Zine By Love Beth Drew
this issue, I use clip-art exclusively from 1960s magazines.
This lends an unintentional feeling of sarcasm to my words.
It's unnerving how accurately the old, outmoded advertisements
express my modern, valid thoughts.
also experiment with stream of consciousness writing. This
isn't something new to me, but it is new for me to incorporate
into my zines.
result of both the themed artwork and the free-form writing
is something different from anything I've tried before, and
something more than I bargained for.
second thoughts :::
I get ideas faster than I can reach over and write them down. When
creating, and especially writing doesn’t go well, it seems
like nothing will ever go well again. And what I do write is bland
and lifeless and boring. I don’t have anything beautiful to
express. To reach inside and masturbate your soul, is that asking
too much? I just keep thinking that I could do it again, and do
it better. But, it’s all a fantasy. My opinions really don’t
mean anything or matter at all, except to myself. It’s weird
that I would ever think otherwise. And still and yet, these thoughts
have probably been thought by someone else and so aren’t really
mine. If I could just shut up long enough, and listen to myself,
I could probably get all the answers I could trust and feel I need.
In order to be yourself, you have to lie about who you are. You
have to, in essence, change who you are in order to be who you are.
And then, are you truly yourself any longer? Nervous tension, exhaustion,
frustration. I have obligations. I had visitations. I am a breakdown.
I never choose where I’m going, I’m always led there
by others. I have never found a place on my own volition. But when
I start to feel like that, all I have to do is go to the grocery
store at rush hour. There’s nothing left of quality minds.
They’re rotted from the inside out and even the greatest of
my generation howl like Neanderthals under a bloody paperback moon,
heads whipping around on swivels at the prime meat selection or
at the pixilated dream. Whenever I see Tiger Lilies, I’m transported
back to my very early childhood. And nice polite elevator. Nice
polite TV. Nice polite air conditioner. Nice polite scream. And
poetry. That is an obscene word, isn’t it?