issue two early 2009 berlin a new fontier

eDITORIALAnother issue, idle hands but not an idle mind, nor an ideal one for that matter. Already

for me much travel and global circumnavigation. Connecting, interacting, networking, and collaborating. Input in order to output. Growing fingernails and gnawing them down.

Exercising the body and the soul, stretching, reaching new heights and new lows. Growing pains. Dismantling the walls and watching new streams breach and flow. Worrying about

Gaza and the world at large, shivering through a Northern hemispshere winter. Giving and receiving love.

This is part diary, mostly diatribe, part photo and art exhibition, a proportionate revolution with poetry inclusion. We are seeking input from all corners so please please send via the

interweb. Do not throw this zine away, recycle it and send it to your friends. Afterall, there are more of them online than in the real world... right?

This is also the disclaimer.

Stop worrying about war. Start thinking about peace.

He was killed when he was in his late twenties by a cigarette butt, frozen and falling from the outer atmosphere, which chanced to hit him on the head at a phenomenal speed. It entered his brain while he was walking in his new home town and thinking about a song he wanted to write and he never thought about anything else ever again. However, that is neither here nor there for the point of this story, which takes place in his early twenties, whilst he was backpacking alone through Southeast Asia. ‘Alone’ being a loose term, as anyone who has done similar travel will know. In this part of the world in particular, it is usual for one to be surrounded at all times by similarly ‘alone’ people each seeking out there destiny in the same time and space. The world is a crowded place after all. He had been in Thailand for some time, attracted to the people and the pace of life, which he thought went in waves of mania and peace much like the workings of his own brain. He was

aware though, that he was not quite as immersed in the culture as he had hoped. His physical appearance alone was enough to mark him as a farang* and although he had street smarts and the gist of the native language he was still approached by the touts and fix up men like any other fresh off the boat backpacker. His favourite place was a small mountain village in the North called Pai, where musicians jammed each evening at a number of small bars around town, and on porches off the roads around the town poor villagers offered weak weed and dubious opium to anyone who scootered by.A musician himself, modestly able, he had jammed a few nights with other musicians, both local and foreign, and was pleased to find he was able to keep up with the maestros, and sometimes lead those with less talent than himself. When he wasn’t at the bars or in the river, he was off on his scooter, exploring the different routes on his map, driving past elephant farms and waterfalls, sometimes listening*foreigner

to music up loud on his headphones, at other times happy with the sound of the road and the constant chatter in his head. His mind was surfing on parabolic curves as his thoughts chanced back to his past, and the friends and lovers he had left behind in the town he had grown up in. He still kept in touch, but he felt a wall was building up as the depth of experience widened and his brain forged new synaptic connections in places that he had previously only chanced upon in dreams. He rounded a curve in a road he knew well, and pulled back on the throttle. The gentle downward slope around the bend that led back in to town was a joy to drive, and he felt the wind coarse through him and his open shirt flap about behind him. The garment wanted to escape his shoulders, and in his abandon he released his hands one at a time and let it fly. He watched the needle push to 90 and started sounding his horn as he flew past various trucks, cars, and roadside stalls. Farang be damned. He was happy to be alive. At the service station on the edge of town he throttled off and decided he was going to get the longboat down the Mekong into Laos the next day. He had heard about the mushrooms there, and hills that apparently looked liked gorillas.

This story was written for no particular reason while listening to Sonic Youth - Washing Machine.

we are going deep, real deep, underground with this one..

I wore my feet outI took myself out

I made myself suffer for my art

I took a sideI tried and I lied

I was there till we died

I chewed my face thinI committed a sinI was committed

To sin I ducked and woveStrove and strove

I was a little so and so

I was hunger and pain‘Til it started again,

The desert and the rain

The sky is brushed with grey cirrusAnd lonely wandering cumulus

Billowing out windowsCurtains of thought catching wind

My mind, interested in the oblivionsWhere the clouds roam

On streets aloneHigh, surrounded and so slow

Streaming down the long roadMarching to the horizon

And the purple clutches, the Pure hands of the land

Where the sun sets andThe earth weeps, sleeps andSteals itself to heal its hurts

And set sail upon another day

Into the fray the clouds condense and evolve,Disperse and absently revolve

They are what they ownAs they roam and they roam

Two groups of words

for collaboration, subscription, historical edition please contact sumoneproductions@gmail.comwe are people eaters, night creepers, dream weavers, long or short sleevers, good meaners

a friendly bunchvibe receivers, achievers, collected misdemeanors

a light here.