Magazines are dead. Long live magazines.

Print is dying. No, I'm not going to bother backing that up, I'm pretty sure we all know and realise that. Ad sales are down, magazines are rapidly dwindling to nothing, major newspapers are folding. Hell, the Rocky Mountain News is no longer in print, and the Boston Globe isn't looking too healthy.

Magazines are dying too, but not all of them. Because, it seems, the magazines that are vanishing are the ones that use their pages solely as a way to transmit information. Magazines like Cosmo, Time, Maxim, EGM and Wired all come out regularly, and use their pages to bring as much information (though I use the term loosely) as they can to their readers, and that's it. Because of this, the paper is usually as low quality as they can get away with, and so too is the writing and content. The problem with this is that all this information is available easier, cheaper and faster online.

The ones that are arising in their place, however, are fetish magazines. Not in the kinky sense (though there are those too), but in a more traditional manner, as objects of worship. This is the magazine as an Object in and of itself. These are magazines that you don't buy for what's in them, but rather to possess them. They are high quality, of inherently niche topic, and designed to be kept. You don't throw them away in the recycling a week after you get them, rather they're closer to art books. The message isn't in the medium, the medium is the message.

The two that spring to mind (though both are occasionally NSFW), are Coilhouse and Filament. Coilhouse is home to the weird and the wonderful. Each page is stunningly laid out on heavy stock paper, with gorgeous photography and illustrations. Even the advertisements are freakishly beautiful. Filament is a magazine of intelligence and male nudity aimed at "the female gaze". Once again, it doesn't come out very frequently, and it's an object to be purchased as a thing of beauty in its own right.

A wonderful historic example of this is the magazine Gentry, which was aimed squarely at the upper-class British male, and it even came with fabric samples woven in. Once again the importance was in the object itself, as a permanent Thing.

Another excellent example (though in fiction) is Jon Armstrong's novel Grey (available for free as an ebook here). The plot in the book is by all accounts mediocre, but it's worth reading just for the outfits. It is pure clothing porn in a way I can't even begin to explain. In the novel, the main character is a devotee of the magazine "Pure H".

Then she introduced me to Pure H and everything changed again. Published every other month, the magazine is one-half meter square and printed on the most luscious and expensive paper made. It is a joy to touch and hold. But the most extraordinary thing about the magazine is that one anonymous person produces it. Although I’d heard speculation about who he might be, I preferred to enjoy his art without worrying about identity. He photographed every photo. He wrote all the copy. And each issue was a complex puzzle to be savored and deciphered.

You know what? I love this trend. I love the idea of magazines that exists as an Object itself, more than its readily pirated contents. An Object of inherent value. Magazines are dead. Long live magazines.

Websites that need to exist but don't:

http://www.moviesinwhichsamuelljacksonsaysmotherfucker.com

Someone really needs to snatch this up.

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Flash Fiction: I watch the rising and falling of her chest

I watch the rising and falling of her chest. She doesn't know I'm awake. Her gown is sheer, and she's half-illuminated by the moon. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. Her breath is slow and shallow, and I am mesmerised by the ridge of her clavicle. The faintest shadow of breasts. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I stare at her, unable to sleep. I remember running my lips along her neck, my arms around her. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember early mornings, breakfasts in bed, and furtive liaisons under the covers. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I remember the taste of her lips. Her lips. Her lips. I watch the rising and falling of her chest. I can't wait for her wake up, for her to be mine again. The ECG beeps. I watch the rising and falling of her chest.


This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

I'm internet famous

When you Yahoo search for "Arthur Curry", I'm number 4 on the list. That's hilariously awesome!

EDIT: May 11, up to number 3!

My continuing fascination with scarification

Caution, all of the following links are NSFW, and will not be easy to take if you have a weak stomach.

Scarification intrigues me immensely. In terms of cultural precedent, it seems to sit where tattooing did 60-odd years ago. Where tattoos have become heavily co-opted by the mainstream, and taken to the level of irony, scarification remains entirely fringe. Like ink once was, it's the domain of the circus freak and weirdo. Proper scarification requires not only intense ability to accept, even revere, pain, the wounds have to be left to heal by their own power, so you can't touch the massive gaping cuts they leave. However, some more extreme people will deliberately slow healing in order to trigger the creation of extra scar tissue.

Scarification is one of the few things that can raise an instant gasp of pain/shock in me. Can you imagine the removal of that much skin? Some designs are gorgeously intricate, of metaphorical potency, and this one reminds me of nothing so much as Islamic architecture.

Keep in mind, all of these are done without anaesthesia. This is to some extent due due to the view that the pain is part of the process, but also the lack of legal anaesthetics due to the dubious status of the process. See, scarification is borderline illegal. It nears the line of surgery without any clinical benefit, undertaken by professionals without any formal training in the area, and occasionally questionable sterility. It is a procedure of the medical wastelands, the habit of freaks and geeks. And holy shit does it sometimes look beautiful.

While healing, it can look a little terrifying, but you cannot argue with some of the outcomes. Here's a sequence of healing process from start to finish: 1, 2, 3.

As you can no doubt tell, scarification produces an incredibly mixed reaction in me. Seeing the cuts makes me wince in pain, and the thought of getting it done is just about unfathomable in terms of the trauma it would produce. On the other hand, the product, both freshly cut and fully healed, is so beautiful that I find it astonishing. It really is something that I could never do, but I can admire.

The America Work Ethic

Being a BA geek, and spending a few semesters in the grips of Sociology, a lot of discussion at one point was devoted to the phenomenon of the Protestant Work Ethic, which apparently drives people of cold climates and miserable religion to work their asses for a heaven that they can't get into due to predestination (Luther was a loony). Today, this has morphed into the American Work Ethic, which is nothing so much as utterly fucking ludicrous. As a long time inhabitant of the south Pacific and inveterate slacker, I never pegged myself as one to have a job where I would work till 10pm about once a month, and the occasional weekend. I never imagined I would be the first person in the office every morning in order to get through everything that needed doing. And I certainly didn't expect to land in a place with a broken system of holidays.

Let me elaborate. At my job, we get 7 days of holiday scattered throughout the year. Just the big ones. Christmas, New Years, July 4, etc. No Easter Friday/Monday. No Boxing Day. We're expected to work at least 50 hour weeks. The pay is mediocre considering where I live.

Yet this is normal for America. Apparently this is standard corporate culture, even for a small company. You're meant to give over your whole life to the company it seems, and heaven help you if you want a personal life.

Perhaps this is how people get by in lands of shitty weather. Or maybe America is just that much more focussed on the corporation over the individual. I don't know. Apparently the only way to get a job that actually has a 40 hour work week and decent holidays is to work for the Government. How about that?

A German girl I work with and I occasionally take time to bitch about the lack of socialised health care, crappy employment law, and useless holidays offered. It seems the better pay offered by American corporations (as compared to NZ/AUS) is mostly due to them expecting you to work fucking ludicrous hours.

This ties into the school system to, in behaviour that is almost Japanese in its level of ludicrousness. Through primary and high school, kids time is strictly regimented between study, sports and extra-curricular activities. All in the attempt to get to a good college. At the Universities drug abuse is rampant. Prescription drugs, especially amphetamines and nootropics, seem to be required to get anywhere at university. Good lord, they're breeding soulless automatons. Yet those that rebel against the system inevitably end up as shiftless stoners and slackers it seems. Hell, even the postgraduate system is geared towards overwork, demanding that you attend classes while working on your PhD.

Work life balance, folks. It appears to be a myth here.