putting mystic drunken scribbles into the hands of unsuspecting pigeons all over Chicago.
College is like all these fuckin hamsters runnin around a maze givin awards to each other for coming up with a fuckin theory about cheese.
I went to Columbia College for a few years, and I'm just constantly suprised at what goes on in places like this. Like there's a strict cult called the "Storytime Gang" that won't let anybody out of the circle. you're definitely not allowed to doodle, sneeze, or masturbate in the circle, nor can your eyes leave the eyes of the Eyemaster to wander out the window. then you chant in nonsensical unrelated word games...if you're lucky your professor will lean down and scramble, get out now. the poets down the street trade mostly in gibberish and hierchy.
College is good times when you're not on the rack or in brazil, we had good times there, smoking in the park and passing around notebooks mostly. I drew spirals on my hand to fend off bad vibes. jabbing needles in my eyes made them callous off nicely. when my grandmother died we sliced up her coat on the maddening table. Trigger Trinadaddy didn't approve so I fed my brain to apes minus the waffles. it was a fabulous nightmare. kinda like that bad acid flashback shivering in woods when i couldnt stop falling down the trail. just this big fuckin circle, chasing around it, toe stumbling the big light the fuck? I was spose to cry about the indian but i forgot he wasn't a human he was a moviefilm. so we ate lobster in the starving square against the glass, college is where i learned some of these things too. and everything about evil white penises. but then i started thinking, there's lots of evil penises and vaginas and even some evil none of the aboves in the world. it doesnt seem to matter how much they've been bleached. humans are just fuckin strange. so you abandon the surface of the planet and step out of the Reality reality and into some other reality like Lizard reality or Spiralworld. and that's the best thing about college, you get passes to see some crazy shit.
The Immigrants' Address: "where are you from?" You can talk about your ancestry, your hometown, or your alien reptilian forebearers. send any art/words to: firstname.lastname@example.org
CoL LaB. round robins, exquisite corpses, murals; anything slapt together by more than one artist/writer/pornstar, preferably in its' original form, handed to one of us or scanned and e-mailed or snailed to elephantzine c/o Kiernan 2353 s whipple chgo il 60623 danke
The Notebook issue is a collection of pages from artists, poets, and drunks- fresh first drafts of stories, scribbles, letters, doodles, sketches and poetry. The goal of the artist is not to make a masterpiece but to be making art. The Notebook is a tribute to the work in progress as a masterpiece.