow, he pulled up on a dark-haired man wearing a bright red coat decorated with golden threads. Phichit Chulanont, to Otabek’s surprise, had his arms were full with sandbags and salt bags. Otabek raised his eyebrows at the sight of him away from the computers just to carry salt.

“AH! Otabek!” Phichit called enthusiastically. “Welcome back!”

Otabek returned the greeting with a casual nod. “She’s good here?” He reached out to pat Karazhal’s mane.

“Of course!” The scientist struggled with the salt bag, but he managed to point. On the other side of the storage garage were horse stalls and a paddock. Since this was a tourist attraction for his country, there were places for horses to rest. He was familiar with the trail rides through the mountains. “The trough is frozen though, and bedding is on that end.” said Phichit, cocking his head off to the left. “I’ll wait up for you after I salt our walkways!” he called over his shoulder as he scurried off with the bags.

Otabek dismounted and had Karazhal stand in the garage while he made up a stall for her. For now, he kept the bridle on and pulled off the saddle, locking it up before turning her out. True to his word, Phichit jogged back up to him when they were both finished. They walked into the Observatory together looking like complete opposites. Phichit was a scientist in crisp black trousers and that gaudy red and gold shirt. Otabek, on the other hand, had traded in his modern clothes for traditional Kazakh furs once he was chosen as baksy, a shaman..

Compared to knowing Yuuri, Otabek’s paths hadn’t crossed with Phichit as much.  When he’d met them, his first mission as a spirit shaman neared its destination: the Aralkum Desert, wound of the earth and Kazakhstan’s western border. Yuuri and Phichit were there for space reasons. Otabek had followed a dying eagle to a dying lake. Yuuri told Otabek that he’d mistaken Otabek’s flying white guide for some kind of glare in his glasses, but that the horse and rider suddenly appearing by their research van had definitely been real. The two men had been using mobile weather and space devices to capture footage out in that region. So far, it’d been just dust and wind, nobody but themselves and satellite radio on their phones. Otabek, who’d ridden from Almaty on horseback, was just as eager to partake in someone’s hospitality out in the middle of nowhere as they were.

In return for their kindness, Otabek told them tales of his adventures and the nature of his mission, for he was not bound by the spirits to keep his identity or strength hidden. (It just wasn’t like him to boast.) Otabek felt these weren’t his powers anyway. He was simply a conduit, and he’d demonstrated with the Warm Touch, same as he had last night, but this time with their forgotten coffees in their front console. Phichit brewed fresh tea while Yuuri stretched his legs outside with Otabek, tired of being cooped up in the van. They’d talked about space and everything in it. Otabek got a fire going by the time Phichit joined them. Yuuri launched into impassioned explanations for everything, face lighting more than just from the campfire, but Otabek liked that about the older man. Passion… such unbridled emotion… it was good for mankind to be free like that. By nightfall, as traded stories turned into sleepy “good night”s, Otabek was glad to call both of them his friends.

At dawn, Otabek mounted Karazhal and Yuuri called out to him from the driver’s side, rubbing his sleepy eyes before putting his glasses on.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay out there?” Yuuri called out with a fretful timbre.

“My duty awaits. I must go no matter what condition I’m in,” Otabek said. The desert stretched out for miles, yet somehow his pale robes were free of the choking dust. Pure air surrounded him, though he didn’t realize it then. Looking back on it, his ride away from Almaty was much of a blur. Otabek was certain it must’ve taken many days but like many things regarding the spirits, it felt just like a dream, too.

Seven years ago, Otabek had much shorter hair than he did now. He’d shaved ritually before approaching the desert, leaving the top short in an undercut style. It had been spring when he’d arrived at the Aral Sea’s former border. Long had the region awaited the season’s coming. It needed his healing. It needed the spirits of the earth to guide it out of suffering, and Otabek had answered its call.

To assure Yuuri that he would be safe, Otabek agreed that they could follow, as long as they prioritized their own safety. Yuuri drove the van. Phichit started recording from the passenger seat, which Otabek found out at the end. His black mare vaulted over the terrain with Yuuri in hot pursuit, yelling as the van did not take too well to the pebble-covered dirt. They stirred up a huge dust cloud behind them. Karazhal pushed up to her top speed. The van jerked right to stay on the flattest dirt. Otabek could hear Yuuri yelling in panicked Russian as the vehicle rattled over rocks and holes.

What happened afterward was an event taking place in two different ways in the eyes of two different parties. Otabek knew his own half, but when he watched the video on Phichit’s phone later, he witnessed how alien it was to view his spiritual power from an outsider’s perspective.

“Просыпа́йся, Ара́льское море!” (Wake, Aral Sea!) He remembered how his voice rang out with thunder and lightning, a show of force that startled even himself, yet Karazhal hadn’t shied one centimeter from her run. He remembered disembodied voices humming and singing. He released the reins at their urging, and his arms drew straight up, palms facing the sky. The power required to renew the massive lake swallowed Otabek whole. What he knew of his actions from that point onward was solely due to Phichit’s video.

To Phichit and Yuuri’s amazement, two brightly glowing staves sprung out from Otabek’s fingertips. The lines all undulated as one, and starry musical notes materialized into the Samarkand Overture. High in the air he urged the notes to rise. The staves circled him like floating ribbons. Fearful of his magic, Yuuri had called out to Otabek from the window when the wind began to pick up, but Phichit’s hand clutched his shoulder in the video, reassuring him.

There was a crackling roar, and the clouds gathered fast as steeds. What had been early morning reversed back into night under the burgeoning thunderclouds. Lightning leapt from cloud to cloud. The whole sky was pierced by blinding light, but although Yuuri’s van stood in empty desert, the lightning did not strike it. Rain fell in slow small droplets. The video even captured the humming of spirits over the rain and thunder, but what was the most marvelous of all were the animals that suddenly sprouted from the musical staves. Golden outlines of snow leopards, wolves, horses, eagles, and antelopes bloomed into flight. Each footprint upon the desertified landscape gushed a spring of golden light that spread fiercely once started. Transparent animals raced away from Otabek until the purifying glow stretched to the horizon.

“HOLY SHIT!” Phichit’s enthusiastic yell had struck a discordant note in the whole scene. The video had jostled a bunch until Phichit’s face appeared in the side, then panned to Yuuri’s gawking expression behind the rain-splattered window. “I hope I’m still recording!”

The astronomer’s phone had captured everything except a clear close-up of Otabek Altin’s face, but Phichit’s upload to Instagram went viral and the “mysterious rider” became the subject of Internet speculation. Otabek personally disliked social networking services and, while owning an instagram account, he never had the app on his old smartphone. He’d left Almaty without a phone since he had no way of charging it out in the wilderness. He would have never thought to film himself. He spent the journey across Kazakhstan completely oblivious to the cryptid role he was taking. Kazakhs tagged Phichit in blurry horse rider pictures from places like Pavlodar, Astana, and Karaganda, asking in Russian if “this was their man”. Phichit also received screenshots captioned “I trust him” or “monsoon season is coming”.

Back home in Almaty, Otabek’s siblings and mother immediately identified him after seeing Phichit’s recording online. Otabek returned from a year away to find his family interrogating him on his “cryptid status”. They had not forgiven him for leaving without technology to keep in touch. (Apparently sending spirits was not the preferable method.) Otabek continued his tried-and-true method of ignoring social media, made all the easier by having no electricity out in the wilderness.

However, that isolation in nature that Otabek required, both to perform his duties in nature and harbor the spirits of earth well, meant that he spent many hours doing business and not seeing family and friends over the mountains for weeks or years. Reuniting with Yuuri two years after the video went viral happened because of an earthquake in Almaty. They saw each other again a few years after that, when Yuuri had gotten promoted in the Observatory and spotted a comet in his new telescope, and Otabek had seen the comet too from the other side of the mountain. Phichit had been in the United States then so they’d missed each other once again. He had changed only a little in Otabek’s eyes.

The astronomer looked Otabek  up and down as if examining him as well.

“Your pony is sturdy! She looks even better than she did last time,” Phichit remarked, thumbing at the horse.

Otabek nodded with a small smile at Phichit’s sincerity. “Thanks.” He followed him to the entrance, feet crunching over salt.

“How come you took the long way around? Did you get another dream?” Phichit asked. “Is it another earthquake?”

Otabek shook his head. The last quake alert had been a month ago, perfectly unthreatening. “No,” he said. “I wanted to patrol the whole range this time.” He paused, looking over his shoulder at the fur-lined bag. “Duty and all.”

Phichit swiped his ID card and let Otabek inside the employee-authorized building. “Ah, well, it’s good to see you! You know you’re always welcome here, Hero.” Phichit grinned, teasingly nudging Otabek in the arm. “I’ll get you tea.”

“Much obliged,” Otabek replied to his host.

While Phichit flounced down the white hall for tea, Otabek walked slower, stepping into a room practically lined with windows, including a round one in the ceiling. There were many of these around the observatory, but this one had fewer tourists, being in the employee’s end and all. The room had a heavy wooden table in the middle with chairs all around, as well as shelves filled with books and pamphlets lining the walls. The windows boasted a beautiful view of the mountains circling the plateau.

Struck by inspiration, Otabek quickly set his bag on a chair, putting away his gloves in exchange for the small sketchpad and pencil in the artbox. He sketched lines for mountains and trees, marching deep shadows out of the graphite and leaving empty space for snow and clouds. His dirty thumb rubbed on the paper for the sky. In the middle, he darkened the paper in jagged edges and erased for even sharper edges, accentuating the strange star’s brightness in his picture. For once, Otabek did not stop to pause after each stroke. He drew as a man possessed and was so focused, he didn’t hear Phichit calling his name.

“Hey!” Phichit’s face suddenly appeared next to him. “That’s good!” He pointed at Otabek’s rendition of the mountains around Big Almaty Lake. “Wow, you were really tuned in. I brought you tea!”

The Kazakh looked down at what he’d drawn and his eyes widened. He stared down at the sketchpad, pulling his hands away and thinking, This is what I drew? The shadows of the mountains and the dark treetops seemed to form the shape of some winged animal. The star’s beams radiated down upon the peaks, as if upon the beast hidden in the picture. He blinked and it disappeared, and Otabek questioned his own brain for a second.

Gratefully, he took Phichit’s offered mug and thanked him, blinking several times down at the paper.

“Hey, hey, do you think I could snap a photo of it?” Phichit asked.

Otabek shrugged, handing the sketchpad off and contenting himself with the tea instead. Between the heaters and the sunshine coming through all the windows, it was quite warm. Otabek relaxed against the chair. He did not freely invite conversation, but whenever the man asked a question, he answered. Phichit refilled his empty mug once he was finished with the first, then he handed back the sketchbook. Otabek opened it up to the page he’d been on.

“Is Katsuki Yuuri busy today?” he asked without looking at Phichit.

“Hahaha, I beat him in janken so I’m off today while he’s assigned on two sessions of tour groups,” Phichit laughed. “But afterward he’s doing field work. Of course, you’re more than welcome to hang out in the observatory until he comes back. I’m sure you’ve stiffened in the saddle, so stay and warm up, okay?” He patted Otabek’s shoulder kindly.

“I am content to wait,” Otabek replied. He stood up and walked over to one of the bookshelves. Russian books and journals of science lined the bottom two rows, then two rows of English with three German books squeezed in the end. The Kazakh writers took the top two rows. “May I read something?”

“Those? Hah! They’ll bore you to death, but sure. I’ll let you sign on as a guest on my laptop if you’d rather read modern.” Phichit pointed to the messenger bag sitting in a chair next to him.

“Really? Thanks. No newspaper delivers out of Almaty,” Otabek lamented. He rejoined Phichit at the table while the man pulled out the laptop. Phichit signed in under Guest and swiveled the computer once the laptop chimed its logging in ping.

“Do you remember how to type?” Phichit joked. Otabek gave him a deadpan expression and mimed bashing his fists on the keys like a caveman, which caused Phichit to plead dramatically for his laptop’s life then burst into laughter. “Oh, lemme make sure this account knows the WiFi password.” He looked over all the settings until he was satisfied. Phichit sat down to find the battery in the bag.

Otabek fired up Chrome, checking his sorely neglected email and sending one to his sisters since he hadn’t been in Almaty for a week. Without a mailbox, he just relied on animals, like cats or falcons, to drop off the weekly letters to his parents’ house. An email would be a welcome surprise. He wrote about the star, of course, and updated them on what was new in his life. While he never took photographs of what he worked with, Otabek always included a doodle of the creatures in his care that week. He told Phichit this when the man asked about his family.

“Why did you come to Kazakhstan again?” Otabek asked. He continued to type.

“Ah, well, back then, we were assigned as part of a college thing, to look at the Soyuz and a bunch of other things, but we ended up liking it so we came back different times. Yuuri and I love to travel so it’s nice to work in a place so marvelous, no?” Phichit stretched out his hands. “Yes, it’s cold but ah, the Snapchats make up for it!” He blinked with sudden realization. “Hey! What if I uploaded the picture here?” Otabek frowned. “Okay, not online,” Phichit quickly added. “But to the email you’re sending?”

Otabek’s expression softened. “I’m not against you having one for your personal phone, but I am deleting it from the computer afterward.” Phichit copied down his email address into his smartphone and sent the attachment. Otabek saved it from the freshly received email, uploaded it to his, and typed in Kazakh:

P.S. A scientist from the observatory took this picture of my artwork. Please keep it safe since you don’t have a physical copy this time.

For once, he was more than fond of this drawing. Otabek liked it when his practice had some sort of tangibility to it.

He sent off the email before deleting the saved picture, even out of the Recycle Bin. With that done, Otabek contented himself with reading news again while he waited for Yuuri to come back.

[anniversary-magazine]

In Conversation with Berlin Based Art Dealer & Visionary — Johann König

On a cold September morning, I met with Johann König to talk about his book “Johann König Blinder Galerist,” a biography written together with Daniel Schreiber (Propyläen Verlag, Berlin 2019).

The warm light of the morning crossed the courtyard of St. Agnes, a former church in a concrete building from the 1960s built in the Brutalist style, which now houses the König Galerie. Suddenly, behind the gate that gives way to a desert courtyard, one crowd of working people after the other appeared. Like tiny robots, they went in and out of the buildings’ entrances. They were preparing an art fair. Large crates were lying everywhere in the office. Everything was in motion.

Johann König’s story struck me. He faced and overcame a very difficult experience about 25 years ago when an accident made him partially blind. But, above all, what amazed me is how he managed to mutate himself, how he emerged from this hardship to become a force for democratization and progress within the art world. A visionary offering new possibilities for future generations.

Cover image: Courtesy of König Galerie — Photo by Roman März

JK: Johann König EO: Elda Oreto

EO: Sight has incredible value in our society. It is a lead player in the survival struggle of Western culture. I read that you say that despite having a flawed sight, your other senses are extremely developed. Could you tell us more about that?

JK: Yes, I think it’s actually about what we pay attention to. If you have a deficit in one of your senses, automatically, you try to fill that gap with other senses; to compensate or overcome this deficit. Then, naturally, you pay more attention to other inputs. They become more relevant out of necessity. 

I’m going to explore these facts and to experiment through an exhibition that I’m currently curating as an independent curator in Amsterdam, in an art space called Het Hem, which is opening next spring. The exhibition will focus on experiencing art through different senses: seeing, feeling, hearing, touching, tasting, listening.

EO: This sensitiveness has dictated the way you live your life. In particular, it has shaped the way you present art to the public, which is also something you explore in your book. How can a drawback - be it considered physical, psychological, or linked to social contingencies - become an endowment?

JK: It’s always important to try to transform any type of energy, whether negative or alien; if you do not have equal chances, try to take this state as a challenge and transform these inequalities into something positive. Through your differences, you might discover true uniqueness. This can become your special ingredient, a way to differentiate yourself.

EO: In the book, right in the first pages, you talk about the French writer Jacques Lusseyran, who lived in the early half of the 1900s and who became blind due to an accident when he was eight years old. In his own book “And There Was Light,” he writes about his life, which turned out to be adventurous and unpredictable. He has not been defined by his limits. Indeed, he writes something that concerns each and any of us: “Joy does not come from the outside; it is within us, whatever happens to us. Light does not come from the outside, even if we have no eyes”. How are you and the French author alike, and how are you different?

JK: I would not dare to compare myself with him because he was a real hero. Despite his eyesight loss, he joined the Resistance, and he risked his life during WWII. I don’t think I can compare myself to him in any way. But the reason why I quoted him is that I liked to read him in boarding school. I was quite impressed by his memories, his writing on his state, and how he described the world as a blind person. I found it very inspiring.

EO: Another French writer, Albert Camus, wrote: “Existence is illusory or eternal.” Since life cannot be eternal, it will surely be a lie. One tries to put together the pieces, collected from the past. Thus, one writes to compensate for this loss. In my opinion, one writes for many reasons: for revenge, to resist the flow of all things, one writes to mend a tear but also to celebrate something or someone: what has driven you to write

JK: I wrote “Johann König Blinder Galerist” to overcome my accident. I only know it now, looking back. I didn’t know that at the beginning when I was writing. Somehow, it’s a bit like an outing, going public with something. Of course, my story was not a secret, but to stand up for what happened to me and not be secretive about it, in public, and not in a sensationalized way, was to overcome the accident almost 25 years after it happened.

EO: You said you wanted to be an artist before becoming a gallerist. You had an unconventional childhood: constantly impregnated with art and surrounded by artists. This thing could not fail to define your life. In the book, you talk about a sense of attraction but also repulsion towards this world. You dreamed of a “normal” childhood. You probably wanted to find your way. When you were a child, did you ever want to or imagine doing something completely outside of the art frame?

JK: I hated art when I was a kid. I really didn’t like art, and I wanted to be out of it. I had nothing to do with it. I started wanting to work with art only when my teenage years came around, and I got in contact with artists, and I studied more about it than in a didactic way in school.

EO: What did you want to do when you were a kid?

JK: Something where I could make money, like a business lawyer. Actually, I think in reality, more of an entrepreneur. I wanted to become an entrepreneur. I even started selling cell phones, cell phone contracts, and communication material. Then I started a small company at my boarding school where I used to sell phones.

EO: In your book, you also refer to your mother Edda Köchl-König, actress and illustrator. A creative and elegant woman, as you described. She left her career for you. She was with you before and after the accident, during the early days of the illness. The hardest time. How did she take your decision to become a gallery owner?

JK: She was very worried, I think, but supportive. That’s a very great thing about my parents: they have been very open. Even though at the beginning, I hid from my father that I opened the gallery, he was supportive. Same with my mother. I think she was really concerned, but she was very supportive.

EO: Your childhood ended the day of the accident. Perhaps even your life or rather the shape of your life stopped there. In the book, you describe the times of blindness. It is difficult for me to imagine that the successful man I am having a conversation with is the child described in those pages. You lived in Marburg at the institute for the blind. You slipped out of the ephemeral chaos of the art world. There you came back to life, learning to do everything again. To be a new person. Without a piece, maybe, but with many other qualities. What is the most important lesson you learned during that time?

JK: A lesson I learned during the time I spent in Marburg, which I’m not so sure I brought to the gallery, is that it’s important to share your deficits with similar people. It’s easier to overcome problems with people who share the same state. This is very valuable.

EO: After a year in Marburg to launch the art gallery, you got help directly and indirectly from your father and your uncle, Walter König, although you wanted to do things your way. Thanks to an operation in 2009 that greatly improved your sight, you changed again, becoming a gallerist. A new man, determined to accomplish great things. How would you describe this motivation that really drove you through your accident towards art, and through art to success?

JK: I just listened to an interesting podcast where a founder of a company said that he didn’t really notice he was growing this very big company. He always felt he was doing something like gaming, which was never a big thing for me. However, I liked this analogy of gaming as jumping from one level to the other. Taking the challenge. Moving on. And pushing it further. I think I would like to change the art world too, in this sense. Only now, looking back, I notice that I have tried to do this in many ways. For example, here, the gallery space in St. Agnes is very different from a traditional art space intended as a “white cube.” Also, we tried an experiment at the Art Berlin Fair: we showed the prices of the artworks on the label near each work. This is a way to play a bit for more transparency in the art world. There isn’t any reason why we should hide the prices.

Many collectors and also entrepreneurs who would like to become collectors, here, from the start-up scene in Berlin, don’t really dare to ask prices. They feel like they should know or that they have to keep thinking if they want to buy or whatever. To show the prices of the artworks is to lower the barrier of getting into art.

EO: Today, König Galerie is a real institution, thanks to the will and effort that your wife, Lena, and yourself have invested in it. The gallery has grown in many ways. There are the headquarters in Berlin in the former church of St. Agnes, a location in London in Marylebone, and a new temporary gallery opening soon in Tokyo. Then there is König Souvenir, with objects designed by artists, along with König magazine. You have carried forward the desire to “democratize” art, bringing it into the life of more people. It seems to me that more than expanding your brand, you want to transform the system from the inside out. Is this so? What is your vision for the art system?

JK: I find it almost funny that I’m in a former church because I have never really liked the analogy between art and religion. However, at this point, I see myself as being almost a preacher with a mission in the world: trying to bring art into people’s lives. Art, for me, is a very important source of energy which enhances your quality of life. I want to share this with people. So, I try different things like organizing yoga classes in the exhibition space or have souvenirs created by artists to engage with a wider audience for König Souvenirs. It’s a challenge. It is like a Trojan Horse to either get people into the museum or to get art into their house, to further lead them to more challenging and intellectual discussions about art. It’s like harmless poisoned candies.

EO: Regarding this democratization of art, despite all efforts and good intentions, it seems to me that society is increasingly divided. On the one hand, those who can afford to do anything, and on the other, those to whom the law applies. How can art influence our future?

JK: It shouldn’t be like this, of course. I think that’s a big misunderstanding that I’m trying to fight against in my activities. This is the reason why it’s very important for the gallery to be free to visit, for example. It is also important for museums to be free two days a week in Berlin. Often you hear that art is a market only for the richest, people with private jets and billionaires, and so on. Of course, they’re involved. But think of the Tate galleries and the Hamburger Bahnhof in Berlin: those collections used to be private. Now anyone can enjoy them, and you own them as much as I do. They are public.

EO: I don’t want to be a spoiler here, but I do have to ask: are you already thinking about the next book? Can you tell us anything about that?

JK: I’m thinking about publishing a book on the art world because I learned that people are very curious about it. A sort of introduction to how the art world works. But I have to find time for this…

EO: If you had the power to travel through time, where would you go and during what time? 

JK: I would go back to Paris one hundred years ago, so I could meet Pablo Picasso and Marcel Duchamp.

KÖNIG GALERIE brought a 3000 sq ft exhibition space for contemporary artists to Tokyo at the MCM GINZA HAUS I, the MCM’s Japanese flagship concept store. With a focus on showcasing a roster of key influential German, Austrian, and Swiss artists in Japan, the temporary gallery KÖNIG TOKIO runs multiple exhibitions starting from November 2019 through to December 2020.

A solo exhibition by photographer Juergen Teller formed the prelude of KÖNIG TOKIO. Titled Heimweh, the show explores the artist’s fairy tales and questions German clichés and traditions, with many of the works showing in public for the first time. Set up as an interplay between large-scale formats and smaller pictures, the exhibition runs from November 9th until January 2020.

[kennethherrerablog]

Here’s How Much it Cost One Woman to Fund Her Drug Abuse, Then Get Sober

The first time Amanda McKiernan took drugs intravenously, she was sitting on the edge of her then-boyfriend’s bed. At 21, she was nervous but ready for a stronger high.

She had used opioids in the past but had stuck to swallowing the pale blue, 30mg Roxicodone pills whole or snorting them crushed. This was different.

“It was an overwhelming, foreign feeling,” McKeirnan, now 30, told The Penny Hoarder. “This really strong drug just hits you all of a sudden. You just feel it throughout your whole body. I remember panicking for a minute.

“It passes, but then that feeling is what it becomes about,” she added. “That’s the feeling you’re trying to get to. It’s terrifying at first, but then that’s all you’re after.”

It’s impossible to quantify everything McKiernan lost each time she got high in her 10 years of misusing drugs  — a relationship with her younger sister, lifelong friendships, the career in photography she dreamed of as a high schooler. It’s easier to measure those years, and her three years of sobriety since, in cash.

That high cost her $15.

Cough Syrup, Then Cocaine, Then Opioids

Her addiction didn’t start with opioids.

When McKiernan was a 14-year-old cheerleader, a friend told her if she took enough cough medicine, she’d feel a buzz. After that, it was marijuana.

By 16, she was using cocaine.

For her first six months on the drug, she and a friend would spend $60 on 1 gram of cocaine every Friday. That would be enough to last them the weekend.

By the end of her junior year of high school, that went up to 2 grams. Her senior year, it was 3 1/2 grams, or an “eight ball.” That would last them the week.

She and the friend she used with had their daily ritual: They both caught the bus to school, and whoever got there first would wait for the other in the bathroom near the art classrooms. They could usually count on that hallway being deserted.

The walls and floors in the small two-stall bathroom were covered in white tiles. The first stall was larger — big enough for both girls to fit inside.

“We definitely tried to make sure — if at all possible — that no one was in there. But if someone was, we would either flush the toilet or turn the sink on, so if we were snorting a line, they couldn’t hear it.”

They wouldn’t talk much in there. They had to be quick if they were going to make it to class. At lunchtime, they met up again — this time in the concrete outdoor bathroom near the cafeteria.

Estimating conservatively, McKiernan and her friend used more than $9,300 worth of cocaine during their final two years of high school.

That doesn’t include the money she spent on Parrot Bay rum nearly every weekend or the times she was short on cash and someone else would cover the cost. It doesn’t even include her summertime drug use, which was often more frequent but varied too widely to calculate.

To fund the drug abuse, McKiernan worked part time at a grocery store, and then at a pizza shop. Her friend worked as well, and the two split the cost of the drugs.

After high school, McKiernan’s drug use rose and fell depending on how much money she was making, and which friends she saw most often.

First, she stuck to cocaine. Then she tried meth and crack, but neither became a habit. Later, she tried muscle relaxers. By 21, her drug use grew to include heroin and powerful prescription painkillers.

Prescription opioids and illegal opioids like heroin caused more than 42,000 overdose deaths nationwide in 2016, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported. Last year, President Donald Trump said the ubiquitous cases of opioid addiction and deaths had become a national health emergency.

The first time McKiernan tried the Roxicodone pills, she balked at the $15-per-pill price tag.

But then, “I did it and it was so strong, and I thought, ‘This is why this costs so much money,’” McKiernan said.

Within a year, she was shooting up Roxicodone with the help of her boyfriend, who would eventually father her daughter Calie, now 8.

At Least $300 a Day on Drugs

By 22, McKiernan was a single mom to a 6-month-old daughter. She took a job as a dancer at a South Florida strip club.

There, she could make more than $1,000 in a single night. Suddenly flush with cash, McKiernan and her friends had more access to drugs.

She went from one pill at a time to buying 30 pills at once. At the time, that was only enough to last three days. Then she moved on to the Dilaudid pills, an even stronger opioid that cost her up to $30 each.

She spent two years taking between six and 10 Dilaudid pills a day.

While working at the strip club, McKiernan said she got close to one of her regulars, a wealthy South Florida businessman. Soon, she stopped going to the club, because he covered her expenses.

He rented her an apartment in a building near the beach. He bought her a series of high-end cars that she either wrecked or failed to maintain. And every time she saw him, he’d give her money that she would spend on drugs.

One weekend, he gave her $14,000 and she spent every penny of it on a hotel suite, drugs and alcohol for a party she had with a few friends.

On an average day, she spent about $300 on Roxicodone, Dilaudid or other drugs.

A conservative estimate of the cost of her regular drug abuse over the span of a decade is nearly $385,000.

That number does not include the amount she spent on alcohol or the periods she spent using less expensive street drugs. During those times, the cost of each drug and the length of time she used it varied too widely to come up with an accurate estimate.

Still, those costs were only slightly lower. When she was tight on cash and couldn’t afford the painkillers, she’d get heroin instead. That could cost between $80 and $120 a day.

Except for a few brief stints in rehab — one lasting 24 hours and the other 48 — that were each thwarted when the withdrawal symptoms kicked in, McKiernan didn’t give quitting a serious try until she was arrested in Martin County, Florida, with pills, marijuana and a crack pipe in her car in 2015.

She was 27 and faced a felony drug possession charge.

The Cost of Getting Sober

To avoid a felony conviction, McKiernan agreed to enroll in drug court, a substance abuse treatment program for first-time offenders. The agreement was that if she made it through the program successfully, her charges would be dismissed.

But as she soon learned, sobriety comes with costs, too.

McKiernan went through two rounds of drug court. The first lasted about four months. Each week, she had to pay $30 to cover the cost of mandatory drug testing and another $30 for counseling. If she missed or failed a drug test, she was off to jail.

That happened twice. The first time, she spent three nights in jail, and the second time it was two weeks.

“I used to pray for her to get arrested,” McKiernan’s mother, Pam, said. “If she’s in jail, she can’t do drugs. She won’t die.”

After being jailed the second time, McKiernan had two options left: Spend a court-ordered 10 months in a Pembroke Pines, Florida, rehabilitation facility for mothers fighting addiction or spend that time in jail.

She chose rehab, where she could be with her daughter.

For the next 10 months, McKiernan’s parents bore the brunt of the cost of their daughter’s addiction.

Every Friday, they drove the 90 miles south from their home in Hobe Sound, Florida, to Pembroke Pines to see McKiernan and pick up Calie. Then every Sunday, they would drive down again to bring Calie back to her mother. It cost about $45 in gas for the two round trips each weekend.

Over the span of 10 months, that’s $1,800 in gas alone.

On average, her parents spent another $100 a week paying for food and clothing for McKiernan and her daughter, while also making sure Calie had toys. That’s another $4,000.

But the thousands of dollars they spent in the 10 months McKiernan was in rehab was just the most recent of the expenses her parents took on from her addiction.

“The emotional part you can imagine,” Pam McKiernan said. “Lots of sleepless nights, lots of crying, lots of begging… But there’s the financial part, of course. We took care of Calie most of the time. So we had the extra expense of that.”

Before Amanda McKiernan went to rehab, most of the responsibility and the expense of child care for Calie fell on her parents’ shoulders. Day care alone cost between $85 and $120 each week for four years — more than $17,000 total.

Pam McKiernan estimates she and her husband spent at least an additional $10,000 helping to care for Calie and buying groceries for Amanda over the years.

And the expenses didn’t stop once McKiernan left rehab. She immediately had to begin her second round of drug court. That meant another six months of drugs tests and counseling sessions for $60 each week.

Her parents covered the cost for the first three months before McKiernan got a job at Dunkin’ Donuts. Her minimum wage pay was nothing compared to what she had pulled in as a dancer.

If she made that kind of money now, she probably wouldn’t be sleeping in a bottom bunk bed in her parents’ two-bedroom house. Her daughter sleeps on the top and her sister sleeps in a separate twin bed in the same room.

McKiernan said she visited her old strip club a couple times after she completed rehab and drug court.

“I would have to be high to work there, and I didn’t want to get high,” she said, making it clear that even if sobriety meant a financial setback, it was worth it.

The Lasting Costs Are Financial, Emotional

This summer, McKiernan was invited to speak to a group of people in drug court. Some were graduating, while others were just starting.

Among them was a graduate who managed to stay sober even after her sister’s overdose death and another just starting out who wasn’t sure if she’d be able to go without using for the next two weeks before her drug court officially began.

“I’m scared for them and their families,” McKiernan said after she spoke to the graduates who would no longer be required to take weekly court-ordered drug tests. “Tonight is going to be a hard night.”

For McKiernan, the past three years of sobriety have been about slowly forgiving herself, regaining the trust of her parents, rebuilding the relationship with her sister and making up for all the years she lost.

Weeks before her drug court speech, she quit her job at Dunkin’ Donuts. She graduated from a medical assisting program and got a new job that pays a bit better. She still can’t move out of her parents’ home yet, but that’s OK. She doesn’t want to rush things and get in over her head.

Her father is proud. He said he never thought he’d get to see her graduate from the medical assisting program. He couldn’t be happier about the change he’s seen in his oldest daughter.

The costs her parents bear now are minor in comparison to the years prior — their electric bill is a bit high because of the extra people at home.

But they don’t focus on that. Instead, they revel in having their daughter back. They work quickly to build up their retirement funds now that they have the money to do so.

“You don’t see the pain and the hurt that you’re causing while you’re in it,” McKiernan said. “Now, I have a kid. I would never want to go through what my parents went through — just not having any control and just wanting and wanting and wanting your kid back, and you can’t do anything about it.”

Occasionally, McKiernan will drive past where she was arrested or a place she used to use drugs. She has even crossed paths with her old dealer. He was happy to see her sober and didn’t try to offer her drugs.

These run-ins with her old life were tough at first. Now, they simply remind her of how far she has come.

If you or a loved one is in need of addiction treatment, click here to learn about affordable options.

Desiree Stennett (@desi_stennett) is a senior writer at The Penny Hoarder.

This was originally published on The Penny Hoarder, which helps millions of readers worldwide earn and save money by sharing unique job opportunities, personal stories, freebies and more. The Inc. 5000 ranked The Penny Hoarder as the fastest-growing private media company in the U.S. in 2017.

The Penny Hoarder Promise: We provide accurate, reliable information. Here’s why you can trust us and how we make money.

Here’s How Much it Cost One Woman to Fund Her Drug Abuse, Then Get Sober published first on https://justinbetreviews.tumblr.com/

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: Required Reading

Andy Warhol’s first photo booth self-portrait, “Self-Portrait” (1963–64), is going to auction at Sotheby’s London. Priscilla Frank writes: “Sotheby’s describes the piece as a ‘turning point,’ as it’s the first time Warhol incorporated his own image into his work.” (via Huffington Post)

Carolina Miranda of the LA Times scored an important interview. She talks to Sam Durant about his “Scaffold” project that was dismantled at Minneapolis’s Walker Art Center. He reasserts that he doesn’t feel censored:

Censorship is when a more powerful group or individual removes speech or images from a less powerful party. That wasn’t the case. The Dakota are certainly not more powerful, in political terms, or in terms of the international art world. I could have said at any point, “No, I want the work to stay up as it is, end of story. Walker, you deal with it.”

But I chose to do what I did freely. For me, it was that the work no longer fulfilled my intentions. I always hope my work would be in support of Native American struggle and justice. To hear that it was harming them, I felt terrible. I had to change it.

When [the mediation session] ended, the mood was good. From my perspective, I was like, “Oh, wow, I just did something that has never been done. And what does this mean? I hope I made the right decision.” I had those kinds of feelings. But as time went on, I know I did the right thing.

On the morning of April 24, Delhi’s architecture community was shocked that, in the middle of the night, the city’s Hall of Nations and the four Halls of Industries had been demolished. The Hall of Nations was the world’s first and largest-span space-frame structure built in reinforced concrete. It also holds special significance in India’s postcolonial history — it was inaugurated in 1972 to commemorate 25 years of the country’s independence. Here are some thoughts on the tragic history of architectural preservation in India (images below):

The demolition was met with widespread condemnation by architects and historians alike, not just because of the loss of an important piece of Delhi’s heritage, but also for the clandestine manner in which the demolition was conducted.

… There are two significant questions that beg to be asked at this point. First, how in a city with several heritage preservation agencies does a situation arise where the judiciary is left to make calls on the fate of structures widely viewed as having heritage value? Second, what exactly constitutes the architectural heritage of a city with a history spanning more than two millennia?

‘Tearing down an icon’ Hall of nations was one of the most iconic buildings of Indian modernism and engineering skill. ‘It represented a young nation’s optimism and belief in progress through science and innovation.’ The idea of a national building was achieved here by sheer architectural and engineering merit being the first concrete space frame in India and probably one of its kind in the world. Title and Excerpt-Indian Express At Pragati Maidan With @dhwani_._ @shahkunth Picture courtesy – @shahkunth @s__nilay #delhidiaries #capital #monochromeemotions #concrete #iconic #hallofnations #leewardists #indiapictures #_soi #tearingdown #deathofmordernism #engineering #marvel #indiantravelsquad #incredibleindia

A post shared by nilay (@s__nilay) on May 17, 2017 at 11:45am PDT

Theodore Kerr writes about the six New York activists who changed the face of LGBTQ and AIDS activism with their “Silence = Death” slogan:

The origins of Silence = Death, which stands alongside We Shall Overcome, Sí Se Puede, We Are the 99%, and #blacklivesmatter as a touchstone of social justice movements, can be traced to a New York diner in 1985. Nights earlier, Socarrás recalls, he was “walking down Broadway towards Astor Place and having this irresistible impulse to throw myself on the sidewalk and pound my fists on the ground. I had to stop myself. I wanted to wail to heaven.” Over the previous few years he had lost so many men he loved that he stopped writing down their names after his list reached 100. That night, he remembers, he “watched that potential scenario [play out in my mind] and thought, ‘I can either do that or I can try to do something with this energy.’ ”

He reached out to Finkelstein, whose boyfriend had recently died, in hopes of connecting with someone who could empathize. They made a plan to meet, and Socarrás invited his friend Johnston to tag along. The three bonded over how their straight friends, as caring as some could be, had no comprehension of what gay men were going through during the epidemic. “It felt like we were in a movie,” Finkelstein remembers. “The depth of field shifted and everything went out of focus, because I felt so engaged by being able to talk publicly about something that no one else talked about publicly.”

Now you know what filter to use when you visit Joshua Tree — Gingham (enjoy):

Not everyone knows this, but the park was named after the cover of a 1987 U2 album that featured a shaggy Yucca brevifolia. None of the band members are wearing sunglasses in the cover photo, and they all look a bit grumpy, like someone wasn’t paying attention and they missed the exit for In-N-Out. Today, they would be hungry for something more vegetarian. Joshua trees have a shallow root system, not unlike the travellers blown here by wanderlust, and can be found scattered across the desert floor. Bono can be found—I don’t know. Davos, maybe?

Please go ahead and take a free foldout map of the park. These circles denote areas where you might like to park your Gulf Stream, climb on the roof, and extend your arms to the heavens, backlit by a solar flare. These circles are toilets.

English novelist Zadie Smith has written a controversial essay on the question of “who owns black pain?” It discusses the Schutz controversy at the Whitney Biennial extensively:

But there is an important difference between the invented “nigger” of 1963 and the invented African American of 2017: The disgust has mostly fallen away. We were declared beautiful back in the Sixties, but it has only recently been discovered that we are so. In the liberal circles depicted in Get Out, everything that was once reviled—our eyes, our skin, our backsides, our noses, our arms, our legs, our breasts, and of course our hair—is now openly envied and celebrated and aestheticized and deployed in secondary images to sell stuff. As one character tells Chris, “black is in fashion now.”

To be clear, the life of the black citizen in America is no more envied or desired today than it was back in 1963. Her schools are still avoided and her housing still substandard and her neighborhood still feared and her personal and professional outcomes disproportionately linked to her zip code. But her physical self is no longer reviled. If she is a child and comes up for adoption, many a white family will be delighted to have her, and if she is in your social class and social circle, she is very welcome to come to the party; indeed, it’s not really a party unless she does come. No one will call her the n-word on national television, least of all a black intellectual. (The Baldwin quote is from a television interview.) For liberals the word is interdicted and unsayable.

The editor of one of the only newspapers to endorse Trump for president writes about what people in his city think about the new occupant of the White House. They appear to still like him:

Last weekend I covered the opening of an exhibit at our historical society that pays tribute to a school desegregation saga that unfolded here in the 1950s; the event honored surviving members of the African American community who lived through a chapter in local history too long ignored. A big crowd, white and black, was on hand. Steps toward racial harmony happen even in Trump country.

While Trump carried Highland County heavily, there are people here who did not vote for him and who do not care for him. But overall, despite the avalanche of negative news stories, Trump’s support remains firm. Hillsboro’s mayor mentioned recently that he has noticed Trump yard signs popping up again, either in a show of support or a sign of defiance.

Mattel released the new “diverse” Ken dolls this week, and everyone is having a blast with them. My two favorite reactions:

“75 Lesbian Ken Dolls, Ranked By Lesbianism” (Autostraddle)

“Mattel Just Released a New Line of Ken Dolls and They’re All Fuckboys” (Betches)

Surprise, surprise … war profiteers are also refugee profiteers:

“I believe the influence of the military and security industry on the shaping of the [EU’s] border security policy is quite big, especially on the securitization and militarization of these and on the expanding use of surveillance technology and data exchange,” Stop Wapenhandel’s Mark Akkerman told Common Dreams. “Industry efforts include regular interactions with EU’s border institutions (including high ranking officials and politicians), where ideas are discussed that later turn up in new EU policy documents.”

“For example, the industry has been pushing for years to upgrade [EU border agency] Frontex to a cross-European border security agency,” Akkerman added. “The new European Border and Coast Guard Agency the European Commission has proposed, which has a lot more powers (has its own equipment, direct interventions in member states, binding decisions forcing member states to strengthen border security capacities) than Frontex has now, is exactly that.”

“If the establishment of the European Border and Coast Guard Agency proceeds,” the report notes, “this would mean a fundamental shift to an EU-controlled system of border security, with the possibility of bypassing the member states and forcing them to strengthen controls and purchase or upgrade equipment.”

“It is not hard to predict that this will lead refugees to use increasingly dangerous routes, strengthening the business case for traffickers. For the military and security industry, however it means the prospect of more orders from the agency itself and from member states,” the report continues.

The protests against what people are calling Trumpcare started this week, by ADAPT and other important activist groups. This image of Dawn Russell in DC has already come to represent the spirit of the protests:

Dawn Russell being loaded onto police bus for processing with her fist raised in POWER! #ADAPTandRESIST #SaveMedicaid #FreeOurPeople http://pic.twitter.com/HY7TTMLrhd

— DC Metro ADAPT (@DCAdapt) June 22, 2017

What’s next for New York’s High Line, and how has it influenced other park designs?

The 19 projects in the High Line Network represent a number of different adaptive reuse projects in various stages of progress, including Rail Park, a plan to turn three miles of disused railway in Philadelphia into a linear park; the Bentway, a proposal for a cultural hub beneath an expressway in Toronto; the 11th Street Bridge Park, a pedestrian walkway that will span the Anacostia River in southeastern Washington, D.C.; and Buffalo Bayou Park, a Houston initiative to make the city’s waterways accessible to the public. The inaugural group of members joined by invitation, based on some of the relationships the High Line had formed over the years.

While the projects vary in type, scope, and location, what unites them is an attempt to remake heavy-duty infrastructure into public space. Cities no longer have swathes of open space to build parks from scratch as they did 100 years ago, and the very definition of a park has changed. Cities now have to be more clever about where they find opportunities for public space. Because public space is in short supply–and real estate is expensive–these spaces have to pull double and triple duty to serve their communities. Meanwhile, cities have whittled their parks’ budgets down to virtually nothing, so securing development and long-term maintenance financing becomes a challenge.

This is depressing — “Women owe two-thirds of student loan debt“:

Women’s debt inequity is compounded by the gender pay gap; college-educated women working full-time earn 26% less than their male peers – and the gap widens over time.

The reasons for the income inequality vary, from job discrimination, to interrupting work due to childbirth. Whatever the cause, as the researchers explain: “When you combine higher debt with lower incomes after graduation, you get a recipe for financial hardship.”

Even with a degree, the debt burden can make it impossibly hard to navigate other challenges, from pursuing further graduate education, start saving for a future home or your own business, or leave an abusive relationship.

It’s Pride Day! Read about the “unsung history” of gay male circuit parties:

By the early 90s, some cities were having a “circuit party” every weekend, in places like the Roxy in New York, Probe in Los Angeles, clubs in San Francisco. Then it began expanding abroad, in places like Montreal and Europe, with the opening of megaclubs like Heaven in London.

By 1992, the Miami White Party had become famous because celebrities discovered South Beach. This is where the Latin influence came in as well. In 1996, arch-conservative Representative Bob Dornan, a Republican from California, condemned on the floor of Congress a party held at a federally-owned ballroom for the main event of the annual Cherry Party.

No question, the 90s were halcyon days for the circuit. Parties spread to mid-sized cities, like Cleveland’s Dancing in the Streets; Detroit’s Motorball; Louisville’s Crystal Ball. Most couldn’t sustain themselves. The circuit had reached saturation. People wanted to save up for the really big events—like White Party Palm Springs and the Black Party in New York—that were spectacular. The other parties would come and go.

And this went viral this week:

Quite possibly the best pair of T-Shirts i have ever seen http://pic.twitter.com/40R3K6DmjA

— Brad (@MovesLikeZagger) June 22, 2017

Required Reading is published every Sunday morning ET, and is comprised of a short list of art-related links to long-form articles, videos, blog posts, or photo essays worth a second look.

The post Required Reading appeared first on Hyperallergic.

from Hyperallergic http://ift.tt/2u3cMRF via IFTTT