No need for a clock. Time to make shit up.

February is behind us now, but there was a time in human history when February was nowhere, nothing, never heard of it—until 2,731 years ago. Some of you are envious about Valentine’s Day not existing, but you know something? When you don’t have scarce restaurant reservations on an appointed day, you don’t have days either. Just a series of sunrises and sunsets beyond skeletal tree branches. Or unmeasured winter, according to the ancient Romans.

But this isn’t about the good and bad of January and February (good and bad are just inventions that never got trademarked). I want you to wake up and realize that you can turn nothing into something. Because if Numa Pompilius (who reigned in Rome from 715 to 673 B.C.E.) could invent February in an old calendar and get us to use it in Google Calendar more than 2,000 years later, well, fuck—why can’t you just invent whatever you want?

You might say, “I’m not a Roman king.”


And I’d say, “You wouldn’t want to be. One king thought it was perfectly fine to abduct women from neighboring lands and turn them into wives for his countrymen.”

Be you instead. Make something only you would make. And make it because you truly and genuinely desire it in your own life. Like it would change the way you live. I’m talking fine art but also commercial products. This is how the CLIF BAR® was invented. Avoid making something just because it’s currently trending.

“I could have totally made that,” I sometimes hear when a person comments on a deceptively simple book idea, or a piece of contemporary art, or a patented product. The thing is: the commenter didn’t make it. And that’s what they have to get over—their ego —if they ever want to evolve and discover what wonderful creations they’re capable of. Creating is imperative for you, me, anyone.


As writer Neil Gaiman said in The Guardian:

We all — adults and children, writers and readers — have an obligation to daydream. We have an obligation to imagine. It is easy to pretend that nobody can change anything, that we are in a world in which society is huge and the individual is less than nothing: an atom in a wall, a grain of rice in a rice field. But the truth is, individuals change their world over and over, individuals make the future, and they do it by imagining that things can be different.

Look around you: I mean it. Pause, for a moment and look around the room that you are in. I’m going to point out something so obvious that it tends to be forgotten. It’s this: that everything you can see, including the walls, was, at some point, imagined. Someone decided it was easier to sit on a chair than on the ground and imagined the chair. Someone had to imagine a way that I could talk to you in London right now without us all getting rained on. This room and the things in it, and all the other things in this building, this city, exist because, over and over and over, people imagined things.


Some of you have imagined what you’d like to create. And some of you know that you do want to create but not so much what it might be. Start simply and genuinely: what brings you joy? You can brainstorm with a cookie.

You’ll find imagination can take you by surprise. You might look at a cloud and recognize a face in it. You’ll find that you can also take imagination by choice and play with it — just as the first 60 days of the year had no names, holidays, occasions, birthdays, or anniversaries until it was decided they would. It does not take a king to make such decisions but a person of any bloodline who dares to see things differently.

Do you dare?

— Q.D. from Culver City



Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

Thor’s day is no pun at all

Maybe you’ve seen “Thor’s day” in memes starring Chris Hemsworth and accompanying puns like “Let’s get hammered.” Or maybe friends have wished you, “Happy Thor’s Day,” and you thought they were being silly.

Well, they were being silly (they’re your friends, aren’t they?) but also etymologically accurate.

Thor’s day is real.

Thor's hammer on the cover art for the book, Norse Mythology, by Neil Gaiman

Cover art for the book, Norse Mythology, by Neil Gaiman

As real as the Texan law that you can’t sell your eyeballs.

We’re not surprised your parents didn’t tell you this.

Good thing you have us — we know the power of names and are quite careful about safeguarding ours. Days of the week? Days of the solar system, more like it.


Each day was named for a celestial body. And of those bodies, the planets were named after European gods and goddesses. The first two days, Sunday (for the sun) and Monday (for the moon), don’t hold divine drama like the other five:

  • Tuesday —  for Tīw, a Germanic god of war, similar to Mars whose name then got assigned to the red planet, perceived as bloody and warlike in the ancient world.
  • Wednesday — for Woden or Odin, Thor’s dad, who was equated with Mercury. Yup and then the planet was named after him. See? You’re getting it.
  • Thursday — for Thor, god of thunder, just like Zeus or Jove/Jupiter.
  • Friday — for Frigga, wife of Odin, goddess of love like Venus.
  • Saturday — for Saturn, often remembered for chewing up his kids.

There they are. Fun facts to dispel your next awkward silence. Holiday dinners aren’t that far away.

— E.K. from Silver Lake, Los Angeles



Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

Thinkspace before you speak | art by Brian Mashburn & Casey Weldon

What world do you live in? Does it feel like this?







That’s the world of artist Brian Mashburn whose work, according to his website, “is drawn from everyday observations as well as an interest in history, natural science, and philosophy. The heavy mists of Appalachia and smog of southeastern China and Hong Kong further inform his foggy aesthetic.” He lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

I found this world when I visited Thinkspace Gallery in Culver City on April 29 this year. So if this is your world, I love it. Just please take some Vitamin D supplements. I returned to Thinkspace on June 3 and found another world. Maybe this is yours. Take a look:





If this is your world, it’s a curious one, which can only explain why so many feline species are in it. Casey Weldon created this world. He graduated from the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, CA and opened a studio in Las Vegas. Now he’s in Brooklyn, New York.

Maybe neither is your world. And hey, that’s fine by us. You can create your own or you can find one. We happened to have made one of magic and mystery. Maybe you’re a character in one of the five stories. They haven’t revealed their names yet.

— E.K. from Silver Lake, Los Angeles


Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

Thoughtful Thursday | the quest in question

You can think of a small question as a small quest — a big question as a big quest. The words “quest” and “question” are from the Latin word “quaerere” (ask or seek). But what makes a quest or question small or big? That’s not up to one person to answer. That’s up to you, me, all of us. You’re all invited to share your Thursday thoughts in the comments below to these three questions:

  1. Painter Lucian Freud said, “What do I ask of a painting? I ask it to astonish, disturb, seduce, convince.” Your turn: What do you ask of music, literature, performance, visual art, any creative expression?


  1. Photographer William Eggleston said, “I am at war with the obvious.” What are you at war with at this time in your life?


  1. Anne Wilkes Tucker, a curator of photographic art, once wrote of the photographer Brassaï: “He sought neither to judge nor to change, but to fathom the living arrangements of the world.” With what you do in your life, how do you fathom the living arrangements of the world?



Why these questions? They invite possibilities, which is why writer Tommy Tung asked nearly identical ones as part of his interview with photographer Alex Prager for Juxtapoz Art & Culture Magazine, eight years ago. Share your answers to the three questions in the comments below. Happy Thursday.

— Q.D. from Culver City


Art and magic are no different. But we are.



March was named for war

You wouldn’t know it by glancing at the calendar though. You have to dive into etymology: March or Martius (Latin) was named after Mars, the Roman god of war. These four weeks of bloodshed were so important to the Romans they made it their first month for a while. Quite an easy thing to do when January and February hadn’t been invented yet. Winter in ancient Rome had no months, pumpkin spice promotions, or sales events. When the snow melted in March, Romans resumed killing, raping, enslaving people in war campaigns.

Three thousand years later, we no longer associate March with invading territories and large-scale human rights violations. We observe other traditions such as International Women’s Day (March 8), Pi Day (March 14), St. Patrick’s Day (March 17), March Madness (NCAA Basketball). The ancient god of war? And the planet named after him? They’re not on our minds during these 30 days. We have, in fact, reinvented this month. Some might say that’s magic. Some might say that names change meaning — despite their etymology.


And we — who are obsessed with names, words, and their power — say that your name doesn’t define you. You were assigned a word to be called. And the way you live is the way that word is spoken and remembered.

Just saying.

— E.K. from Silver Lake, Los Angeles


“A man in armor” (1655) by Rembrandt


Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

Second life for the Rain Room | LACMA

You didn’t get to go to the Rain Room because it was sold out. Or you were able to go but want to go again. The Rain Room may have closed on January 22, 2017 at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA), but the prospect of experiencing it has not dried up. It’s reincarnating. Staying for good. Raining for good.

Thank Restoration Hardware — who had commissioned the work — for donating it to the permanent collection at LACMA. Ephemerality and availability had governed its supply and demand until now. Permanent residence granted, the Rain Room’s reopening date is the only thing between you and this interactive art installation that RH Chairman & CEO, Gary Friedman, says reflects “creative courage, trust, and a belief that all of us have the ability to affect any environment we choose to step into.” Move and the rain moves too, because precipitation parts wherever you are in the room. It’s why phones and cameras survive there and why over 54,000 photos on Instagram have the #rainroom hashtag and a liquid light shower.

Ten to fifteen minutes is all you’ll have in this room with black walls, spotlights, and 528 gallons of downpour. You may want to stay longer but the brief window of time is like any weather condition — a passing phenomenon. What we know about the design of the Rain Room is that the founders of Random International (Florian Ortkrass, Hannes Koch, and Stuart Wood) “were curious to see how it would feel to be immersed in a rainstorm that wouldn’t physically affect you,” according to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). And what we know about Random International is that “it is a collaborative studio for experimental practice within contemporary art,” with work “questioning aspects of identity and autonomy in the post-digital age…[and inviting] active participation.”

Whenever the Rain Room does reopen, we recommend reservations. F.A. and I went a few weeks before it closed, and as someone with Dual Membership at LACMA with paid privileges, I still couldn’t get a reservation for two in the Rain Room without making an advance payment on renewing my membership.

Demand is that high for rain in Los Angeles.

— Q.D. from Culver City


F.A. who lived through the mystery, You have until Friday



Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

The Art of Alchemy disappears in 3 days

We’re artists. We’re alchemists. We’re magicians. Playing drinking games with the elixir of life. Designing slingshots for the philosopher’s stone. Maybe you saw us walking through downtown LA on Saturday, January 21 for the Women’s March, or peering at medieval manuscripts at The Art of Alchemy, now on view at the Getty Center until February 12. The mind of separation says these two events are different — marching for equality and human rights vs. strolling through a museum exhibition. Mysticism says that they are not, that even you and the multiverse are the same.


Does this mean in essence you are only doing one thing your entire life? We would say yes. You are living. But that is not for us to say — for you. You can answer that yourself. The questions keep us going, as they did for the alchemists of Europe, Egypt, and Asia who the Getty Research Institute says were driven “to transform and bend nature to the will of an industrious human imagination. For scientists, philosophers, and artists alike, alchemy seemed to hold the key to unlocking the secrets of creation.”

You have three days to see their written and illustrated works at the Getty Research Institute, if not for these philosophical concerns then simply for their art. You don’t need a background in art history, alchemy, anything. You just need to keep asking questions.

That’s the only thing we ask of you.

For now.

— Q.D. from Culver City










Art and magic are no different. But we are.

We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

Phantom Femme and the Invisible Fingers

My assailant was waiting for me in one of those grab-and-go salads. The moment I drove a fork into the vinaigrette, it splashed into my eye. It was not balsamic, this assailant, and another one would issue a deeper wound later that day—and all the doctors in the world wouldn’t be able to help.

Onboard the shuttle bus, I was fine for the time being, grazing on salad, doing Arabic calligraphy in my Moleskine among strangers. This was absolute heaven. I was free. I was me. I don’t do calligraphy or design around my friends, husband, mother or brother. My father once caught me drawing when I was a child and threatened to arrange for me and Walid—who enjoyed lighting people’s hair on fire—to be married and work in his family’s fertilizer plant. With Walid’s pyromaniac proclivities and tons of flammable material around, it was only a matter of time before I would perish, with hundreds more, in a workplace accident.

Neither my father nor Walid was my oppressor though—let me state that for anyone who believes all Muslim men stone women to death. They were merely part of the tradition I am now beyond. Let them have their traditions. And I will invent mine.


eL Seed by Ouahid Berrehouma – Salah Zribi for DaFoxInDaBox., CC BY 3.0

I suppose it’s ironic that the calligraphers and artists I find inspiring happened to have penises—the French-Tunisian street artist, eL Seed, and the Syrian calligrapher, Mouneer Al Shaarani—but I don’t need to verbally, emotionally or physically castrate men in order to be a feminist. 

I simply add my voice to the human conversation through my calligraphy and design—the way that I love to speak. My ink, my paper—my vocal cords. My art, my vision—my voice. No one at my law firm knows this about me.

basmalah-1wmSo the shuttle bus took me to the airport. Inside I put away my Moleskine just as a man bumped into my carry-on bag and knocked the nearly finished salad out of my hands. Before picking up the leaves and shredded carrots, I looked to the man for an apology but he had already walked away.

When I had advanced through the security line and set down my bag on the X-ray’s conveyor belt, I heard the most soothing Levantine Arabic whispered by the woman behind me:

“There’s a bomb in your bag. You have three minutes before it goes through the X-ray machine.”

The voice sounded so familiar I turned expecting to see my grandmother, even though she had died in Damascus when I was young, and instead found an Asian woman in her forties, her hair in a loose ponytail and wisps around her temples. She was wearing a blue hoodie with “Cal” on it. I glanced at my bag sitting on the belt and then at her.

“Why would you—why would say something like that?” I replied in Arabic.

“‘Why’ is for another time,” she lilted. “For now, you can move that bomb without touching it, without even moving your body. Put it somewhere far away from anyone.”

A TSA agent brought a stack of plastic bins, studied us for a second, smiled, and put the stack down by the conveyor belt.

Although I was wearing only a blouse in November, I started to feel the heat rise between the fabric and my skin. A layer of humidity formed. Sweat beaded my face. My hands were slick, and I stepped toward my bag and then stopped.

The TSA agent noticed and walked over to me. “You forget to take something out? Water? Liquids?”

I pursed my lips and shook my head so I wouldn’t risk sounding nervous. He gathered more plastic bins, and I turned to the woman. “I could turn around and leave right now, taking my bag with me,” I said.

“You could but you don’t know when it’s going off. Maybe it explodes when you’re taking Uber.” Her eyebrows rose.

“Well, I could just leave the bag here at the airport.”

“Maybe it explodes in the next few minutes and you could have done something about it. But you didn’t. And many people died.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I said.

By now, travelers all around were staring at us—speaking Arabic in an airport can do that—so to avoid their eyes, I watched my bag being carried away on the conveyor belt until it stopped before the mouth of the machine.

“One minute left,” said the enigma.


By Hussein Alazaat, CC BY 3.0

I had spent the last week litigating in court. I took a deep breath and exhaled, “I’m not playing your game.”

“I promise you this bomb is no game.”

“You and that man planted something on me. I know this,” I hissed. “And it’s on the airport cameras. The evidence will exonerate me.”

A smile beamed and she nodded. “Such a lawyer. But that’s just an identity you bought and paid for at Harvard.”

My carry-on went into the X-ray machine that very moment. Tight chest. Shallow breaths. Unblinking eyes.

The X-ray technician stopped moving the belt and examined his monitor. He looked up, turned to another TSA agent, and asked him to come over.

They spoke closely, studying the monitor, with occasional glances at me.

Finally my bag came out of the other side of the X-ray.

“Hey! Are you going to go?” a man shouted behind me.

I turned around. No enigmatic woman. Only a middle-aged man who flung his hands up in the air. “Seriously! What the fuck? I’m going to miss my flight!” he grumbled and pushed past me to go through the metal detector.

On the plane. An entire aisle to myself. No need to share my terrifying experience with anyone. Or hide it on my face. First I let my elbow spill into the seat next to me. Next I drew—hoping to release some stress—but my lines were squiggly. I set down my Moleskine and my trembling hand, and I melted where I was. I stopped wondering about Phantom Femme and Phantom Bomb, and I fell asleep during takeoff.

When I woke up, I was quite sure I was still dreaming.

“How did you sleep?” asked Phantom Femme, now sitting next to me.

I yawned and said, “Your Arabic is uncanny, so perfectly pronounced, like you were raised in Syria with elocution lessons.”

“Maybe I was.” Her lips curled. “You probably want to know why I’m here.”

“I do but I don’t. Everything out of your mouth makes my life suck, so I’m just going to close my eyes and you will be gone.” I closed my eyes and opened them again. Phantom Femme was still smiling.

“Okay, I give up. Why are you here?” I asked.

“Because you haven’t moved the bomb. And when it goes off, you’ll be remembered as a terrorist. You’ll get really good coverage in The New York Times. Your mom will actually die of shame.”

“What? No.” My hands became clammy again. “There’s no bomb or anything—nothing. My bag went through the X-ray machine. They didn’t find anything. You bluffed. You lost.”

“My exact words were ‘You have three minutes before it goes through the X-ray machine.’ I never said they would detect it.”

“I’m not playing your game,” my voice withered this time.

“Think about it. It’s a bomb. You think whoever makes it is going to make it detectable? In the X-ray machine? Before it gets on the plane?” she asked.

“So it’s still here.”

She nodded. “You have ten minutes before it goes off.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?” asked the flight attendant.

“Cabernet. Three of them, please,” I said.

The flight attendant then asked Phantom Femme who requested tomato juice. Very gently I moved my finger toward Phantom Femme after the attendant left. We both watched my finger float her way, and upon contact with her arm, Phantom Femme said, “Yes, I am actually here. Nine and a half minutes left.”

“Nine and a half minutes left to live,” I muttered.

“No, you haven’t begun living.” Her eyes cast down and I felt her sadness and my own ambivalence about wanting to console her and wanting her to fuck off. Our silence brought the other passengers to life. In the row behind me, a boy demanded to play Angry Birds while his parents were invested in their iPads. In front of me, a true bromance unfolded between two college students lauding last night’s beer pong that led to someone named Caitlyn dancing and stripping to Whitesnake.

I found myself envying their oblivion and hating them. Why did they get to have it so easy? Why didn’t they have to speak Arabic to their mothers and feel embarrassed to do so in public? I didn’t choose to be Syrian, and I didn’t choose to have my father’s last name, or his argumentative nature, or his anger, or his anything. My eyes became hot and blurry.

Just as my tears started falling, Phantom Femme loosened my grip of the Moleskine in my lap and opened it to the letter I’d written to my father. He had never read it because he had died before I could share it. A drop hit the page and Arabic letters bled. More drops fell, and I tried to close the Moleskine but she held it open.

“Wait,” she said.


“You accept living when you accept feeling.”

I wiped some tears on my fingers, touched the page, and unintentionally created ink wash. It moved everywhere. The writing became illegible. I hadn’t looked at this page in a long time. I didn’t feel like a good daughter when I did. I blamed him for so much.


But now I could see the words becoming something else in the tears and ink. It was the movement I had never allowed and a new space for new things. The idea of who I was started to die inside and my heart started to drum louder, deafening everything in the airplane cabin. My invisible fingers crossed the distance between myself and my carry-on in the compartment above, and like this I reached without lifting my arms. I entered the bag and sensed the contents, remembering everything I’d packed. I then sensed a small box I hadn’t packed. I held this box with my invisible fingers and I plunged it into a lake six miles underneath me. When I felt the explosive was deep enough in the water, I let go with such an exhale that I was short of breath, and I almost fainted. I closed my eyes.

“You just spent all the calories in your body, doing what you did,” Phantom Femme whispered. “Tell the flight attendant you’re hypoglycemic and you need a sugary drink and also something to eat. I recommend peanuts for fat and protein. Lots of peanuts.”

Phantom Femme was no longer there when I opened my eyes. The flight attendant was however and she gasped. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I said weakly.

“Your hands,” she said.

I looked in my lap and I saw them shivering, wet, and covered in silt from the lake.

After Connor picked me up at LAX, I kissed him lightly and told him I just wanted to zone out, go home, and take a bath. He understood and listened to sports radio for the entire drive to Pacific Palisades.

At home, my phone rang as I ran the bath, and I wouldn’t have ordinarily picked up but the caller ID flashed, “A Brief Chat,” which was certainly not a person in my Contacts.

“I’ll make this quick so you can relax,” said the enigmatic woman on the other end of the line.  “You used energy changing your molecular composition. It’s why you were so tired after moving the bomb. Some people wanted you to never learn how to do what you did. The man who planted the bomb in your bag worked for them.”

“And I’m supposed to relax after you tell me this?” I was growing irritated.

“You’re not in danger anymore. They’re afraid of you now.”

“But that would put me in more danger.”

“You sound like your father,” she said and that shut me up, and she continued, “The secret of how to move something like that bomb is simply the secret of how to move in general. The thing you move doesn’t matter. What matters is that you know how to move. It’s the process you practice in your art. All art moves. You’ve just been afraid of it because it comes from that thing you’ve tried to control your whole life.”

My heart started pounding, knowing it was being discussed.

“Let it speak. Start by asking what it needs.”

“Is that all?” I sighed.

“There’s a man who can do what you do. When you’re feeling ready, share your art and Galen Gorry will find you and help you.”


“You work for this guy.”

“No. I work for you. I’m your qarin,” said the jinni who then hung up.

I turned off the faucet. Even though the bath water was inviting, I went into the master bedroom where Connor was lying in bed and scrolling through his phone. He gave me a look of concern. “Didn’t you want to take a bath?”

I untied my terrycloth robe, let it shrink to the floor, and climbed into bed. I rested on Connor and described my day without sparing a detail, and as he took in every word, I felt more naked than I have in months.

— K.J. from Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles


Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

Donald Trump, Dracula, and other horror stories

“Do you know any short horror stories?” she asked me when I got to the kitchen. Her son needed to read and retell a horror story for English class. Decades ago I was the elementary school kid who drew a one-page comic retelling “The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allan Poe. More than a decade after that comic, I majored in English literature after finding magic in a class on 18th and 19th century Gothic literature. So yes I knew some horror stories. I recommended Yuki-onna, Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” and Stephen King’s “The Jaunt.”

We may not publish what you’d consider classic horror stories on this site, but we do love sharing recommendations during Halloween. You can learn horror movie recommendations on other sites; you can learn about Gothic literature here. Below are some of the novels that made me go from undeclared to committed man of letters at the University of California at Berkeley. As for the headline, I promise you Dracula does have something to do with Donald Trump that goes beyond the simple observation that they both suck.


Vathek (1786)

Pre-metafiction metafiction. Pre-found-footage found footage. This novel first appeared as An Arabian Tale, From an Unpublished Manuscript and claimed to be translated from Arabic. No author’s name. Eventually the Gothic novel had William Beckford’s name on it and became known as The History of the Caliph Vathek. As a university student, I remembered it for one of the most mysterious characters — a Jinni — a creature we hold with both high regard and frustration on this site, as seen in our first-person account, Phantom Femme and the Invisible Fingers.

The Monk (1796)

Long before The Da Vinci Code made the church villainous, Matthew Lewis made one Christian monk the center of murder, rape, dismemberment, and damnation. This is the 70s exploitation film version of Gothic romances, all at once disturbing and entertaining for those with such an appetite. Lewis wrote it in 10 weeks while he was 19 years old.


Carmilla (1872)

I know it’s hard to believe that lesbian vampires didn’t always exist as a genre, but Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu invented them in a short story with plot and characters that would influence Dracula 25 years later.

Dracula (1897)

Like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, Bram Stoker’s Dracula is an epistolary novel comprising letters — a literary device still used in contemporary literature. And like Donald Trump is a cultural mirror of unapologetic racism and bigotry in America, Dracula was also that for Victorian England and the xenophobia toward Eastern European immigrants at the time:

  • The novel begins on the eve of St. George’s Day.
  • St. George is revered for slaying a dragon.
  • Dracula is from Eastern Europe.
  • Dracula means “dragon.”
  • Dracula purchases real estate in England.
  • Dracula brings out the wanton ways of English women.


These details are not coincidental according to my English professor and are often lost about Dracula when his story is adapted for film, television, comic books, and video games — mediums that dramatize his lethality and hunger, when his fearsome qualities are the ones we have instilled in him, that he is threatening as an immigrant with economic power and social mobility. We, focused on the fangs, have forgotten this. Dracula is what people imagine when afraid of a multicultural and globalized society, the timely horror still keeping us in the dark ages of Trump’s America.

— E.K. from Silver Lake, Los Angeles


Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.

Hello, Terror

“Vera, take that cat out of your mouth!” I shouted. It was my usual 1 o’clock walk with this Siberian Husky except for the animal in its teeth. That shit is not part of the service contract. My heart was racing. My stomach was churning.

Vera just kept chewing—blood spritzing out of her mouth—and I kept tugging on her leash and telling her “No!” as though this would stop the delicious taste of cat.

We three—human, dog, and cat—then stumbled awkwardly onto someone’s front yard not far from Elysian Heights Elementary. I fell and grass poked my eyes, and the dog and cat invented a new form of dance. My hand was still around the leash, and I pushed myself up with my other hand (and accidentally squished some plant), and I prayed for Vera to let go, because pretty soon Vera would move on to the cat’s neck. Yes I, the guy who didn’t think Mary was a virgin, actually prayed.

Echo Park shifted that moment. Cars went on mute. Sun didn’t stare as hard. Day laborers on the roof of Fix Coffee put down their hammers. And Vera, the cat-hungry Husky, lay down and opened her mouth. The cat hobbled away and quieted down. They both went to sleep. I let go of the leash and my hand went limp after having to strangle it the last few minutes.


I looked at my other hand and saw lavender smeared on my palm. I looked at the cat again to make sure it wasn’t dead and saw teeth marks closing up on its leg, sealing, fur growing back. Time was going in reverse.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whispered.

My phone buzzed.

“NO,” the message read from a number I didn’t recognize. “YOU.”

“I don’t understand,” I wrote back.


“Okay now I really don’t understand.”

“AT 5:46 YOU WILL.”

I canceled the rest of my dog walks for the day. Creepy text messages have that effect on me.

At home, Kara was still in bed where I left her naked this morning but now she was wearing panties and a tank-top. She said she wanted to go to the dispensary, and I just closed my eyes and lay next to her. “You’re no fun,” she said finally and slid into her skinny jeans. I asked her to stay (“Please,” I even added) but she knocked over my guitar case on the way to getting high somewhere.

Alone once more.

Hello, Terror.

Hello, it replied.

And I listened to it. And I was small again, young again. The boy in the basement. Chained up by a man who approached me at the park and claimed to be friends with my parents. There was only a window the size of a brick in here, and one day, there was a cat looking through it.

And I needed the cat.

And I needed Collin but Collin didn’t pick up his phone. Maybe he was at Bobby’s. I needed to get to Bobby’s. I needed to finish my album. I needed my band. Bobby grew St. John’s wort among many things, and I was out of anxiety meds.

“ST. JOHN’S WORT IS MORE THAN AN ANTIDEPRESSANT,” my phone flashed at that moment.

Psycho-psychic-stranger was not helping. I turned off the phone, and I went to Bobby’s and my band mates were laughing on the living room floor, passing around a two-foot bong. On the record player was Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, which I always loved because it didn’t sound like the jazz of its era. It dared to go its own way.


“You like it too,” said a woman I hadn’t noticed until now. I looked around and no one else seemed aware of this pretty creature, eating a slice of pie (since when does Bobby have pies?) and leaning against a bookshelf. She appeared an Ivy League student in both age and attire with a dark blue sweater and long plaid dress. Middle Eastern eyes rested softly on me. She offered her name “Foxtrot” and an enigmatic smile to match it.

I said my name in reply and turned to Bobby and the guys. “Help me with the album today,” I asked them, and they said what they always say, “Let’s do it tomorrow.” I told them about the dog and cat episode and only Foxtrot was lucid enough to follow the story.

“Tell me what plant you crushed,” she said, so I told her, and then she explained how lavender had magical qualities of calm and healing—which could be activated with intention—like my prayer. “You actually cast a spell,” she said.

I didn’t know anything about that, but another part of me spoke up:

There was only a window the size of a brick, and one day, there was a cat looking through it. I held up my bleeding fist. “Tell someone I’m down here,” I shared my thought with the cat. Blood ran down my hand and wrist. The cat jumped away from the window and I never saw it again.


My heart started racing again and my stomach started churning.

“I have to go soon,” I said to Foxtrot as my insides continued protesting.

“You’re going to work on your music.” She nodded.

“You Ivy Leaguers are sharp. Wanna help me?” I asked quite jokingly.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said quite seriously.

It was 3:16 p.m.

When Foxtrot came over, she didn’t ask for anything to drink or smoke—she didn’t ask anything of me. It was the strangest thing.

She brought over her saxophone (turns out she’d just graduated from Berklee College of Music) and I kicked things off on my guitar, and we began as such different animals, in temperament, in instinct, but we found a way to meet each other. Notes, chords, scales eventually conspired with their counterparts. By 5 o’clock we had curled and collided sonically and recorded it all as a raw demo.

Hoping to spur my band mates into collaborating, I texted Bobby that I’d made a new demo and wanted to share it. He told me it was a bad time to stop by. But I went there anyway. When I got there, Collin was just walking out the door. He said Bobby had already mixed an album after removing my vocals and guitar parts, and that’s what Collin would be moving forward with. He shrugged, said sorry, and rode away on a bike that he’d stolen in Venice. The night swallowed him and my vision got fuzzy.

Blood ran down my hand and wrist.

“Tell someone I’m down here,” I shared my thought with the cat.

The cat jumped away from the window and I never saw it again.

An hour later, policemen raided the house and found me in the basement.  


“Come on, man. Don’t be like this,” Bobby said. I blinked a few times. The yellow flowers of St. John’s wort were just above my head. I was lying on my back on his front lawn. He was standing in the doorway and drinking Tecate.

“You’re killing the vibe, all right?” Bobby threw his hands up in the air. “So leave me your demo, go home, and we’ll talk about this later.”

I was still on the ground and through the open doorway behind him, saw everything upside-down—the guys spewing smoke and talking about the things they were going to do one day (just not today, tomorrow, or the day after that). The wind picked up, the rope that held the porch swing twisted, and Bobby pressed his foot harder on the floorboards, making them creak. Sounds of the night. Sounds of a ship. One I couldn’t survive on. Not any longer.

Bobby held out his hand but didn’t pull me up. “I’ll take your music now,” he said. “You burned me a disc, right?”

I reached up and plucked a yellow flower from the shrub of St. John’s wort. And I stood. And while Bobby spoke, I closed the petals of the flower and deprived him of words. He mouthed, “What the fuck?” but his voice didn’t obey him.

I tossed this flower through the doorway and when it landed, the living room went silent and the only thing out of their mouths was smoke.

It was 5:46 p.m.

At home, Foxtrot wasn’t there. No note. No scent of her. Not even a glass stained with her lips. Only a 10-second recording she left on my computer. I hit Play and she whispered two words, “Galen Gorry,” and the recording ended. It meant nothing to me at the time.

Alone once more.

Hello, Terror.

Hello, it replied.

Goodbye, Terror.

Goodbye, it said.

Hello, music. I picked up my guitar.

Hello, magic, it sung back.

— T.P. from Los Angeles, CA


Art and magic are no different. But we are.


We wrote the 5 mysteries.

We’re from another world.