New zine of House of Mysticum texts now released, collecting various collective games, drawings and collage from us.

Print version here: http://www.lulu.com/shop/house-of-mysticum/issue-1/paperback/product-24354930.html

Free PDF here: https://atlantasurrealistgroup.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/mysti_web_compressed.pdf

A campfire salome breeds rock underneath her tongue. Blackhole-bear in some toothy extractions? With a gasp her teeth and fangs rose alert against the perceived threat. Yet even after all this, her family still turned to turnips, and the raisin-dew darkness encroached on her thighs…

collective text & image, ML, CC, SC

Black & White Print Version: https://tinyurl.com/r5fv4me
Color Print Version: https://tinyurl.com/rptmuxh
Free PDF: https://tinyurl.com/rmjyqup

Second run of the show still ongoing:

December 7-28, 2019 / East Village Arts – Birmingham, Alabama

We were informed that the nose of this doll, and the nose alone, was haunted by a lingering spirit or energy. We decided to investigate. It seemed to like the name Cleo, and had formed in 1971. It may or may have been a hairy horticulturist, and it does not like pontification. Pens in hand, we speculated further…

CLEO’S ORIGIN STORY

ONE OF CLEO’S CLOSE RELATIVES

CLEO’S TRUE FORM

CC, SC, ML

NOV 9-10, 2019 – Casi & Steven Cline

We have 24 hours to spend in Savannah, Georgia. Savannah, which is “the most haunted city in america”, if you believe the tourist literature. How one goes about measuring such things, we are not really sure, but we are willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. We decide to structure our surrealist dérive around the idea of a search for ghosts. Furthermore, having recently heard mention of the old situationist technique of navigating one city with a map of a completely different city on a recent episode of the Weird Studies podcast, we decide to swap out Savannah with the city of Ottawa. We take a map of downtown Ottawa, and mark on it various well-known haunted Ottawa sites. Learning that Jason Abdelhadi of the Ottawa surrealist group also lives very near those sites, we add a stop on the map for him as well. Not content with a mere map switch, we also make a pact with each other to only refer to Savannah as “Ottawa” from here on out. We manage to keep this game going with a straight face for the duration of the 24 hours…

HIGHWAY SIGNS

Along the way, SC notices a tree surrounded by some kind of white offal. Has a great white bird been murdered at the foot of this tree? Or is it birthing out marshmallows? The image is gone by too quick for him to fully process. Strange black swampy areas stretch out between the two roads. A surrealist folding game played later in the trip reveals William Burroughs as the hidden ghost who haunts these swamps. A big bird swoops low. There would be many others.

A PORTAL TO ANOTHER WORLD

Our first stop is the square next to our hotel. A statue sits at its center. One of its panels shows a scene in which a ghostly face peaks out from under a flag. He is watching a dying man. We decide that this is “Confederation Park”, and that it will be our starting point for the map portion of our game, which will be played tomorrow morning. As for today, we will drift mapless. We stumble on an adorably rotund and fluffy cat. He rubs against a parked car, and looks back with his very best “come hither”. CC takes the bait, and follows him, getting a few strokes in before he walks away. We follow in his direction, and are soon gifted with an incredible alleyway. It is about a foot wide, littered with trash and dark as the night. We squeeze through it, eventually reaching the light on the other side. We both have an overwhelming feeling that we are now in a totally different city. That fat cat was our very own white rabbit, and we are now in Ottawa- Wonderland. This feeling is later confirmed by an overheard snippet of a conversation. A young blond comments to her friend that “…It’s all at the right time. I feel like Alice in wonderland, falling down the rabbit hole”.

FOLLOW THE WHITE WHALE

We pass a museum which promises a few nautical artifacts. CC can’t resist. Inside we are surprised to find the body of Ahab’s white whale. Ghost whale? This in turn brings to mind a line from Moby Dick, which we had heard recently quoted on the very same podcast episode mentioned earlier:

“It is not down on any map; true places never are.”

A rather nice slogan for surrealist walkers, we think.

At the next museum SC takes a mirror portrait of CC, which reveals a floating voyeur. He’s hiding there at the top right corner of the photograph—can you see him? Yes, he’s a grumpy old Artistole, a spirit best left avoided.

In other rooms we also notice wallpaper displaying an unknown canal, the Rideau Canal perhaps, and an old painting that showing a women releasing several white birds. SC wonders if this here is a portrayal of the event which had transpired underneath the roadside tree that he had noticed earlier. Had that highway flash been a holographic echo, a residue of some forgotten mythic event? A later conversation with Tori Lion reinforces Ottawa with additional mythic content, opening a fresh layer underneath her city-skins. Beneath the upper-Ottawa, Tori says, there is the under-Ottawa. This is a legendary place, a place where airborne whales and gazelles and hyenas and lions and early hominids rein. One day the gateway shall open, and all politicians shall all be devoured. With eager eye one may partake of this true subterranean. So make the twin eyes eager.

A CAMERA WITH A MIND OF ITS OWN

We leave the museum. Our stubborn cameras decide at this point to start taking photos of their own. They continue to do so for the remainder of the trip. We are never quite sure how this keeps happening. The photos are blurry, upside-down, hard to make out. The unknown limbs and abstracted shapes which they portray we can only conclude as obvious ghosties.

REVOLUTION AT THE RIVERSIDE

We reach the Ottawa river. We walk down a few suggestive back alleys, finding numerous ectoplasmic remains. A goofy tree spirit smiles down at us, and we smile back. He guards this place, we think, and has done so for quite a long time.

As we walk down these ancient cobblestone paths, SC can’t help but suddenly invoke the ghost of May 68’, shouting “beneath the paving stones, the beach!”An anarchy symbol spray-painted on a wall soon confirms his thoughts. Before we leave we play a surrealist paper-folding game to find the identities of a few troublesome ghosts. One person writes the name, and the other, not seeing that name, writes the location of their haunt.

The ghost who strolls the water front is really Jason Abdelhadi
The ghost of the black swamp is really William Burroughs
The ghost of the shivering door is really Robert Desnos
The ghost who haunts the drifting shore is really the white bluebird

BACKTRACKING
Getting very tired now, we decide to break with our self-imposed limitations and look up the “real” direction towards our hotel. On the way back we spy an illusive ghost-building that is hiding in plain sight.

THE SPECTER OF SELFHOOD
We are back at the hotel, watching a distant house fire that is breaking out from the security of our 7th floor window. SC takes a picture of it, not realizing that his own reflection has also been captured. In this mirror image SC has big monster hands, and the burning houses’ smoke has formed the top of his tiny tiny head. We are back at that age-old old horror now, the horror of seeing one’s own reflection. Self is a specter.

Deciding to play the part of some anonymous Other’s ghost, we both stand dead still in front of the window, while CC very slowly lifts the curtain up and down. Later, getting in an ant-watching mood, we watch a pretentious art student circle the empty hotel pool with his camera. But what is he photographing? Just that bland, empty pool? Or is there something else down there, somekindof spirit-swimmers that only he can see? We decide to leave him to it, and begin on our night walk. On the way out, SC spies a sad little ghost huddled in the corner by the garbage chute.

SHADOW-OTTAWA SHOWS ITSELF
At dinner we look over a few victorian ectoplasm photographs. Quite beautiful, we think, though they don’t really help to build our appetite. SC decides to stuff a napkin in his pocket for later use. In the park outside, feeling very romantic, we take a few matching ectoplasm photographs.

A completely different atmosphere now dominates this city. This Shadow Ottawa is the true Ottawa, because Night is the breaker of all illusions. We drift around for awhile, eventually turning onto Ottawa’s noisy shop-n-booze district. The magical atmosphere recedes immediately. We escape this accursed street, going one block south. The atmosphere returns immediately. An empty park calls out to us, and we can’t resist. CC tests Jason Abdelhadi’s Theory of a Streetlight.

We move onwards, and are soon confronted with a strange geometric ghost. He is the spirit of rectangle, we think, the four-pointed dead. The hollow cry of some arctic Pythagoras.

Passing behind a convention center where some form of “Disney on Ice” seems to be playing, we find a large pile of snow has been dumped. We aren’t surprised. This is Canada, after all.

CRASHING THE GHOST TOUR
Somehow we end up at Lafayette Square. A large catholic church dominates the view here, her sides under spotlight and framed by spanish moss. It is all just so delightfully fucking gothic. A flickering green fountain lives at the center of Lafayette, and is covered with four identical statutes of some long-necked bird. So it’ll be birds again then, eh Ottawa?

We pause on a bench for awhile. A ghost tour shows up, and we can just barely make out the guide’s stories. A hotel on this square is haunted, she says, and mentions something about two children who thew bouncing balls. Something about two children who fell off a banister. And a murdered watchmen, too. A black hearse drives by, filled with gawkers. The logo on the side betrays it as just another rival ghost-tour. Guide & Co. eventually leave the square, and the silence returns. A man in a vintage brown suit struts through the park and disappears in the direction of the church. No doubt the ghost of the murdered man, we think, waiting for that ghost tour to leave before beginning on his nightly stroll. No doubt the dead hate all ghost tours.

This night is drawing to a close, so we walk back to our hotel. One last marvel. A man in a skeleton costume is seen leaving a pub, heading in the direction of Lafayette…

JOSEPHINE
CC has the feeling of a spirit in the room as she drifts off to sleep. She has the vague feeling that this spirit wants “story”. The next day, CC uses her pendulum and manages to reach the lingering hotel spirit. Her name is Josephine, and she would like us to read her a story. The closest thing we have is a collection of poems by Octavio Paz. SC opens the book to random page and begins to read the poem “The Spoken Word”.

But, accidentally skipping ahead 2 pages, SC ends the poem with the ending some other poem. Josephine says that she likes it.

A PRISON BY ANY OTHER NAME

Today is map day. We begin at our appointed haunted square, with CC as our trusty navigator. Our first stop is “The Ottawa Jail Hostel.” We follow our Ottawa map diligently, and soon behold our prey. The Ottawa Jail Hostel is actually a massive catholic church. And it is the very same church, in fact, that we had both gazed upon during the previous night here. Yes, It seems we are back in Lafayette again. SC suggests attempting to go inside the prison-church, but CC says “no— it fills me with fear and trembling”. The building’s architectural heights are magnificent, but down on the street level it’s all barred windows, barred gates. And watching camera-eyes. Not very welcoming. Do these bars keep the wolves out, we wonder, or do they keep the sheep in?

WE CALL ON AN OLD FRIEND
We decide to visit an old friend, the Ottawa surrealist Jason Abdelhadi. He lives over on Cumberland Street somewhere. On the way we find numerous bricks with the word “GRAVES”.

We pass by another mysterious square (so many here, in Ottawa!). There is a golden sculpture at its center. Four turtles carry an entire world, a world on which every sign of the zodiac is seen dancing. We get rather turned around after the square. SC hadn’t marked his exact location on the map, but he did have a house number. We try to find a match. Eventually we reach it, and it’s a black door covered in ivy. He doesn’t seem to be in today, though. Oh well. Another time perhaps.

ONE HOTEL IS AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER
Time for the Fairmont Château Laurier. The walk seems very long. Along the way we find a strange mail slot covered over with gray duck-tape A makeshift barrier against the spectral? We eventually reach the Fairmont Château Laurier. Oh. It’s the very hotel we’ve been staying at. At all just makes too much sense. Well, we already know that it’s haunted, don’t we? No need to investigate further.

THE BYTOWN MUSEUM TWIST
One stop left on our haunted itinerary—The Bytown Museum. We soon reach the back of the building. It’s an old one, built in 1928. Golden doors. Floral motif. We head towards the other side. It’s another hotel, we see, and goddammit—it’s facing that fucking Lafayette Square. All roads here lead to Lafayette. Lafayette is the true center of the universe. We don’t understand how it happened, but it all feels inevitable. The map game ends.

DREAM POETRY IN BONAVENTURE
One final excursion before we hit the road. The famous Bonaventure cemetery. No real goal in mind this time, just a vague idea of wandering around. Maybe we’ll do some rubbings there, or write some automatic poems? At the entrance SC spies a grave with the name Bessie, which reminds him of that Savannah-based dream-poetess Bessie A. Ficklen. Bessie, how could we forget! Our southern surrealist pre-cursor! Perhaps her gravestone is here, too? Pretty slim odds, but we do a search on our phones anyway. The internet says yes—but we can’t find a plot number. The grave database at the Bonaventure visitor’s center brings zero results. No Bessie Ficklens are listed, and no Bessie Alexanders. A final desperate search on our phones leads to a website with a plot number. We pinpoint it on the map, and head towards it, but we still aren’t really sure if she’s here. The internet site contradicts the official database. Our hope is minimal, but we soon we reach the section. It is at the far left corner of the cemetary, facing a wide blue river. Yes, it exists after all— Bessie A. Ficklen’s grave! Our dream-poetess! CC introduces us, and then brings out her pendulum. She puts a few questions to dear Bessie.

Are you there? Yes

Bessie, I have a short dream poem of my own i’d like to read you:

When the time comes
open the stars slowly

Are you doing well here? Yes

Are you dreaming right now? Yes

(a noisy segway tour rolls by)

Does that noise bother you? Yes
(CC says the primary feeling she gets here is “bemused”)

Would you like to tell us a poem? Yes

The winds talk wisely
to those who listen
and the sun shines brightly
on those who stop to see
the shadows are soft and warm
to those with open wings
there is no shadow to death
for those who stop to be
the raindrops whisper softly on my grave
and sing the pattering of poetry to me

Casi, Megan, Danny, Steven

Casi, Megan. Danny, Steven

Megan, Danny, Casi, Steven

Directions: Players choose a symbolic “title” for an unknown character. They then fold and pass to the next player,  who blindly writes the “real” identity of that title.

The last bartender of Norway is really Mattias Forshage.

The Drunkard brahmin is really Daffy Duck.

The horseshoe collector of Parnassus is really St. Augustine

The disembodied child’s voice of Decatur, Georgia is really Mario

The professional Bob Dylan replicant of texas is really Krishna.

The generator the eclipse is really Kobo Abe.

The doormat of Babylon is really Scott Walker.

The man who drank the Chattahoochee is really Tom Leary.

The salt-eater of the black sun is really Jason Abdelhadi.

The pontifex minimus ignium parrorum is really Thomas Kincaid.

The sheep-faced horror of 1872 is really some fuckin’ french guy,

The Skinner of leaves is really Slavoj Žižek.

Another poor soul that ended up lost at the Tokyo train is really Jim.

SC, CC, TL, AK

Poetry Reversal Game: SC & ML

DOGS

Chaotic, lackadaisical murderers and anarchists glowing
in decaying eon, unequally hated
of dogs, rough and soft, embarrassment of landscapes
who like us embrace the volcanic and like us
depart at the unknown

ill disposed toward stupidity and chalkboards, dogs
will flee the noise and loveliness of the light;
pathetic angelics’ birth navigators we’d be,
could they harden our sad flesh to kingships?

they question, in their certainty, the comic farce
of ash rolling through crowded streets,
who walking, begin again;

empty of academia are their minds,
and swaths of silver, like water,
dazzle their preoccupied shadows

Poetry Reversal Game: TL

the big women isn’t bearing our sight
(a commoner against the bees lost it)
out of a glass of pitch
a big woman will find our silence

y’all refrain from thinking about it;
she won’t dissemble that song.
which she’ll strip of her words,
and one large toe.

from a glass of pitch
The big woman found their quiet

(a free noise, nearby,
takes off a rabbit’s paw.)

HORTICULTURE

comic strip exquisite corpse: CC, SC, TL, ML

AK, SC, CC

collaborative drawings / Macy Goodwin, Aaron Kearns, Steven Cline, & Casi Cline

Macy Goodwin, Aaron Kearns, Steven Cline, & Casi Cline

Macy Goodwin, Aaron Kearns, Steven Cline, & Casi Cline

Players: SC, CC, ML

But instead…

Coyoteman

3:57 AM

TUESDAY

Players choose a symbolic “title” for an unknown character. They then fold and pass to the next player,  who blindly writes the “real” identity of that title.

Round 1

JA, CC, SC, MF, AK

The Queen of Dream Sweden is really Friedrich Nietzsche

The Witch of the Great Dismal Swamp is really Harpo

The Head Advisor of the Queen of Atlantis is really Louise Brooks

The Consort of Duke Ariel is really The Possum

*

The Professor of Snakes is really President Nasser

The Lover of Eyes is really Mr. Mathematical

The Queen of Nails is really Thomas Hardy

The Tiger of Shadowland is really Dr. Frankenstein

*

The Cloud Navigator is really Valeriana of Montreal

He Who is a Void is really Kropotkin

Inevitability is really Kathleen Fox

Stranger’s Weirdly Non-Strange Daughter is really Desmond Morris

*

The Saint Among Frogs is really James Bond (the ornithologist, not the agent!)

The Cut-Throat Cat is really Rosemary Eldritch

The Hair Puller is really Alice Cooper

The Queen of Silk is really Beef Boy

Round 2 

In this round, the completed lists of characters were randomly distributed to players who were then to write a story including them.

JA, CC, SC, MF, AK

*

The Devourer of Salty Chips is really Paracelsus

The Eviscerating Onion is really Aretha Franklin

The Duke of Cascade is really Werner Herzog

The Alienator of Children is really Charles Darwin

(Galino Ustuolskaya left blank)

After many decades of isolation, the Alienator of Children is freed from their walled-off prison-turned-apartment complex. Their memory is almost completely wiped, with the lone exception being an image of an Eviscerating Onion. Wandering the open streets of the cityscape that surrounds him, he’s suddenly run over by a phantom-like train with a sign that memorializes the Devourer of Salty Chips on its side. Collision with the train teleports him to an abandoned factory town. He can’ t move, left to just stare upward to a water tower. No matter where he moves his sight toward, the water tower is still in the exact centre of focus. He’s approached by the Duke of Cascade. The Alienator assumed that the Duke was just his parasitic twin that perished at birth. Seeing the Duke reminds him of the automated mantra.

-AK

*

The Duke of Happenstance is really Vincent Price

The Clade of Temptation is really the Loch Ness Monster

The Mystery of Atlanta is really Rick Schmidt

The Clipper of Knowledge is really Chu Ishikawa

The Dreamer of Tusks is really Carnacki, Occult Detective

In the night, the Dreamer of Tusks came to the city of scottish tobacco to seek out the Clade of Temptation. To prove its reality was his primary motivation. It was a city of backgrounds, used in many different films, which explained the presence of The Mystery of Atlanta. He had come to direct the Duke of Happenstance in a horror movie, coincidentally also about the Clade of Temptation. The Dreamer of Tutsks appeared on the set thinking he had found the mysterious Clade. When he walked into the swampy location, he heard the maniacal laughter of the Duke of Happenstance, and in the background the strange musical soundtrack provided by the Clipper of Knowledge. The dreamer lost the skein of reality in that moment and sunk into the mire of his own delirium. The puppet Clade and the fully-costumed Duke merged into a fury of images. The Mystery of Atlanta had the perfect shot to complete his greatest film.

-JA

*

The Knitter of Antelopes is really Kobo Abe

The Harbinger of Derangement is really Puppet Boy

The Lord of Dancing Pigs is really Megan Leach

The Ruler of the Land of Snakes and Boars is really Janice Hathaway

The Wise Elder of Falling Rocks is really The Female Pope

The Knitter of Antelopes ate a falling star created by the Wise Elder. Meanwhile, the Lord of Dancing Pigs was struck by the erotic aspect of the long lost Harbinger of Derangement. It was a tricky sort of Saturday where even the Ruler of Snakes and Bones [sic] would take to clutching her squirrels. No rest for the weary Sun here, not ever. The Wise Elder, despairing of any relief from an eternal itch, rolled a fruit covered ball down a hill, never to be seen or heard from again.

-SC

*

The Bartender of Bottled Dreams is really Tituba

The Prophet of Time is really Caligula

Shoemaker X is really Aunt Petunia

The Shy Ghost is really Inspector Clouseau

The Shy Goat is really The Incredible Hulk

The Bartender of Bottled Dreams quickly sold out in the land of insomniacs and bees. “Where now,” the bartender asked, “should I go to sell my liquids of firefly lisps and sparrow feet?” And the Puppet of Lost Time answered from below her skirts that that she should seek the shop of Shoemaker X who had never slept nor desired to see the aurora borealis nor the sea. So the bartender left to find the shop of Shoemaker X, but she was waylaid on a stone bridge by a Shy Ghost, lost in a dream who only wanted to sleep. So the bartender sold the Ghost a draught made of the urine of the Shy Goat chewing leaves nearby and she lifted the Ghost on the back of the goat and they slept their way to the moon to bleat. 

-CC

*

The Butchershop-Keeper of Osaka, Japan is really Casimir Cline

The unintelligible Slab of Facial Skin is really Lewis Carroll

The Industrialized Iron Tumor of Downtown Decatur is really Alfred Kinsey

The Nostalgic Void of Sentient States is really Steven Cline

The Skeletal Flesh Grinder of Spatial Anomalies is really Jan Svankmajer

It was a cheerful morning in the cemetery as the butchershop keeper of Osaka, Japan, arrived with her picnic basket and her cooler full of almost inedible fruits. Oddly, her usual spot was occupied by an unintelligible slab of facial skin. The skin slab was trying to lure children to the spot with promises of terrifying stories, which he certainly intended to keep. So the butchershop keeper chose to climb a big cemetery sycamore instead but once up in the tree she found that to be occupied as well. It was the nostalgic void of sentient states, spying on the unintelligible skin slab to record its remarkable and highly sublimated courtship behaviour. At this time, her patience was all spent and she refused to change spots again, so she tried again to scare the iron tumor away by detailed dream-telling. He was not that easily scared. Simultaneously, the only prey that the skin slab managed to lure to its sunny spot was the nostalgic void of sentient states. They got along well together, singing absurd songs throughout the day and through dusk well into the night, not knowing anything about how they were not being spied upon by the butchershop keeper and the iron tumor stuck in compulsive dreamtelling in the nearby foliage. There was a skinny old hobo sneaking around who was actually the skeletal fleshgrinder of spatial anomalies, who was the only one who had seen the whole development, and by the powers invested in him in his line of duty, he claimed that he was the author of the scene. We have seen a large number of megalomaniacs like that. It’s best to just play along. They wouldn’t hurt a kitten. Or they might possibly hurt a kitten. But at this time, the kittens were slaughtering little songbird nestlings in the same tree. Our reticent heroes the butchershop keeper and the iron tumor were now happily falling asleep.

-MF

Players: Johnny Williams, Mary Foshee, Macy Goodwin, Jason Abdelhadi, Casi Cline, & Steven Cline

If the bear is wearing chain mail today…then maybe I could see the light on the other side.
If the north wind blows…then the doorknob will become volcanic
If love is real…then where will the children play?
If the cream spoils…then the tulip will become covered in red ants.
If the plant blooms…then how will they know how tall it could get?
If the blue cat becomes an opera singer…then the bamboo knocks to the rhythm of conjunctivitis.
If the possum becomes a blues singer…then reset the knob.
If the dog neglects to bite…then looking south, the phone rings.
If the earlobes were dangling…then the chicken wing will fly off.
If you touch your nose to your knee…then the motor explodes.
If summer is over…then the codswallop dreams big.
If only I could reach the top shelf…then everyone must leap with joy.
If the corpse flower blooms…then the green caterpillar will grow spots.
If the sinkhole swallows the drowned…then the eyeball will become an astronaut.
If birds lose their timbre…then fingernails on the chalkboard will sound.
If larvae dance to the tune of dawn…then a plucking of whiskers should occur.
If I got stuck in the space there…then the cat screams in joy.
If the torrents lisp in sweetness…then and only then would I do it.
If the missing octopus spits gold…then the sinuses would clear.

Directions: Draw an image, and underneath it write what that image is. Pass this object to the next person and they will contradict you, writing what the object really is. Add small details if you like, to support your interpretation further, and pass on the paper on until each player has had their say.

Players: Jason Abdelhadi, Steven Cline, Casi Cline, Mattias Forshage, Aaron Dylan Kearns

ROUND 1

1. This is a tool.
2. No, this is two snakes in a tube.
3. Actually it is a lobster that has been working out, and doubles in various rural chores like pulling the plow.
4. Wrong, it is a two headed snake wearing a lobster hat who is an indentured servant in the house of Ol Sal.

1. This is an old defunct telephone.
2. No, it is a camouflaged spider.
3. Actually it is a lobster crushed by a telephone.
4. I disagree, it is a drain pipe emptying into a sewer grate.

1. This is a seahorse.
2. Nope, this is the anus of an electrified flatworm.
3. Actually, this is a horse head wearing a mask.
4. Close, but not quite…This is the face of an electrified flatworm wearing a horse head mask of a flatworm anus. He is a bit shy.

ROUND 2

1. These are two pandas.
2. No, it is a short totem pole made by a child totem pole maker apprentice who was colourblind and thus denied all colours.
3. Actually, it is a child totem pole maker apprentice who is posing as a colorless totem pole in order to better understand the colors inside the center of the totem pole.
4. Incorrect, it is a scruffy, fuzzy dog eating the ticks off his pal Bobby’s head in a display of canine friendship.
5. But really, it is two members of FUZZ posing for a song about scruffy & the dog.

1. This is an eroticized seal.
2. No, it is an exchange of information among spies, one of whom is deeply undercover.
3. Actually it is a denial of language disguised as communication in order to discourage the sealing of knowledge.
4. In my opinion, it is an angry tumor who has grown a face, and another tumor who is in love.
5. But really, this is a terrible disease caused by the misinterpretation of secret information.

1. This is a screaming teenager.
2. No, it is a cyclops with a fleshy protrusion and a black eye.
3. Actually, it is a camouflaged periscope from a hostile submarine, designed as a screaming cyclops teenager.
4. I disagree, it is a carefully disguised barnacle which lies atop a submarine and replaces the original periscope. The sailors look through its digestive tract.
5. But really, it is a squealing pig.

1. This is an image of tooth problems.
2. No, it is a partly eaten pomegranate, maybe not entirely fresh from the beginning?
3. Actually, these are kernels of corn which have infiltrated the pomegranate in order to give it a bad name.
4. I disagree, I believe this is some kind of orifice that is covered in white tumor growths.
5. No, this is really a kind of caterpillar, covered in white tumor growths.

Directions: As a group, choose a building which you are unable to enter or see into, but which feels somehow special to you. Describe what you think is inside it, then fold the paper, hiding your response, and pass along to the next person for them to describe.

Players: Jason Abdelhadi, Steven Cline, Casi Cline

Steven Cline, Casi Cline, Aaron Dylan Kearns, Jason Abdelhadi

Each person in the car was in charge of an adjective, a noun, or a verb. Once we all had our word decided, we spoke them out loud in the correct sequence. Players: JA, SC, CC

slimy catapult jumps
drooling slug screams
ecstatic log hallucinates
meticulous waterfall withers
congealing trumpet rotates
evaporating ivy despairs
creeping bottle pontificates
dying radio floats
eroticized canyon glistens
ghostly squirrel broadcasts
cataleptic tormentor seduces
fading throat plummets *here it started to rain*
moistening piglet tickles
threatening raven plummets
articulate cowboy breaks
masked panda drowns
masterful tombstone shudders
vampiric gecko dissolves
alchemical apple pie elopes
obscene landfill erupts
eerie tarpit burns
ridiculous carousel freezes

“congealing trumpet rotates” – an improvised song played by JA and CC, while SC was suffering in a mcdonalds bathroom…

Directions: Each player makes a pile of paper containing folded over abstract words. Players then make a collective drawing based in turn on the words taken from each others’ word piles.The final drawing hermetically embodies the concepts from the word piles, and can be explained or kept secret as desired.

Players: mattias forshage, megan leach, steven cline, casi cline, jason abdelhadi

Directions: Draw the same amount of boxes as players. Fill out one comic panel, fold and pass to the next player.

Players: mattias forshage, aaron dylan kearns, steven cline, casi cline, jason abdelhadi

NO DICE

WHICH WAY IS UP?

ASSISTANCE NEEDED

THIS WAS OUR FATE

exquisite pleasures

mattias forshage, megan leach, steven cline, casi cline, jason abdelhadi