to the first issue of Curator Herbrant. This zine is named after
a character in the Ingmar Bergman film Hour of the Wolf.
It is a story of a mad artist and his devoted wife, who retreat
to an isolated island to help the artist find inspiration and
ease his illness. Needless to say, the film doesn’t have
a happy ending. In it, a lesser character named Heerbrand appears
several times. He says he is a curator and that he turns souls
inside out. I was searching for an appropriate name for my new
zine series, and that was it: Curator Herbrant! I changed the
spelling, because I am, in essence, taking on the persona of
the good Curator, and I want to be my own entity, not a cutout
of someone who didn’t exist in the first place! It’s
bad enough being a cutout of myself.
have made a few personal zines before, most notably the series
The Evil Eye. I hope this series will transcend my previous attempts;
be something better, something more. Of course this series will
focus on my compulsions and obsessions that you have come to know
and love. (Art. Inspiration. Love. Life. Death. Despair. Music.
Literature. Film.) Or if you are a new reader, that you might
find “interesting.” But I also hope to delve even
deeper and breech subjects that are unexpected or even shocking,
especially coming from me. Each issue will also contain some form
of my literary work, because I realize this may be the only opportunity
I have to share it with you.
know this series won’t be accessible to everyone. But I
want this to be real. And sincere. If nothing else, I hope that
you find things in here to be universal in truth and complete
in authority. But if you can relate, let me know. May
your experience here be truly interesting, indeed. Welcome to
the museum of my soul. . .
Addendum to Friendship, Contract of Distance
not that I don’t want friends, although it may seem like
it. I like having friends, I just am very, very picky, and so,
I hardly have any at all. It’s snobbish and elitist, yes,
to require that people fit a certain criteria before they are
worthy of my time, but most people are truly too ignorant or too
vulgar to waste my time on. I have come to terms with the fact
that I am an elitist snob. I have more pressing characteristics
that require change, so that is low priority right now. Perhaps
someday you will find me in divey bars, drinking Budweiser and
listening to cover bands just so I won’t be alone, so I’ll
have some “friends” but… probably not in this
about my Muse
Guinea piggin' can you dig it?
Guinea Pig bios
am a wild animal. Caged beyond my capacity. Shrink-wrapped into
bars, cold steel cutting into my shoulder blades. My wings were
clipped before even my birth, my developing mind not allowed to
form the very idea of flight. Marinated in my own placenta, strangled
by the umbilical cord, they pulled out a malformed substance of
what once could have been considered a life. My spine is now a
c(h)ord of stress, popping and pinching chakra's into unidentifiable
black blobs. Just one look into my eyes and you can see the panic
and the fear. The look of a mammal not fully domesticated, yet
not able to survive on its own in the wild. Trapped between worlds,
not fit for either. I pace and pace. I distance myself from possible
captors and ready mental pathways for my possible escape. I beat
my bloody fists against my prison walls, even though this means
I must first dislocate, even break my wrists, to reach them. I
see being lame yet whole and freely bound the better alternative
to being broken into bits and liberally incarcerated.
Story: The Blue Flame
Zip code 55904
Bauhaus. 7 November 2005. State Theater. Minneapolis.
were the first people to actually enter the theater. It was overwhelming.
There was a slight haze of smoke already filling the theater,
which just made the rest of the scene seem even more like a dream.
I felt like I was walking into a sanctuary from the troubles of
the world, into a place out of time. I’m sure that was the
intent of the band, as well as the architects who designed the
theater so long ago, and I was struck with a brief pang of sadness
that both modern groups and modern buildings lack anything as
intimate as this. Statues in gold hung over old box seats, now
closed off for safety. Murals adorned the walls in images of the
Greek Muses. There was more gold leaf, and a classic style balcony.
There were faces carved into the end of every blush-colored padded
seat row. We easily found our seats: section MF1, row F, seats
11 and 12. The sixth row, stage right. We sat down and waited
for the parade of Goths to join us...
Gallery (inspiration for issue one)
"When you stand in front of me and
look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and
what do I know of yours. And if I were to cast myself down before
you and weep and tell you, what more would you know about me than
you know about hell when someone tells you it it hot and dreadful.
for that reason alone we human beings ought to stand before one
another as reverently, as reflectively, as lovingly, as we would
before the entrance to hell."