µPress: A DIY Publishing Party

An inclusive, independent media outlet, featuring the unpublished and under published! And, probably some random literary stuff as well...

[micropress]

I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ABOUT THIS I JUST AM LAZY OR BUSY! SEND SUBMISSIONS TO micropress.tumblr.com/submit I THINK.

[micropress]

I have printed and stapled FOUR! copies of In Quire Winter Issue 1 "We are One of Each Other"

If you want one, email me your mailing address or something! micropress.tumblr.com/contact

Also, if you would like to help, you can try and print off some copies yourself using the .pdf here: micropress.tumblr.com/catalog, and don't hesitate to ask questions or send me things!

[micropress]

In Quire: Winter 1, "We are One of Each Other"

This is In Quire, a 'zine for me and you and anyone else that wants to. A 'zine is just a small, handmade book or pamphlet that is usually independantly produced. A quire is a word used to refer to a regimented amount of paper, a fragment of an idea, a thread in a tapestry, collated and then sewn together to make a book. To enquire is to ask a question is to seek an answer, but is the question independent of the answer independent of the question? Every word is a drop in a bucket, every breath is a breeze, and someday I hope to be able to watch those ripples become waves.   Here, I have collected a few brilliant works ( and some of my own stuff) in a single quire, and maybe one day I will have enough of these for a single book, a rather petty representation of the churning star of experience. I will never call you deserters. I will always hear your words. I will not fear you. I will fight with you. I will never join the silencing force. We are One of Each Other. 

-Thom Wanton

"There are a thousand people masquerading as you in the heads of all the people you have ever met. How does that make you feel?"

There are No Trees Left to Herd Felix Dockhand Burnsuage

There are no trees left to herd. So people put saddles on the Ents, And make them plow fields. The Ents might not care... At least they feel useful again. We might even start breeding them in captivity.

-i'll cut my arms off- Jessie Rankin

It's 1:54 am.

I'm awake. Asleep. Awake. I don't even know anymore.

I've made sure everything is on mute, and I can still hear it....

No matter. It's just my imagination. Just my imagination, yellow eyes pressed up against fogged panes of glass. Just my imagination. Just my fingers striking these keys, the only thing I can hear is the beating of my own heart. It's starting to match the other noises in the background. It's only my imagination. Things like this don't happen in real life. Eat, sleep, fuck, flee. Change skins on command. Shit like this does not happen in real life.

None of this is real. yellow eyes pressing through my sliding glass doors. a whole army beyond the line of trees. a whole fucking swarm of them. I'm hallucinating. I'm dreaming. I haven't eaten in three days. I'm a hallucination. And now I'm talking to myself out loud, my voice a strange whine. Don't even know what I'm supposed to sound like. I think i might be babbling to drown out everything else. 2:18 am. I have to be asleep. I will wake up to the sun on my face. will I have a face when i wake up? I think i will have the same jaundice as the outdoors. If my phone rings right now I'll know the alien buzzing coming through the lines like the back of my hand.

Or like the inside of my veins. Didn't i tell you that i'm an interrupted genius? Cold now. My fingers are turning colors that don't belong on human flesh. did i forget my tetanus shot again? i always do that. accidentallyonpurpose. the rust scares me. it's yellow and false and unsettling.

Our Name Anonymous

Our name is the sound of the waves heard from under the ocean, and the silence between cars on the highway. Our name is the joy of trees in the forest at the first sunlight, the water boiling, the glass window being forged in firey tumult. Our name is the crash of that window shattering, the sigh of the steam like the scythe at work, and the robins flowing north to south. Our name is the walls around Jericho falling, our name is the bucket falling down the well, our name is the feet of ants marching. Our name is the crinkle of blister-package plastic, pulled from plastic coated cardboard, and the mold that won’t grow there. That is as empty a bucket I ever describ

*

If you would like your work featured in In Quire, please email submissions to [email protected] or visit micropress.tumblr.com/contact If you would like to print your own copies of this: .pdf

Thank you for reading, and thank those for sharing.

[micropress]

I WILL POST FIRST ISSUE OF IN QUIRE, AN ART ZINE I GUESS, PROBABLY ON MONDAY OR WHENEVER I GET AROUND TO TURNING ALL OF IT INTO POSTS.

[micropress]

Women have always been healers. They were the unlicensed doctors and anatomists of western history. They were abortionists, nurses and counsellors. They were pharmacists, cultivating healing herbs and exchanging the secrets of their uses. They were midwives, travelling from home to home and village to village. For centuries women were doctors without degrees, barred from books and lectures, learning from each other, and passing on experience from neighbour to neighbour and mother to daughter. They were called “wise women” by the people, witches or charlatans by the authorities. Medicine is part of our heritage as women, our history, our birthright.

Feminism, class struggle, and magic! I had to share.

[micropress]

Print this out, trim the dark parts off the edge, and punch holes where designated by the dark circles. Then, post them places and waste  paper! Or, just reblog this a lot.

[millionsmillions]

Start your Sunday off with some Allen Ginsberg recordings, why don’t you?

[icantgetnoselfactualization]

you suddenly realize that "i before e except after c" isn't always true

EVERYTHING YOU BELEIVED IS A LEI

[alexandra-erin]

This is one of those rules that has a weird exception.

[payslipgig]

In a similar vein, you should seize this chance to remember the exceptions, unless you’re just feigning interest.

[alexandra-erin]

See, a lot of those would not be exceptions if we still taught the full rule.

“I before e except after c, and when like a, as in neighbor and weigh.”

[micropress]

USEFUL.

[millionsmillions]

We waited until the afternoon to share this archive with you, dear followers. We could have shown it to you earlier, and by doing so we would’ve cost you all of your day’s productivity. But we did not. Let it never be said that The Millions is not merciful. We are kind. We are just.

[millionsmillions]

Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke.

F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose birthday is today. (via millionsmillions)

[unhistorical]

September 21, 1937: The Hobbit is published.

J.R.R.Tolkien’s classic children’s novel turns 75 years old today. The book begins with the line “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit”, a sentence which, according to Tolkien, came to him spontaneously while marking papers. The first edition dust jacket was designed by the author himself, who also provided the black and white illustrations. Since 1937, The Hobbit has been translated into over forty languages and sold tens of millions of copies. The initial print of 1,500 copies ran out in three months, and response was unanimously favorable. Tolkien’s close friend and fellow fantasy author C.S. Lewis wrote in The Times Literary Supplement: ”Prediction is dangerous: but The Hobbit may well prove a classic.”

Perhaps The Hobbit’s greatest legacy was not the book itself but the sequel that was published seventeen years later - the far more complex first volume of The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring. Urged on by his publishers, who wished to make the most out of the smashing success that was The Hobbit, Tolkien worked on his sequel slowly and deliberately through the years of World War II and after. Both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings brought the popularity of fantasy literature to new heights and established Tolkien as the “father”of modern high fantasy. 

The first film of Peter Jackson’s new trilogy, based off The Hobbit, is set to release in December. 

[micropress]

The library at the elementary school I went to had a copy of this version. I checked it out often.

[babylonfalling]

FUCK COMMUNISM!

Kurt Vonnegut on the significance of this classic poster from The Realist:

…in 1963 [Paul Krassner] created a miracle of compressed intelligence nearly as admirable for potent simplicity, in my opinion, as Einstein’s e=mc2. With the Vietnam War going on, and with its critics discounted and scorned by the government and the mass media, Krassner put on sale a red, white and blue poster that said FUCK COMMUNISM.

At the beginning of the 1960s, FUCK was believed to be so full of bad magic as to be unprintable. In the most humanely influential American novel of this half century, “The Catcher in the Rye,” Holden Caulfield, it will be remembered, was shocked to see that word on a subway-station wall. He wondered what seeing it might do to the mind of a little kid. COMMUNISM was to millions the name of the most loathsome evil imaginable. To call an American a communist was like calling somebody a Jew in Nazi Germany. By having FUCK and COMMUNISM fight it out in a single sentence, Krassner wasn’t merely being funny as heck. He was demonstrating how preposterous it was for so many people to be responding to both words with such cockamamie Pavlovian fear and alarm.

[micropress]

On accident, tho.

[libraryland-blog]

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

writer David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide in 2008 (via libraryland)

[whitepaperquotes]

[rookiemag]

Ten Rules for Writers

By Etgar Keret

[micropress]

These sound useful enough.

[thedaltonquilty]

One of the single greatest things I’ve seen on the internet.

[micropress]

Truth. I meet so many people who have never read The Lord of the RIngs. It weirds me out.

[micropress]

Sometime in October or November!

I will be putting out a literary zine; short stories, poetries, non-fiction, comics, radical...whatever you got! So long as it isn't utterly fascist... SO, if you've got something that you want to get out and about town, don't hesitate to submit here, or here! You can also check the contact page if either of those fails you.