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Reference | Electric Cereal

Category Archives: Reference

First Cup – Monday

coffee reading
A Series of Visual Poems by August Smith (Fruita Pulp)


An Interview in Verse w/ Kayla Wheeler (Drunk In A Midnight Choir)

Reverb by Alexandra Wuest (Vol. 1 Brooklyn)

Urvogel by Jayinee Basu (Powder Keg)

How To Make A Sauna by Jayinee Basu (Metatron)

Dame à la Capuche by Sonya Vatomsky (Maudlin House)

You Poor Boy by Gena LeBlanc (Maudlin House)
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shabby pre-game

shabby doll house the re-up

In case you are jonesing for tomorrow’s new Shabby issue, here is some writing from the Electric Cereal writers who are going to be in The Re-Up:

Luna Miguel

Tracy Dimond

Holly Isemonger

Rachel Hyman

Joshua Jennifer Espinoza

Emily Elizabeth Scott

Sophia Katz

Caterina Scicchitano

Romy Dorrant

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annotated blog posts by megan boyle

unpublished blog posts by megan boyle

Megan Boyle sent me this awesome annotated book. I can’t imagine reading it any other way. There are over 90 notes inside. Almost on every page. Some notes list the real names of people mentioned, what other blog posts or stories they appear in, and how they reacted to being written about. Other notes discuss editorial decisions, what Megan was thinking while writing something, and her favorite jokes nobody noticed.

I’m only going show a few of them. Send $15 to themeganboyle@gmail.com to get your own copy.

1. blog posts megan boyle 1

megan boyle drawing of electric cereal

I’m not very good at drawing things in perspective of other things/ distances/ etc. but I thought I’d try to show you a bucolic sunrise scene of spam, Homer Simpson and Electric Cereal playing a game w/ six cards, a donut, and a six-pack of Poland springs bottled water.

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Detail of Wheatfield With a Reaper
by Vincent Van Gogh

van gogh wheat field detail

Lucy K Shaw & Bessie Smith

Fuck, I love jazz. I think all my writing has been an attempt at doing something worthy of it. Something like what Cortázar does in Hopscotch. That’s one of those books that was so eerie to read because it was doing exactly what I had been thinking of doing. I mean, he even writes that he’s attempting to “capture jazz in prose.” And somehow it is inspiring that I’ve hit upon the same feeling and intimidating that it has already been done and hopeful that I might have a better way of doing it. But why haven’t I done it already. I read that book in April 2013. There is an entry in one of my notebooks from January 2012 about Blue in Green. Everything I write is about Blue in Green. Evans interrupted by Miles, 19 seconds in. This was only supposed to be one sentence. There is a recording of Ella Fitzgerald that I think is the most beautiful thing in the world. I’m so depressed right now. She scats, it don’t mean a thing. There’s a miscue in it where she either starts too early or the band does but she’s still divine and I love her. There is a recording of Armstrong where he gives us our voice for the 20th century. You can hear it in these two voices. I listen to jazz because I’m miserable. The muted trumpets in The Mooche. Listen to how they waver. On Black and Tan Fantasy. You can picture the heat, right? And what about Creole Love Call? And have you heard Armstrong and Ellington together? It’s great, but maybe a little too good of a recording, too clear. I love watching Louis in the beginning of Dinah holding his trumpet at his knees and waving it almost like a conductor, the f’n showmanship on that guy. His lip once fell off. Maybe, I don’t know. It may just be a metaphor. It may have just split open. I can’t bleed for my art. I’m too scared. I met someone recently who seems to be doing just that. The strength she has amazes me. I don’t think I can do that. Leaving this as a block of text because I know no one reads those.

Kind of Blue

A Quartet In The Studio

There is a moment in So What,
30 seconds in, after a few disparate riffs,
where the keys crash and everything falls into place,
and I wonder — how is all that possible.

Realms of the Unreal

realms of the unreal

Mermaid’s Reef by Luna Miguel

mermaids reef luna miguel

From Adult:

The sound of the ocean is an idea, sometimes good, sometimes poisoned, but an idea. I pray to the arrhythmic waves, to the deceitful mermaids with elongated tails. They smell of fish. They smell of reed and sand. They are ideas created by men. They are everything that I fear in the ocean.

But you will not be a mermaid. You will be absolutely feminine. You know this because you have placed a mirror at the depths of your genitals. You won’t put on make up. You won’t dye your hair. You’ll look at what stinks with admiration. At things you so rarely comprehend.

And then you’ll say: “sometimes I don’t understand why the cat is alive and you are not.
The cat scratches me.
The cat annoys me.
I wanted to save him and all he does is hurt me.
Not you.
My scars hurt.
Where’s your pain.”

Pages much too large for ideas I often want to hide. Pages for a song that is born within me. Why does hair emerge but not milk? Why do I bleed so much that I cannot eat? Talk to me.

Read the full text of Mermaid’s Reef at Adult

Flowering Garden by Vincent van Gogh


The Passion According to G.H.


From The Passion According to G.H. by Clarice Lispector:

—————— I’m searching. I’m searching. I’m trying to understand. Trying to give what I’ve lived to somebody else and I don’t know to whom, but I don’t want to keep what I lived. I don’t know what to do with what I lived, I’m afraid of that profound disorder. I don’t trust what happened to me. Did something happen to me that I, because I didn’t know how to live it, lived as something else? That’s what I’d like to call disorganization, and I’d have the confidence to venture on, because I would know where to return afterward: to the previous organization. I’d rather call it disorganization because I don’t want to confirm myself in what I lived–in the confirmation of me I would lose the world as I had it, and I know I don’t have the fortitude for another.

If I confirm my self and consider myself truthful, I’ll be lost because I won’t know where to inlay my new way of being–if I go ahead with my fragmentary visions, the whole world will have to be transformed in order for me to fit within it.

Perhaps what happened to me was an understanding—and for me to be true, I have to keep on being unable to grasp it, keep on not understanding it. All sudden understanding closely resembles an acute incomprehension.

Life and death were mine, and I was monstrous. I was courageous like a sleepwalker who simply goes. During the hours of perdition I had the courage not to compose or organize. And above all not to look ahead. I’d never before had the courage to let myself be guided by the unknown and toward the unknown: my expectation preconditioned what I would see. They weren’t previsions of a vision: they were already the size of my concerns. My expectations closed the world to me.

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