I remember getting out of the van, seeing the Red Fort over there, across that muddy moat with the little trickle of muddy water meandering in the muddy streambed. The Red Fort looked like some sandcastle that thousands of little sunbathers, sometime, way back in the long dream of this timeless land, had dug out of the river basin, with thousands of little sand shovels and sand pails. And time and the sun had hardened it, compacted it, made it dense and strong.

And, then, maybe that’s when the Muslims came and used their skills, the skills that came from watching the stars and the moon, and from learning about the magic of numbers, to carve those palaces and mosques, and dungeons from those mounds of sand. And the thousands of dark, strangely serene people sprang up from the sandy soil all around it, and lived out their lives, and then laid down and melted back into the sand, and then rose back up again, like the tide of an impotent sea: impotent because the walls of the Red Fort withstood the ceaseless ebb and flow all around it.

…thousands of dark, strangely serene people sprang up from the sandy soil all around it, and lived out their lives, and then laid down and melted back into the sand, and then rose back up again…

The men wore loose cotton shirts, and sandals, and baggy cotton trousers tied close around their waists. And the women wore brightly colored shifts and saris. And they were all so dark that when they smiled you were taken by how white their teeth were. Or when their eyes widened, you saw only the whites, and the dark features around them were obscured, and you were startled by the limpid whiteness, and you stroked your chin and turned your thoughts inward.

But I just couldn’t take my eyes from across that bridge that spanned the muddy moat with the little trickle of muddy water meandering in the muddy stream bed. Beyond it was the Gate. The vast arch that led into the opulent fortress the Muslim kings used to guard their marbled jewel that lay across the river. The Gate, with its iron-wrought portcullis that could drop right down, like a set of jagged incisors, slicing through everything, shutting off the view of the soft parts of the throat, shutting that glimpse of pillowed bedrooms, and innately carved walls with semi-precious stones set into the depictions of peacocks and flowers. And it was strange to think that these were the same people, through some convoluted lineage, through some infinitely complex maze of genealogy, that had built the Alhambra, half a world away, in the dry and friendly hills of Iberia.

And then, just a glance across the river, across the vista, past the women threshing clothes in the muddy, meandering river with children running about their feet, to that white marble jewel with four domed towers set about a domed building, and… no, it can’t be marble. It can’t all be marble, and, surely, if I look closer I’ll see the ruse. No, it can’t be the way it seems from here, standing on the bridge that spans the muddy moat with the little trickle of muddy water. It’s something else, some vision, something someone dreamed about somewhere. And it shines, or shimmers, or somehow defies you to accept it, because, well, we’ve all heard the name, we all know about the mosque that Emperor Shah Jahan had built for his wife, for the mother of his fourteen children, because he loved her and he could afford it. But the photos and the name, Taj Mahal…that’s not it. Those couldn’t possibly be representations of this thing, this vision that I’m seeing over there, across the muddy, meandering river with the women threshing their clothes and the children running around their feet.

But then, just as I was squinting, trying to discern clearly whether or not it was real, or some ethereal phantasm, there was scraping and scratching, down near my feet, where I was standing on the bridge that spanned the muddy streambed with the trickle of muddy water.

The fact of the matter is, we’re all lying to ourselves. We want to believe it’s possible to be holy. To feel divine. We sacrifice ourselves, put ourselves on the line, with the naïve notion it pleases some disembodied voice in the sky. We look to socially agreed upon models of exemplary “spiritual” human beings and attempt to replicate ad nauseam.

Jesus Christ, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Mother Teresa.

We want to be anything besides decaying, breathing, eating, pissing, shitting, laughing, crying, screaming, pleading, egotistical carbon-based forms. Hairless apes that both love and hate each other and are – sometimes intentionally, occasionally inadvertently – royally fucking up this planet.

Unable to cope with the reality of our imperfect and impermanent nature, we invent afterlives, saviors, and heroes. Saints and martyrs. We strip away all their blemishes and foibles with mythical righteousness, projecting onto them all our prayers for what could be.

If only, we lament, if only humanity would try just a little harder to be good.

We forget that Gandhi was a superstitious and conflicted fanatic that denied his wife life-saving penicillin when she was diagnosed with pneumonia.

We forget that Gandhi was a superstitious and conflicted fanatic that denied his wife life-saving Penicillin when she was diagnosed with pneumonia. Modern medicine was not to be trusted. She died as a result. Of course, when the “Mahatma” himself came down with malaria, he had no qualms with taking Quinine to advert his own date with death.

Not to mention those teenagers he slumbered with in the nude – all just to test his own chastity.

Oh, and then there’s saintly Mother Teresa. The quaint Albanian nun that even nonbelievers hold up as the epitome of noble self-sacrifice. Never mind her fundamentalist ideas regarding divorce and family planning and her careful convoluting with notorious dictators and corrupt bankers. Let’s most especially forget the fact that her mission was actually to convert the poor masses of Calcutta languishing on cots in her primeval death houses – not to alleviate their suffering. In Teresa’s mind, poverty was purifying and necessary.

The terminally ill did not require pain relievers – only prayers for their soon to be departing souls.

And Martin Luther King Jr., his weakness was flesh. When he was away from his wife giving now-famous speeches, he was also seeking solace by sleeping around.

No one should be placed so completely beyond reproach that they lose all trace of their humanity.

Even Jesus (that is, the historical Jesus – you know, before his subsequent deification into a miracle-working God Man) probably had his share of personality flaws. Those money-changers in the temple had him royally pissed, so, who knows. Maybe he smacked women around from time to time. Maybe he was a chronic masturbator.

Maybe he fantasized about young boys.

No one should be placed so completely beyond reproach that they lose all trace of their humanity. We’ve all had horrible cases of diarrhea and blown strange colored snot out of our noses. There’s times when all of us have woken up regretting what we did the night before.

And there was a time in our history when we didn’t seek salvation because no one thought the human condition was something they needed saving from.

The world will only improve when all six billion of us stop trying to live up to the fictitious reputations of saints and superstars. When we start looking inward for ethical guidance instead of taking commandments from above. Until then, we’ll continue collectively smiling with collagen-injected lips, pretending everything will be OK if only we could find a way to just be good.

“Here in my car / I feel safest of all / I can lock all my doors / It’s the only way to live / In cars…” -Gary Numan

Cars, cars, everywhere. From the shores of Hawaii to the mountains of New Mexico to the hamlets of northern Michigan, cars and trucks of all shapes and sizes, running rampant down the streets, possessing highways, monopolizing avenues, pompously pushing their way down lanes, drives, places, and boulevards. Running over pedestrians, bicyclists, and each other. Belching carbon dioxide, spewing oil, gluttonously guzzling gasoline, shedding rubber, metal, glass, and plastic. Shrieking, rumbling and carelessly careening in various directions at multiple speeds. (more…)

This current election is something else. The race between Obama and Hillary is a reminder of the absolute poison that the Clintons brought to the Democratic Party, and what a duplicitous and self-serving couple of thoroughly narcissistic people Bill and Hillary have always been. Bill Clinton, in campaigning for his wife, has degraded the institution of the Former Presidency down to the lowest common denominator. Case in point: His reference to Obama’s “fairytale” run for the White House and utilization of the race card – confirming what a classless individual ole’ Slick Willie really is.

The Clintons are a marriage (and a mirage) of a desultory individual from Arkansas and a conniving lawyer from suburban Chicago. The politics of this ghoulish combination in the 1990s are responsible for the rise and transformation of the Republican Party into the pro-rich, anti-everyone else party as much as any other factor at the time. If one wants to examine how the anti-progressive, anti-working class, pro-capitalist, and pro-corporate Republican Party was able to rise to the degree of power and popularity they did during the 1990s, he or she needs to look no further than Clinton Incorporated.

What do I mean by this?

The Clintons are a marriage (and a mirage) of a desultory individual from Arkansas and a conniving lawyer from suburban Chicago.

What I mean is that Bill Clinton was elected in 1992 on a mandate to right some of the wrongs resulting from twelve years of Reagan-Bush. Clinton attempted to realize his electoral mandate, but his administration was as corrupt and scandal ridden as the Grant Administration. As a result, seemingly every action of the Clinton Administration created instant political fodder and opportunity for the Republicans, while simultaneously resulting in disgust among vast amounts of independent voters and “Blue Dog” Reagan-Democrats that helped put him into office. The opportunities the Clinton scandals offered the raging morality-hacks of the Republican Party were certainly not missed by that institution. Realistically, the eight years of Clinton Incorporated can only be viewed as a near-decade of squandered and destroyed opportunities for the Democratic Party.

Loyal Democrats, to their ultimate detriment, blindly followed him and his deleterious and unscrupulous bag of spin-doctor’s – men like Lanny Davis and the current carpet-bagging Senator “from” New York, Hillary Rodham Clinton (actually from suburban Chicago). Hillary’s own ineptitude is evidenced in her botched attempt at creating universal healthcare, an idea that most Americans thought was a good one. That is, until she became its spokeswoman and turned it into the greatest policy ever demagogued by, what Princeton economist Paul Krugman calls, the “movement conservatives” in the Republican Party. And yet, her leadership skills are what she is running against Obama with.

Poison. Poison is the only word that I can conjure up to describe the Clintons and the Democratic Party.

Poison. Poison is the only word that I can conjure up to describe the Clintons and the Democratic Party. Because the Clintons had their hands dipped deep in so many corrupt barrels of slush funds, kickbacks, and backroom dealings dating back to when they were the First Couple of Arkansas, they almost instantly lost all credibility among the vast swath of independent voters needed to ensure electoral success. Furthermore, the overtly crass, course, and uncivil nature of the dialog they offered to America in the 1990s, and continue to do so now, has only provided moral high horse conservatives unending opportunities to denigrate the Democratic Party, while giving progressive-minded Democrats all the more reason to stay at home on Election Day – or at least tune to uneducated, ignorant and laughable jingoists like Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity for an alternative politics.

Today, nothing has changed. The poisonous politics of the Clintons have been brought full force into this campaign, ensuring their virus in the supposedly progressive and socially conscious Democratic Party persists. And indeed, the personal character assassination, diversion of the voters to petty issues, and the same sort scandalous corrupt money that pervaded the Bill Presidency are alive and well in the current presidential race. Just as poison spreads uncontrollably once it has infected a victim, much of the Democratic Party was infected with the Clinton serum during the 1990s, and today the malfeasance persists. This Clinton poison can be described as the politics of blind allegiance to a person or party, as opposed to following a set of ideals for the betterment of the country.

I myself have had it with the Clintons, and I have had it with the media complacently facilitating the poisonous, vociferous, and downright nefarious ambitions of Bill and Hillary. If there is a single person besides me in this country who is still a true, New Deal liberal, I suspect I am not alone in my absolute disgust with the besmirching of the Democratic Party that Clinton Incorporated has pulled off for the past 16 years. I am equally disgusted and frustrated with the blind loyalty once admirable Democrats such as Al Gore, Dick Gephardt, George Mitchell, Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi, and even the few remaining New Deal Democrats like Walter Mondale, have demonstrated toward the Clinton machine. Bill Clinton totally incinerated what was left of the New Deal and civil rights wing of the Democratic Party after Reagan-Bush spent 12 years picking away at this fragile allegiance. This was only achievable with the blind faith of much, if not most, of the leadership and influential members of his party.

Clinton’s own policies as president facilitated the rise of movement conservatives. Movement conservatives represent only the wealthy, unabashed pro-market capitalist wing of the Republican Party, and offer the average working class American nothing more than the do-nothing Social Darwinists of the Gilded Age. Clinton entered office with a Democratic majority in the U.S. House, U.S. Senate, and the majority of state legislatures and governors. He left office with the Republicans in control of the majority of these aforementioned bodies and positions. NAFTA, Plan Columbia, Iraqi sanctions and bombing runs, corporate consolidation run wild. This is the true Clinton legacy and the true failure of the Clinton administration. A Hillary presidency would only complete the thorough, toxic poisoning of the Democratic Party.

Esau held onto the guardrail. Leaned out into empty space. The frozen lake beneath him. How far down?
The ice made his fingers slip. He leaned out further.
How far?
Far enough.

***

So long ago, it seemed.
And yet, no time at all. This same lake. He and the little one.
But the little one wasn’t so little. What was he, six? Seven?
Not so little at all.
Back then, Esau was basically still a boy.
This was the day Esau grew up.
“Bet you can’t make it to the other side,” Esau said.
“Why I wanna do that?”
“I ain’t said you do wanna do it. But I bet you don’t. Bet you’re too scared.”
“I ain’t scared.”
“Prove it.”
So long ago. That’s what he said: ‘Prove it.’
How two words can change the course of a life.
“Prove what,” the little one said.
“Prove you ain’t too yeller to go ’cross the water.”
“I ain’t yeller.”
“All right.”
“I ain’t.”
“All right. I ain’t said you was. All’s I said was prove it.”
The little one tested the ice with his foot. Pressed down on it, as if he could push the ice under water.
“How come you ain’t goin’ out on it?” the little one asked.
“ ’Cause I ain’t said I could.”
“I ain’t said I could neither.”
“Nope.”
“So. Why I gotta go out there?”
“You ain’t gotta. I just said I bet you won’t.”
“I ain’t yeller.”
“ ’Course you ain’t.”
“Just makin’ sure you know that.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
“You gonna prove it?”
“Prove what?”
“That you ain’t yeller.”
The little one sighed. Tested the ice again.
“What if I fall in?”
“You can swim, can’tcha?”
“I can swim.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ to worry ’bout, then.”
He tested the ice again. Took a step. Took another. The ice held beneath him.
“I told you I ain’t yeller.”
“You ain’t.”
“Can I come back now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You ain’t made it to the other side.”
The little one sighed again. He took another step. Took another step. The ice felt strong. He took another step.
“Ain’t nothin’ to be worried ’bout,” Esau yelled. His breath curled out in wispy clouds — like cigarette smoke.
He breathed again and watched his breath. Breathed again and watched his breath. He tried to make a smoke ring. It didn’t work. The little one yelled something. He tried to make a smoke ring again.
The little one’s voice carried across the thin, icy air.
“Quit yer hollerin’. What’re you so crazy over?”
“I don’t think it’s safe!”
“I said quit yer hollerin’.”
“I don’t think it’s safe!”
“Come on back then.” The little one took a step back. Esau cupped his hands around his mouth. “Yeller!”
The little one stopped. Stood still. “I ain’t yeller.” He didn’t yell this; he said it. It floated across the air as if riding the stream of his visible breath, reaching Esau a moment later.
The little one turned. Stepped away. Kept walking. Kept walking. Reached the other side. Jumped onto the shore and turned around and yelled. “I told you I ain’t yeller!”
Esau laughed. “Naw. Naw, you ain’t yeller one bit!”
“Now what!” the little one yelled.
“Huh?”
“Now what!”
“How do you mean?”
“What do I do now?”
“Oh! Now you come back!”

***

He stopped moving, and the moment stopped too, and both of them stood there.

Esau’s wife called to him. She called to him again.
He didn’t answer. His fingers slipped. He stared down at the solid sheet of ice.
How far?
How far?
Far enough.
Her skin touched his.
“Come back, baby.”
“I can’t.”
“Come back to me,” she said.
He turned his head. Looked at her hand where it rested on his. She’d taken her glove off so it wouldn’t stand between them. Physical touch. Melting his resolutions.
“It’s my fault.”
“It ain’t your fault,” she said.
“It is.”
“How can you say that? Baby? Come back to me.”
His fingers slipped. She lunged toward him. He stopped moving, and the moment stopped too, and both of them stood there.

***

So long ago.
And yet, not so long at all.
The little one stepped back onto the ice, less gingerly than before. He walked, walked, trotted. Then he started jogging. His feet slipped, and he splattered face-first onto the ice. Laughed. Stood up and started jogging again.
Crack.
“Pa?”
Crack.
“Pa!”
Crack, crack, cra-a-a-a-a-ack!
The ice broke.
The little one fell through.

***

So long later.
No time at all.
“Baby,” his wife said. “Baby. Climb back over this here rail.”
“You’re right.”
“Climb back over this here rail, baby.”
“You’re right,” he said again. He pulled himself back. Swung his leg over. Hugged his wife and kissed her.
“You couldn’t have known,” she told him again. “It ain’t your fault.”
“It ain’t.”
“Hell, baby. You told him not to go out on that ice; he ran out there anyway. You wasn’t lookin’. It ain’t your fault.”
That’s what she believed.
That’s what he had told her.
“You’re right,” he said.
That’s how their son had died.
“Let’s get in the car, baby.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s get in the car.”
“Good idea.”
“Let’s go home,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”

How did you meet Dennis Kucinich?

I walked with my boss into Dennis’ Capitol Hill office for a meeting and something immediately clicked when I saw him. I just knew this man would be my husband. Although I didn’t yet know about any of his politics or policies, we later learned that our beliefs totally meshed with each other.

What sets your husband apart from the other presidential candidates?

On War

Dennis, as you know, is the only person running for president who voted against the war in Iraq, voted against funding the war, and has a plan that would end the war immediately. We are stuck between a rock and hard place. On the one hand, we have to help the Iraqis because we created the mess and we’ve got to help to sort it out, but at the same time our military is suggesting that our occupation is fueling 80% of the violence we see in Iraq. So as soon as we remove ourselves from that situation, violence levels will fall. Dennis has been actively involved with talking with other members of the international community asking leaders of a number of nations if they’d put together an international peacekeeping force, and they’ve all said yes, of course – if we agree to end the occupation. Dennis is the only person that’s recognized bringing the troops home immediately is important to stability in Iraq, and has an economic plan, reconstruction plan, and a reconciliation plan. And that’s all embodied in House Resolution 1234.

Dennis is the only person that’s recognized bringing the troops home immediately is important to stability in Iraq, and has an economic plan, reconstruction plan, and a reconciliation plan.

Dennis and I understand that global warming and global warring are inextricably linked. Dennis said on Meet the Press back in 2006 that the war in Iraq was all about oil. And just a few months ago Alan Greenspan came out in his book and said that we’ve got to admit that the reason we went into Iraq was about oil. We need to recognize the ties between the warring and the warming and change the national security doctrine. The doctrine we have right now is one of “peace though strength” and “peace through war.” What we say is “strength through peace.” An end to interventionism and an end to unilateralism. An end to the idea that we have to do unto others before they do unto us. We need to work with the international community, we have to work with diplomacy. We have to sign international treaties, treaties on global warming, on land mines. When we do this we send a message to the rest of the world that we really have a desire to work together instead of undermining other nations. When we start attacking whole nations for the actions of nonstate actors that have nothing to do with them, that’s when we come into the problems we are facing in Iraq.

On Healthcare

Dennis is also very committed to having a universal, single-payer not for profit healthcare system. Healthcare for all. Because we know that insurance companies make money not providing people with healthcare. All of the other candidates are talking about keeping the insurance industry in charge of the healthcare system but just having the government subsidize insurance policies, which is simply taking more of our tax dollars away and put into the profits of these companies, or mandating that we all have to purchase private health insurance. But I think if people were in a position to buy health insurance they would probably have it already.

Under a single-payer system, we’d be taking out three percent of your income and paying it out into a national health fund. It’s not that the government would be owning the hospitals or running everything, it’s that the government is the single payer. So when you need healthcare you literally go to the doctor of your choice, the hospital of your choice, and you get the healthcare that you need, and then the government is stuck with the headache. So you don’t have to fill out the paperwork, you don’t have to deal with bureaucrats in the insurance companies. About 50% of foreclosures in this country are related to healthcare costs so this is an issue that really affects so many people. There are almost 100 million Americans without adequate healthcare or with no insurance whatsoever.

And coming from a country which actually has a socialized [gasps] medicine program – which is not the same system we’re advocating here because in Britain they do run the hospitals – but anyway, in the UK, nobody even thinks about healthcare. When you need to go to the doctor it’s there, and when you need a prescription you go to the pharmacy and pay a nominal fee to get the drugs you need.

On the Economy

And Dennis is committed to ending NAFTA because he’s seen that NAFTA opened the doors to industries leaving the country. We want to restore manufacturing in the US. We need to renegotiate trade agreements based on workers rights, human rights, and the environment. If you want to trade with us than you need to take care of the water, land and air, you workers have to have rights – the right to organize and collectively bargain.

So we plan on creating millions of jobs by transitioning from a carbon-based economy to a green economy

The plan that we have is called the Works Green Administration, which is inspired by the way that Roosevelt stimulated economy of this country by injecting money into the base and rebuilding our infrastructure. In so doing, he created millions of well paying jobs around this country. So we plan on creating millions of jobs by transitioning from a carbon-based economy to a green economy where we’d primarily focus on wind, solar, and all the other renewable technologies. We have the opportunity for the government to literally be an engine of sustainability. We need to stop subsidizing oil, coal, and nuclear, and start incentivising the green technology in order to have a massive transformation. We can transform from having a war-based economy – making tanks, planes, and bullets – we can change those factories into a creative force: building rail cars instead of tanks, solar panels instead of “smart” weapons systems. These green products will all have to be designed, manufactured, and installed. Implementing them will create millions of new jobs.

What is it that Dennis finds appealing about running within the Democratic Party instead of trying to promote a party like the Green Party that seems to be more aligned with the values you espouse?

Well, I think that Dennis is aligned with Democratic values. He’s also aligned with the Green values, and independent values and so many others. I love it that so many different groups want to claim Dennis, I really do. But what we have to understand as an electorate is that we have to think about policy. Dennis is not an apologist for the party, he is standing up in order to bring it back to the way it should be. We respect very much independents who run, and Greens, and all those other parties, but we need one person who is a clear leader on all the issues we are concerned about. And it’s not just about Greens and Democrats and liberals. It’s also about conservative Republicans who really want to see the constitution stood up for. Who really understand the value of civil liberties. There is a lot more common ground that we think, and we’ve got to get beyond labels and really think: Who is this and where do they stand on this issue?

Angeldust Apocalypse belongs to an emerging genre called Bizarro fiction, which holds disturbing imagery as one of its defining characteristics. I could focus on these often macabre situations in Angeldust Apocalypse — moments of human body modification, subcutaneous worm trafficking, corporate logo shaped scars — but to do just that would be doing this collection a severe disservice. This collection of 18 short stories does deliver on the promise of its post-modern genre, but doesn’t stop at shock value. Where postmodern fails to offer direction, Jeremy Robert Johnson’s Angeldust Apocalypse builds bright trail markers out of luminescent beetle guts and fetal sinew.

With this book, Johnson’s only story collection, the events aren’t disturbing for the sake of shock, but instead act to inform the characters, drive plot, and ultimately support each story as a crafted experience. In the opener, “A League of Zeroes,” for instance, affection is gained and shared within the culture via body modification, much the way lipstick and eye shadow function in a “traditional” culture. There is an underlying exploration of acceptance as these self-imposed atrocities are encouraged due to the surrounding social context, not merely for the sake of morbid reader accolades. And like great characters should, Johnson’s often translate their position among their particular sub-culture with clarity and poignancy: “We just ended up like this. We followed a natural progression from past to present. We’re not Post-Apocalyptic, we’re Post-Yesterday”

Jeremy Robert Johnson’s Angeldust Apocalypse builds bright trail markers out of luminescent beetle guts and fetal sinew.

The collection isn’t without its stylistic tangents. “Last Thoughts Drifting Down” reads like a prose poem built around the famous Bhagavadgita quote: “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” (Later expressed by Manhattan Project scientist Robert Oppenheimer as he watched the first atomic bomb test.) The chaos surfaces in this story and, like its atomic inspiration, is uncontrolled. The closing story, “Wall of Sound: a Movement in Three Parts,” though more reserved, is also afflicted by this experimental approach. These stories could have been left out of the collection without compromising unity, but because the collection is otherwise so strong, I can respect Johnson for including them. He seems to be testing the waters; telling his readers that he is willing to sacrifice a little if it means possibly discovering something deeper.

Other noteworthy stories include: “Snowfall,” a beautiful story of a naïve child embracing nuclear winter on an aesthetic level, unaware of the tragedy the black snow conveys; “The Sharp Dressed Man at the End of the Line,” a prologue to Johnson’s impressive novella follow-up Extinction Journals; and an interesting addition called “Author Notes,” in which Johnson delivers small behind-the-scenes anecdotes on each story.

Think of Angeldust Apocalypse as “Post-Yesterday” magical realism where a dismembered tongue orates the strange while simultaneously maintaining the taste for which it was intended.

Sculptor, installation artist, and photographer Margaret Inga is in the practice of documenting alternate realities. Growing up in North Carolina, she was exposed to a myriad of untouched landscapes that felt strangely unsettling and almost unreal – a feeling she’s still trying to catch with her installation-based photography.

“There was always something really interesting about photography’s ability to create fictional worlds,” comments Margaret. Expanding upon this concept, her images are much more than just point-and-shoot-tom-foolery.

Traditional sculpture (utilizing mostly clay, plaster, and wood) is undertaken to build the majority of her imagery. This includes modeling half-abstract fossils, bones, as well as life-size animal parts. Sometimes traditional taxidermy is utilized, while often fabric is sewn to create artificial foliage or texture. Virtually every component is then painted, composed, epoxied, and varnished over. These elements are then inserted into a natural environment, or, even more likely, a set that is built from the ground up to create a completely fabricated scene. The artist’s aim with these meticulous sets is to completely sidestep “captured” images in photography with images entirely of her own making.

“These images are constructed realities; installations built to retain an atmosphere of ambiguity, chance, and unconscious associations,” explains the artist. “The resulting photograph documents places, objects, and animals transformed beyond usual recognition.”

Margaret studied art in New York at Columbia University. After spending summers eking out a living in darkrooms and print shops, she moved on to obtain a Masters at Pratt Institute with her interests focused on combining illustration, photography, typography, design, and narrative. Her projects soon developed from small graphic novels into the large-format constructed sets she now creates.

Currently, Margaret is living and working on New York’s Lower East Side where she continues to explore the limitations of creating imaginary ontologies.

www.margaretinga.com

When at its best, cinema transports its audience to another time and place, freeing the throngs of weary cubicle-dwellers from the throes of their everyday existence. A film usually does this in one of two ways: by providing a penetrating look at our own world that is somehow more real than the reality it portrays, or by offering entry into a fantasy realm—a world of imagination recognizable by virtue of its being unrecognizable. The Cave of the Yellow Dog, a genre-blurring docudrama about a real family scratching out a traditional existence on the desolate plains of Mongolia, does both.

This is a world of herding, mountains, fields, and silence, where a man discusses with his friends the growing threat of wolves before hopping on a shockingly out-of-place moped and riding off to sell sheepskins in the city.

The film was written and directed by Mongolian filmmaker Byambasuren Davaa, although it is never clear just how much writing was involved. Due to the nature of the events that unfold, the story must have been scripted, but the family’s “acting” (especially that of the little children) seems far too natural to have been contrived. The plot follows a young girl whose father forbids her to keep a stray dog she finds in a nearby cave, set against the backdrop of the family’s isolated and precarious pastoral lifestyle. This is a world of herding, mountains, fields, and silence, where a man discusses with his friends the growing threat of wolves before hopping on a shockingly out-of-place moped and riding off to sell sheepskins in the city. When he returns with a few small gifts, including a garishly modern plastic pot, we see two worlds brush clumsily up against one another.

The cinematography adds to the documentary feel by utilizing exclusively fixed camera techniques—no handhelds or zooms, and few if any pans. By holding almost every shot just a few seconds longer than expected, Davaa seems to stare at her subjects, unable to pry her eyes away from the muted wonders of this way of life—the elegant movements of the mother, the intricate details of the family’s home, the captivating drudgery of making cheese. In so doing, the film thumbs its nose at the short attention span of the multiplex audience and rewards the patient viewer with a glimpse into a real-life fantasy world. And when, in the very last scene, a government vehicle—loudspeakers blasting, exhorting all in earshot to vote in the next election—passes the family on a worn dirt road, we are reminded just how close that world is to ours.

(They forgot where Omaha
and Toledo came from in the first place.)

Tracing leaden lines
on a masquerade map,
grids on a glow-lamp globe.
Trying to split the geo
from the political,
trying to loosen these foundlings
without paying the requisite fee.

Storing away their matchless marbles,
trying to divide the socio
from the economic,
never letting our children to dance,
not even in their hearts.

We’re dreaming under stripened skies,
waking up with spangled eyes.
Teach that choosing between
the lesser of two evils
makes us evil.

See no, hear no,

say no.