Paraphilia X
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PARAPHILIA X CONTENTS Cover art by Sean Madden Edited and Designed By Artwork by F.X. Tobin P3 ‘Interesting Times: Freedom’ by Andrew Maben P4 Díre McCain ‘Spook House’ by Kate MacDonald p9 ‘Prompted By Matthews’ by Chris Madoch p14 D M Mitchell ‘…barely missing on a frozen plain to nowhere’ by A. Razor p29 ‘Last Tango In The City Of Dreadful Night’ images © Contact Paraphilia Thomas Evans p44 ‘Playing Tag With The Devil’ an interview with Robert Earl Reed p50 [email protected] ‘It’s Hard To Argue With Experience’ by Kenneth Rains Shiffrin p61 Website ‘Blood And Honey On The Horizon, Said The Horse’ by Craig Woods p62 ‘A Sympathetic Figure’ by James King, photos © Max www.paraphiliamagazine.com Reeves p79 ‘The Circus’ by Ele-Beth Little, photos © Lisa www.myspace.com/paraphiliamagazine Wormsley p83 ‘The Sunnybrook Retreat’ by Karl Koweski, photos © Max Reeves p87 www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=498 ‘Mizriz O’Payne’s Very Perfect Pekipoo’ by Rick 35950764 Grimes p108 ‘Power And Sacrifice’ Michael Gira interviewed by Craig Woods p110 Submissions ‘The Nature Of Electricity’ by Kyle Hemmings, photos © Richard A Meade p143 ‘Rome’ by Adam Moorad p148 This a free magazine distributed in the ‘Your Newest Superheroes’ Ruby Friedman interests of giving culture back to the Orchestra interviewed by Kirsten Milliken, photos © Alex Elena & Kirsten Milliken p154 people instead of the industry. We cannot ‘Journal Art Theft’ by Stagger Lloyd, photos © pay for contributions to this publication. Malcolm Alcala p161 However, please see our website for ‘Death Wish Chameleon X’ by Cricket Corleone, photos © Richard A. Meade p170 details of our other publishing ventures. ‘Descansos’ by John Paul Jaramillo, photos © Sid Graves p187 Any opinions or beliefs – religious, ‘The Lovers’ artwork by Dolorosa p194 political or moral – expressed anywhere ‘Fiend’ by Michelle Lee Escobedo with Chris Madoch p195 in this publication are not necessarily ‘The Amok Blind Men Of Muharrin’ by Hank Kirton, those of the editors. We take no images © Sean Madden p198 responsibility for anything we have ‘Clown Uncle’ by Sue Fox, photos © Richard A. Meade p201 published in the interest of the freedom of ‘Grasshopper’ by Claudia Bellocq, photos © speech and expression. Guttersaint & Lydia Lunch p206 ‘The Eyes of Victoria Craven’ by Max Dunbar p210 ‘Beautiful People, Ugly Souls’ by dixē flatlin3, photos R.I.P. Peter Christopherson © Sid Graves p223 27 February 1955 – 24 November 2010 ‘Scream’ by Mary Leary p234 ‘Weary Of The Sun’ by David Gionfriddo p236 Artwork by Michael Cano & Patsy Faragher p249 LINKS p250 PARAPHILIA ISSUE TEN 12/01/2010 INTERESTING TIMES: FREEDOM By Andrew Maben My first destination was a celebratory farewell to my Royal Air Force fantasy – I had signed up for a glider training course to be held at an RAF base in Essex. The freedom of flight opposed the constraint of my cadet uniform, which I would wear for the week and then never again. It seemed a fitting symbol of my new beginning… At our orientation lecture the instructor informed us that gliding is safer than being at home. He then went on to say that a student had died the No reprieved prisoner could have previous week, hardly confidence felt greater joy and relief than I as inspiring, but went on to say that I walked out of the front door for the boy suffered from epilepsy the last time and made my way to and hadn’t bothered to tell the station. I took off my tie, that anyone. throttling symbol of all the repression of the last twelve The planes were WWII vintage years, and stuffed it into a pocket. two-seater trainers, heavy and On the train I sat alone and silent, unwieldy, and it was my luck to my heart bursting with freedom be assigned a somewhat and the possibilities that finally overweight instructor. The first were open to me. The whole flight was nonetheless world would be my playground exhilarating. A tow cable was now. It would be a summer of attached at the nose and a high- stretching my wings, exploration speed winch pulled us down the and modest adventure, at last I grass strip. As we gained speed could begin to live. the craft reluctantly left the ground and seconds later my twice the elevation I was instructor pulled back on the supposed to be at. Oops! I pulled stick and we began to climb. My the release. The plane seemed to fear of heights had me gritting jump for joy, as did my heart. An my teeth and clenching my fists utterly sublime feeling of as the ground fell away below us freedom swept over me. The at an alarming speed. And then plane seemed as light as a feather there was a loud click as he under my hand. It was a glorious released the tow, a jerk, and a sunny day, a few small puffy peaceful quiet, the only sound the white clouds cast their dappled gentle soughing of air in the shadows on the earth that lay wires. With the release of that outstretched beneath me. Those attachment to the ground, my moments were perhaps as close fear dissolved, replaced with a to unalloyed joy as I had ever gentle exultation. come to in my life. I flew on, long past the boundary of the airfield After the requisite number of before finally banking to make training flights, I was deemed the turn back. I still had a lot of ready for the first of two solos height to lose before I could make that would earn me my my landing and so I went into a certification. fairly steep dive. The airspeed rose and I pulled up, exulting in “Don’t go too high, and don’t go the power and freedom… too far,” my instructor told me. “Good luck!” I must have been drunk on the euphoria, because I find my I gave my thumbs-up, the ground memories of that summer are crew signaled the winch, and I even more fragmentary than was on my way. The plane usual. I have clear pictures of became airborne it seemed almost some events, hazy recollections of instantly, and when I pulled back others, and frankly almost no the stick bounded upwards like a memory whatever of my state of rocket. In no time I’d reached the mind beyond that initial rush of prescribed height, but had excitement and anticipation, so scarcely covered half the usual all I can offer are a couple of distance. Just a bit higher, I told vignettes surrounded by a rosy myself. And somehow, before I’d haze. even traveled as far as the usual point at which we were used to The last weekend of July brought releasing, I had reached almost the Windsor Jazz and Blues Festival. I must have met some into the stage, into the cymbals. people during the course of two Townsend monomaniacally days, surely? I’ve no idea… I took smashing his guitar repeatedly my little tent and sleeping bag on the stage floor. Moon kicking and found a spot in the pieces of drum kit off his campground, where I surely had platform. At last there was not a neighbors. single piece of equipment on the stage that was not almost utterly The line-up was extraordinary, destroyed. The band walked off, with many bands I had long leaving only a high pitched wanted to see live: the Yardbirds; squeal from a single amplifier. Cream, in what was billed as And a crowd whose earlier their first major show; Geno cacophonic approbation had by Washington; the Move; Spencer now subsided into stunned Davis; the Small Faces; the silence… Who… I know I went to Rock to see that Honestly the only thing I recall summer refuge one last time, and with any clarity is the end of the I must have slept on the beach as Who’s set. They launched into I certainly had nowhere else, but My Generation, after a brief again memory is overwhelmed. I introduction by Roger Daltrey in do recall a party in the dunes which he claimed that after where I earned my beer by tonight there would be no more opening bottles with my teeth… orgies of destruction. They blasted through the song. Daltrey I did all my traveling by hitch- moved to the footlights and hiking, and on my way from glanced down. He casually Rock to visit Uncle Reg in kicked out one of the lights. Weymouth I had a rather Cheers from the crowd. He made remarkable encounter. Dropped his way systematically along the at a lonely hilltop crossroads row of lights, carefully somewhere in Dorset in the early extinguishing each one. evening my prospects were not Townsend drove the neck of his looking good. There was almost guitar through the front of a no traffic, and none of the drivers speaker cabinet. Banshee showed the least inclination to feedback. Howls of approval stop. Time passed. I waited. I from the crowd. Moon’s enjoyed the balmy summer drumming became an assault. evening. I waited. A big black Daltrey smashing his microphone antique Rolls Royce appeared, drew closer. I eagerly extended “Where are you going?” my arm, thumb extended, hopeful. The car slowed a little “Weymouth.” and my heart leapt in anticipation. For nothing, the “Great! We can take you all the Rolls rolled past. In the rear way. How’s it been going.” window, two girls turned around to wave. Yeah, I thought, ha “Well, I left Cornwall this fucking ha… I stepped into the morning, so pretty well.” road and gave them the V sign.