Petrichor Vol.1July 2013

Doorways

2 3| Petrichor A Doorway into the Zine |

. . . we are men and women and queers of little

wealth and a taste for the abstract.

Petrichor seeks to serve as a creative channel

for current photographers, writers, and artists,

as well as the greats that inspired them. Each

issue of Petrichor is anchored around a central

theme, interpreted in various manners: in this

case, “Doorways.” Petrichor hopes that you are

in some way moved, inspired, offended,

intrigued, or aesthetically affected by the

contents of this zine.

Volume 1 of Petrichor is dedicated to

Trayvon Martin and Darius Simmons, who

passed through doorways of unwarranted vio-

lence into death.

- R. B. Hagi, Editor.

please allow me to introduce myself. . .

Photo by Nate Bailey,Prince of Parties Syndicate.Corinth, Greece.

4 5| Petrichor A Doorway to Death |

In Death, Cannot Reach What Is Most Near

-Allen Ginsberg

We know all about death thatwe will ever know becausewe have all experienced the state before birth.Life seems a passage betweentwo doors to the darkness.Both are the same and trulyeternal, and perhaps it maybe said that we meet indarkness. The nature of timeis illuminated by thismeeting of eternal ends.

It is amazing to think thatthought and personalityof man is perpetuated intime after his passageto eternity. And one timeis all Time if you lookat it out of the grave.

New York, Mid-1949

6 7| Petrichor Doorways of Life and Being |

“Pelvis Bone Study”by Amy Coon

Pencil.

amymuffin34.deviantart.com

She satPressing life between her palmsA distillation of yearsSwathed in the salt of the searchHer air brimmed in quiet pulsesRecognition of the unknown, the not yet knownthe wanted to be knownthe Need to be knownThe thresholdShielded by her awningFramed in the bruise of bitternessand the weight of nostalgia.Distant to the touch,Closer than your recollectionThe weight of remembering swarms:And how much can be leftin her labyrinth of rooms?The layers will always amplifythe collective secretSubtle familiarity, nascent hygge it is merely coming home--the instinct of intimacy.She is dwelling.

her frame-Lynne Cherne

8 9| Petrichor A Doorway sealed |

The masses of humanity anxiously gaze with a relent-less fixation on the door which is closed. At the steps of the door itself are the philosophers, the theologians, the spiri-tualists, and the scientists, all desperately hoping that their particular brand of will-to-transcendence will prove effective in opening the door. Their determined knocking on the door echoes throughout time and shows no sign of slowing down. Meanwhile the rest of humanity watches on, awaiting the day that one of the seekers will finally swing the door open, revealing the truth of the great beyond. From the dawn of human self-consciousness we as a species have with nearly fanatical single-mindedness flocked to that which remains inextricably unknown to us. Human history shows that the call to the door is virtually inescap-able. This call is an agonizing gap in the landscape of human perception that impels us to reach for Truth at an absolute level. A void we feel at an inescapable existential level. This door – this great specter haunting humanity - has been given many names by various cultures, religions, thinkers, and ideologies throughout our species’ history. The name which most concisely captures the common denomi-nator of the longings which compose the drive toward this door is “Transcendence”. For to finally open the door would be to transcend that which so often drives us to despair – our all too human finitude. This is the metaphysical dream that has existed as a collective human desire for millennia. To escape this plane of immanence in which we dwell and to break our chains of mortality, guilt, and emptiness (the primordial ingredients to the anxiety which character-izes the human predicament). The philosophers have told us that if just reach through the door we will find the Good, the True, and the

Beautiful that exist beyond being. The religionists have thrived on the premise that they possess the divine knowl-edge that will allow their adherents to someday (in this life or the next) pass through the door that they claim willsurely lead to encounter with the transcendent God. Now scientists through notions of technological achievements lofty enough to transcend our human limitations have their turn at frantically shaking the handle of the door as the masses of humanity watch behind them with baited breath. The great tragedy of this human predicament is that this door is not merely closed – it is impossibly locked. The notion of opening it is truly nothing more than a dream. God is dead and with God died all forms of direct ontol-ogy and absolute truth. The time has come for humanity to awaken from its metaphysical slumber. The will-to-tran-scendence is a path to madness, a way for those who claim to know Truth to control those who are searching for it. As we each take our turn approaching the door and beggingit to reveal its secrets we have been forgetting something ofvital importance. That while we stand fixated on the door, behind us exists an entire world. An unfathomably complex world of possibilities and wonder. Turn around from of the door of transcendence. Look around. Claim your humanity in all its glorious limitation. Realize that the secrets of the door are forever beyond your grasp and mourn that reality if you have to. But know that despite the tragic element to the human predicament (that we can see the door but can never pass though it) there is a magnificent revelation to be found here. In embracing ourimminent plane of finitude we are no longer held captive by it. Rather we find that within the dirt of the earth and the fragile flesh of our fellow humans is the "truth" that we have sought so desperately for so long. Step back into the world, own your humanity – you may discover that infinity has been within your grasp all along.

Locked-Thomas Millary

10 11| Petrichor Doorways to Perception |

break on through to the other sidePhoto by Yale Joel, 1968, for LIFE Magazine.

“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite.”

-William Blake

12 13| Petrichor A Doorway out of Depression |

Crawling-Tom MannDr-Tom-T18.deviantart.com

Deep in a hole, is where I sat. Ignoring the world and all those in it

The sun did not come though the roof,but one day I said “it’s too dark” so I sat up and opened the doorit was rainingThere was a tunnel

A long, dark lonely tunnel.

At the end was a light, and it came closer and closer

This was no sun lightThis was a train, a train of everything I dreaded mostLoneliness, rejection and frustrationAnd there was nothing I could doGo back in the hole? what good would that do?

So I spread my arms and said, 'fire away!'Seconds later it fired into meIt seemed to last for ever and ever.I saw the faces of lost loves, old friends, dead friends.I felt no emotions of bliss. Only misery

But I took it all in, I let it sink deep withinwhen the train had passed, I collapsedTears ran down my eyes and punched ground. I wanted to die.But somewhere, in my mind. A pinch of light, kept me alive.

I looked up, I saw a light.A train, this was not. Twas sun light.So I crawled. I gathered my self and slowly crawled.

Inch by inch as fast as I couldThe light seemed to get no closer.

I'm still crawling, but I'll get there soon.

Collage by R. B. Hagi

Photo by Emma King

14 15| Petrichor Doorways for Spiders, Heaven, and Hell |

Comic by Quidditascatfoxwolf.tumblr.com

16 17| Petrichor A Doorway of Pluralism |

“Multiplicity” by Paul Weinerpaul-weiner.com

18 19| Petrichor A Doorway through the Years |

Intaglio print (right) and copper plate in progress (above) by Molly McEachern.

“An Astronomical map of my birth month.”

molly-wogs.tumblr.com

19 20 21| Petrichor A Doorway to the Street |

It’s the empty wooden chair that sits across from me at every meal. It’s the television that always stays on the same channel - unless I’m the one who changes it. It’s the cold void that is the other half of my queen-sized bed. It’s the piles of dirty laundry in nearly every room, my meager diet of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and my ever-thicken-ing neck beard. I need no more reminders that I am alone. Yet a brand new wound has just been opened by the unexpected – and agonizingly tender – noises on the other side of my bedroom wall. I flip my pillow over to the cold side. I remember when we used to smother those sounds with our own. Thirty-six nights have passed since you were right here, tucked in beside me, and for those thirty-six nights there has been nothing to even muffle the neighbor’s outbursts of intimacy. That’s why, right after it happened, I spent three weeks in Portland with my brother - a trip that cost me my job at Wandering Goat Coffee Co. I had thought getting away would be a good idea; I would leave this apartment to stew in its own wretchedness. Instead, I found myself in another dismal place, on Haw-thorne Bridge, spinning around at lightning speed when I heard someone shout the name “Aubrey,” and cursing myself over my moment of foolish hope. I stood there with your name ringing in my ears, my hands sweat-ing, and vomit in my mouth. Remember how we met for the first time at Wandering Goat? You were standing on the little stage in your tiny bare feet, playing that violin I never tired of hearing. I stood on the far side of the café, but I could feel myself being absorbed into your long, curly brown hair, drawn in by your flushed cheeks, and entranced by your absolute concentra-tion. After you finished playing and stepped gracefully off the stage, I raced over to meet you. I thought I was a hotshot pioneer back then, and decided that if Lewis and Clark could get all the way to Fort Clatsop by smooth-talking the Native Americans, I could reach the heart of a beauti-ful girl with some smooth talk of my own. Masterfully, I gleaned that your name was Aubrey, that you, just like me, went to South Eugene High, and that we lived only a few blocks apart. I suggested that we could see more of each other and was all too pleased when you smiled at that. Now I lie in excruciating sleeplessness, my body sinking down into the mattress and my head aching. Carnal melodies can bring one back to the present like nothing else can. Tonight, after several rest-less nights of trying to sleep on the couch, I finally decided to try my bed again, and no decision could have been worse. The panting makes me

cringe. The floor moves rhythmically, so that I feel seasick from the little waves. I’m on a sailboat - one that circles and circles, failing to find a harbor. I lie with my gaze affixed to the ceiling, and I am all too aware of those sounds, violating the night. Remember how your favorite thing to violate was the speed limit? You scared the hell out of me. We’d take off in any direction, just to get out of the city, always looking for clandestine little spots to steal kisses and more. I always let you drive because you loved your old, beat up car and enjoyed being behind the wheel so much more than me, but that meant we had some close calls. I still can’t believe that officer bought that I was your brother long enough for you to flirt your way out of a ticket. And remember when I broke your clutch when you tried to teach my to drive that same crappy old car? We were in the parking lot at school, and I never was able to make it out of first gear. You were out-raged. Enough so to hurl both your shoes at me, leaving my eyebrow to bleed majestically for several minutes. But remember how you forgave me almost immediately? And how on that same night you talked your sister into buying us wine? After midnight, we waltzed the bottle of seven-dollar Chardonnay down to the Willamette River, shared a few miserable glasses - yes, we even brought glasses - and laughed so hard we were sure we’d never stop. The August moon was nearly full, and soon you began peeling off your clothes. This had never happened to me before, and my real knees began to match the reflections of them, shaking in the rippling water. I couldn’t believe you wanted me to see, but in the interest of acting casual, I rearranged my uneven breathing and followed suit. Before we knew it, we had slid into the water, leaving our clothes on the riverbank, and were moving with the water. Remember how we floated down nearly a mile before we real-ized...? We had to jump out and run naked along the bank, bodies (well, I don’t know about mine, but yours at least) glistening in the moonlight, all the way back to our deserted clothes. This wall might just as well not be there. I can hear nearly every word, every purr, every sigh. In fact, if the wall disappeared the occasion-al banging noise might disappear with it, leaving only the back-and-forth creaking sound of the floor, which I could pretend was something else. I have been struggling to fall asleep for so long, expecting the soft-but-audible lovemaking to come to a close. But they have no awareness of my anguish, or even my attention. I should try the couch again, farther away from the haunting whispers. They sound so much like our own voices.. They taunt me. Remember all of our whispers when we first moved in together? We were only nineteen, but with my modest coffee shop job and your promising journalism career - evidenced by those high marks at the University of Oregon - we felt as free as the terrible movies we’d find in

Madison Street-Earl, Senile Handyman

22 23| Petrichor A Doorway to the Street |

the dumpster at B&B Movie Rentals. We were responsible for paying bills, cleaning up after ourselves, and could choose how we wanted the furniture - but we still couldn’t believe the place was truly all our own. We would talk about how it felt like our parents might walk into the room at any time, catching us in some naughty act or at least commanding us to finish our chores. Remember how you’d want to want to wear certain earrings to class some mornings and how we’d finally search every nook and cranny of the house, only to find them in one of my jeans pockets? I would some-times take them out in the evenings so I could kiss your ears. I need to stop. The sounds on the other side of the wall finally have. But the resulting silence might be worse than the creaking springs of their bed. Morning can’t come soon enough. The heavy breathing is gone, but the fact that I know what it is that has ended only makes me more crazed. My first time back in this bed in thirty-six days... and it suffocates me! The sheets crawl up my chest, tickle the base of my neck and begin to choke me. I sit up and swing my legs off the side of the bed, if only to keep my covers from harassing me. I remember waking one morning and you were sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from me. We’d been living here for over eighteen months, and not once had you woken up before me. I said, “Aubrey,” and you turned around. Something was wrong. Your eyes were strange, and I felt a pang of shock and discomfort grate along my spine. Your face had taken on a character of wildness, even hysteria. You ran out of the room, and I stood to chase you. But you had locked bathroom door behind you, and I could hear you crying on the other side. I tried to talk to you over your sobs, but couldn’t get any response. Even though I was completely unnerved, my shift started soon, so I got dressed and ran to Wandering Goat. All day I thought about what you might be like when I got home. I hoped it was just a passing craze. When I got home, I found you huddled in our living room chair, still in your purple pajamas, still looking like you had just been crying. I asked you what was wrong. You told me that you heard spirits in our room. You said they told you things that made you feel scared. I had no idea what to do - no clue what to tell you. I wish the rhythmic squeaking of the bed would resume. I imag-ine the noise swelling to a deafening point. I imagine the floor dropping right out from underneath all of us, sending us plummeting to our quiet deaths. I get up and stagger over to the window. Still only silence. A few people are on the street three stories below, but a haze dims the street-lights and blankets the pavement. I remember. The same two things happened every day after that. The first is that each morning I called your mom. She was single and had moved out of town, and it was the first real contact I’d had with her. I asked her question after question about you, about your past, trying to

glean any information I could. Was there some sort of old trauma you were dealing with? Were there any tricks to make you snap out of it? Your mom had no answers - only more questions. Then, every night, I had the same dream. In it, I would stand at this very window, holding a string, attached to a balloon. The sun would be setting, and the street would be silent. With my eyes, I’d follow the string from my hand, out the window, and up to the balloon. My gaze would finally reach the top. Instead of finding the shiny, red balloon I expected, I’d see you. It was your little body on the end of the string - floating, drifting - out over the street. As I stare out into the night, I know that I will not sleep tonight. I know that I will not sleep tomorrow night, or the next night or the ones after that, as long as I stay in this apartment on Madison Street. I crack open the window and take in the familiar scent of downtown Eugene. I lean out over the street and let the cool breeze fill my head and chest.I remember waking one morning, several weeks after that first horrible day, to people shrieking on the street below. I reached over for you in the bed, but I was alone. I felt the wind blowing in from the window.The grease smell from Burgers On The Run tickles my nostrils even though they closed at ten. The street is empty and hushed.I remember flinging off the covers, accidentally knocking my glass of water to its shattering death, and dashing over to the gaping window. I remember feeling that I was suddenly very old. I feel old again now. I sit on the edge of the sill, my feet dangling over the sidewalk, just to see what it may have felt like when you did it. I run my fingers over the brick exterior of the wall. I remember screaming your name with my lips still shut. I remember how the universe looked upside down. I remember being as still as you were. I remember staring over your body down on Madison Street.

23 24 25| Petrichor A Doorway to the Atmosphere |

Photo by Colt DuttweilerVolcano Acatenango, Guatemala