ISSUE IV

ISSUE 04 DECEMBER 2021 

SIENNA 

SOLSTICE 

an anti-disciplinary publication

antidisciplinary (adj.) 

a rejection of the idea of the “interdisciplinary,” as disciplines are 

not only interconnected, but interdependent, wherein no system of 

thought can contain the fullness of the human experience

LETTER FROM 

THE EDITORS 

Dear Reader, 

As I saw the pages of this volume come together, I found myself in awe of the 

dimension and complexity with which our featured creators have presented their 

worlds to us. As with every preceding volume, the works included in this issue 

illuminate the pockets of existence that cannot be found without the vessels of 

shared experience–artwork, prose, poetry, film, photography, and even more– 

brought forth by our creators. Too easily we look upon the world and search for 

the next best thing. On this Winter Solstice, I invite you to consider our world in 

all the beauty she has already laid out before us. 

—Kate 

As we wind down our year, Sienna Solstice approaches its second year as a 

journal. In these two years, we’ve had chances to explore the founding question 

of our project: what do we lose when we draw strict boundaries between mediums 

of expression and exploration? From interviews with artists, creators, and 

academics through the countless pieces we’ve received from our community, 

we’ve been able to interact with individual projects highlighting the margins. 

This issue features computer generated art, music in conversation with neurotransmitters, 

photographs investigating the self, and a multitude of other permutations 

of mediums. In this dialogue of mediums, we hope you continue to 

see the multiplicity of life and our world’s interdependence between the different 

disciplines of expression. 

Thank you for celebrating with us this Winter Solstice. 

Warmly, 

Kate & Lea

table of c 

06 08 

An Interview with 

Melodysheep 

The Editors 

14 

To Forget You 

To Become No One 

Stephanie Alishan 

Opening Image 

Robert Fanning 

The Waiting 


16 

Only When I Forgave 


22 

Demodex 

Morgan Rondinelli 

24 

Kinetic Tapestry 

Aaron Lelito

ontents 

10 12 

Toronja 

J. Villanueva 

Paradigm shift of 

body recognition 

Mina Hyeon 

Junhong Cho 

Peace Choi 

18 20 

NeuroKnitting Beethoven 

Varvara and Mar 

Gagarin in the Trees 

Andre F. Peltier 

Personified River 

Linda Dallimore 

West of the Milky Way, 

South of the Clouds 

Emerald Liu 

26 

Franklin Carmichael Of The 

Group Of Seven Using Duct 

Tape For The First Time 

Colin James 

Song for Standing Bells 


28 

Playmates 

Edwin Evans-Thirlwell 

Selections from 

‘Other Seasons’ 

Edward Lee 

The Tiniest Suns 

Maija Haavisto

6 SIENNA SOLSTICE 

An Interview with Melodysheep 

John D. Boswell, known by his artist name as Melodysheep, is a composer, 

filmmaker, editor, and VFX artist whose work has spanned the depths of the 

internet and the entertainment industry. Known particularly for his viral compositions 

centered around space and the natural world, Melodysheep’s work 

evokes questions regarding the interactions of music and scientific wonder. 

Pursuing such an ambitious passion like musical science is rare and not everyone really understands 

it. What challenges did you encounter on this journey? How did you overcome this 

and what advice would you give people who want to pursue something similar? 

MELODYSHEEP: The biggest challenge in what I do is in trying to relate the information 

clearly, but also impactfully & creatively. The scientific worldview is beautiful, but can 

be hard for the average person to wrap their head around, just because of how detailed 

and deep the picture is. Cut-and-dry explanations are simple, but creative approaches to 

relaying information can be much more stirring and impactful. So it takes quite a bit of 

care to figure out the best way to relay the information in a compelling way anyone can 

understand, but also with fresh new approach. It helps to share works-in-progress with 

people who are unfamiliar with the subject, and get their take. Is the information clear? 

And is the emotional impact there? Very important to strike the right balance. And the 

music should always support the storytelling, not get in the way of it. 

Take us through a step-by-step of where your mind is when you are creating music for science. 

How does science translate to a score in your mind? 

MELODYSHEEP: My step-by-step process begins with asking: how do I use music to 

help convey these ideas? What genres best serve the subject, and what moods can 

reflect the knowledge I’m sharing? Once I have a script, I map out crescendos that add 

suspension while taking in preliminary information, and climaxes for when you receive 

that pinnacle piece of information. The rest is shaping the music into the right mood and 

vibe. 

On your website you write you “strive to evoke a sense of awe” in your music. How do you 

come across evoking those grandiose feelings of awe with such grandiose subjects such as 

space and nature? 

MELODYSHEEP: I like to let the music take center stage often; too many words or descriptions 

can be distracting, and the audience needs breaks to process what they’ve 

heard. Music can help steer your mind in a direction while stewing on those thoughts; 

exultant music will make you feel inspired, while creepy music will lead your mind to 

more questions and imagining stranger possibilities.

ISSUE IV 7 

What was your experience working with Protocol Labs? How did you foster this connection? 

MELODYSHEEP: Juan Benet from Protocol Labs reached out to me directly and expressed 

interest in supporting my work. We discovered that our interests were clearly 

aligned, and that it could be a natural partnership. With their support, I can focus more 

on creating science content for public consumption, and less on working side jobs to 

pay the bills. For that I couldn’t be more grateful, and they have been amazing partners 

the last couple of years. 

What was the research process for the project like? Considering you have a non-STEM educational 

background, but a strong passion for the sciences, how did you go about obtaining 

the theories you incorporated and how did you decide on which theories to feature? 

MELODYSHEEP: The research process was continuous throughout the year-long journey 

it took to make the video. It was mostly done through reading articles and watching 

lectures, taking notes as I went and continuously tweaking the timeline to make 

sure everything fit correctly. There’s really a lot you can learn this way, and when you 

get stuck, it’s easy to reach out to scientists and ask them questions; they are usually 

happy to oblige. 

We have a bit of tradition with every artist we feature where at the end of the interview we 

ask them for what advice they’d give to our audience (of mostly college-aged students). So 

following with tradition: what advice would you give to yourself when you were our age? 

MELODYSHEEP: Keep doing what you love! I never thought this would be my career, 

but when you’re passionate about something, you get good at it, and people will pay 

attention.


OPENING IMAGE 


—after Arve Henriksen 

Even Spring’s early work: operose— 

throat-stuck. 

Dull light 

through shattered green 

windows of a long-abandoned factory 

in a winter city 

no-one visits— 

a column of sleet 

falls through 

a hole in the roof 

—a slate grey sky. 

Something flaps up above 

the rusted beams and pillars, broken 

chain links, massive iron hooks 

on frayed ropes and cables— 

everywhere, ghost music 

of machines 

that once held everything together. 

When she comes, 

dragging her yellow gown 

across grit and glass, 

across tufts of feathers and shit— 

her voice crackles —at first— 

a muted trumpet 

in the mist 

before throwing herself 

open— her impromptu aria 

a wide beacon sweeping 

over the stone avenues, 

the empty city.


The Waiting 

Stephanie Alishan


Toronja 

J. Villanueva 

When you take a heavy motorcycle, that’s not meant 

for offroad use, through dirt trails filled with shifting sand, 

mud, and rocks—after some time there comes a sweet 

moment when you stop noticing all of those things. Your hands 

no longer feel the vibrations on the handlebars. 

The arches of your feet no longer feel the pain 

brought by the digging of the two spiked footpegs. 

And you float on dialed-in suspension as if your weight 

meant nothing at all, like I assume it means 

absolutely nothing in the vacuum of outer space. 

I remember feeling that, as a boy, when I would take 

an old beat up Huffy through areas I would 

call trails. Through rows of toronja tree labores 

and up on top of canal levees is where that hand 

me down would go. Whether it was fixing flats, 

stealing a grapefruit for lunch, or rearranging the old 

bike’s chain, I was able to handle anything. Even the 

horse sized dogs, from that one house near the 

monte, that would chase me were nothing. Whatever 

those trails put in front of me and that bike, didn’t have any 

weight at all. Sometimes, when I felt extra brave, 

I would stay out there ‘til nighttime and watch the stars appear. 

Scattered like grains of salt across the black table that 

is the night sky. I wondered how long I would have 

to pedal to reach one of those specks of light. As always, 

some noise from the void would smack me out of my 

stupor, and I would fly straight home. Standing tall regardless 

of my fear, tears in my young eyes, weightless on 

my pegs. I learned in astronomy class, once, that 

the nearest star to us, Alpha Centauri, is


around twenty five trillion miles away. On a oneto-one-billion 

scale of the universe—if the 

size of the sun was around the size of a grapefruit and 

you set that fruit sun down on the west coast—the 

nearest grapefruit would be Alpha Centauri, twenty 

five hundred miles away on the east coast. I 

still dream of one day getting on my spaceship and 

riding to the nearest star where another boy, 

on his spaceship, might have a trail for me to ride. 

And perhaps, a grapefruit for me to munch on.


Paradigm shift of body recognition 

Mina Hyeon (Generative Art + Writing), 

Junhong Cho (Choreographer + Dancer), 

Peace Choi (Cinematographer)


This work is an experiment in observing and expressing how the body is 

perceived and how several relationships constantly change in virtual but 

‘real’ environments. 

Choreographer/dancer Junhong Cho, whom I met on a dance project NAMU 

in 2018. This artist’s movements coexist with lightness walking on calm water 

and powerful energy when a massive ice wall cracks down. 

—Mina Hyeon


To Forget You


To Become No One 

Taken over the last couple years, these works are images of the ‘other’. The other in 

terms of another body: a strange physical form or our own form on days we feel at 

war within, as well as the other in nature: the all encompassing presence of systems 

so much bigger than us. It is within our own vessels we experience the other, it is 

within the body we find the husk of what differentiates and connects us to the earth. 

These images are not just an ode to the beauty of the earth but of the naked figure, 

acknowledging the isolation and despair our residing within them can cause. Intimacy 

with the self comes from time with ourselves alone, and peace comes from our 

time alone in Nature. When we return to the body: we return to the earth. 

—Stephanie Alishan


Only When


I Forgave

# SIENNA SOLSTICE 

NeuroKnitting Beethoven 

Varvara and Mar 

Credit: Nabi Art Centre 

NeuroKnitting Beethoven celebrates the 250th anniversary of the great composer 

Ludwig van Beethoven by re-imagining his music through the creative application 

of brain waves and knitting. In a classical music concert, we hear the interpretation 

of the composer’s piece by a musician. What if we could also see and manifest in 

the knitting processes the musician’s state of mind when performing? 

NeuroKnitting Beethoven project re-visits Beethoven’s music by offering a novel 

experience of classical music at the interface between neuroscience, music, and 

media art. During the concert, we recorded the brain waves of a pianist (in Seoul 

we recorded Buddist monk’s brain waves), which affected Circular Knitic’s (our circular 

knitting machine) pattern and knitting speed. The first one is composed of the 

peaks of attention level, and the second corresponded to the meditation state. In 

other words, the higher was the attention, the denser was the pattern. And higher 

was the meditation level, faster knitted the machine. And all these processes were 

in real-time and took place simultaneously. 

For full project documentation see: http://var-mar.info/neuroknitting-beethoven/

ISSUE I # 

In addition to the affective knitting 

with brain data, the performance had 

also visuals that represented all data 

that was received from the EEG headset 

and had thematic videos that were 

generated with AI algorithm (Style- 

GAN2) and that reacted to the audio 

input (music in this case), too. 

The project was initially planned as an 

on-site interactive performance-concert 

that was transformed into a telematic 

performance due to Covid-19, 

which added an additional twist to the 

project. Meaning, the concert, capturing 

brain data, and visuals were happening 

in the physical space of the 

performance with the audience. Knitting 

happened in our studio and was 

streamed to the performance place, 

and at the same time, brain data from 

the performance place was sent over 

the internet in real-time to our studio 

that controlled the knitting machine. 

Also, the entire performance was 

streamed online.


Gagarin in the Trees 

Andre F. Peltier 

The ghost of Yuri Gagarin 

floats down the hallways 

of the International 

Space Station. 

The resident astronauts, 

cosmonauts, uchū-hikō-shi 

salute as he slides by. 

They tell him their deepest secrets 

while flushing their filth 

into the void. 

“Dear Yuri,” they say, 

“It’s been eight hours since 

my last evacuation. 

I have eaten two portions of 

dehydrated chocolate pudding, 

and I spent twenty minutes 

on the tread mill. 

I really miss morning coffee 

overlooking the 

Hollywood sign 

and the Kiselyova Rock. 

I miss lazy Saturdays 

in my garden.” 

“Поехали,” he replies. 

The vacuum of space 

greets the spationauts 

and the spationauts wave 

to Gagarin while falling 

27,000 kilometers per hour. 

When the falling station 

misses the curve of the Earth 

again and again, 

the spationaut says 

a brief prayer, 

thanking the engineers, 

those great rangers of 

the atomic age. 

Claudie Haigneré said 

her prayers to Gagarin also 

and in return, 

he blessed her saintly 

homecoming. 

eases around the trees 

in my back yard 

and climbs the tallest 

to get a better view. 

He climbs the tallest 

to recall his vantage 

point in orbit. 

The ghost of Yuri Gagarin 

returns to Клу́шино 

and reminisces with his 

Muscovite brethren. 

They recall 

the good old days. 

They wait patiently, 

and they see what 

the future 

holds. 

Personified River 

Linda Dallimore 

The ghost of Yuri Gagarin


West of the Milky Way, South of 

the Clouds 

Emerald Liu 

A silhouette reclines in a worn-out retro webbed chair 

tracing kinetic shadows 

scattered across the abandoned terrace tiles 

As the scenery of dusk sets into a jade studded 

lacquered night 

Lemonade sips leave a fugitive tang on the tongue 

knowing the time zone you frequent comes closer to a rising dawn 

where dew drops osculate the soft to deep pink petals 

of wild camellia shrubs 

that brush beside assorti swirls of polka dots on your chiffon dress 

as you drink your sweet Azuki shake 

gazing over Yuan Yang rice terraces’ liquid mirror surfaces 

that reflect abstract fragments of the night 

Separately we find ourselves sharing the same celestial scene 

as the Milky Way cuts through the Summer Triangle 

like a voluptuous barrier 

Stimulating a thirst for saline drops 

that touch the curve of your cupid’s bow 

more intimately 

than any simple tangent could 

Pressing your lips to the glass’s edge 

The venation of its imprint leaves an all too familiar pattern 

of taste and touch tied in stardust


Demodex 

Morgan Rondinelli 

You have mites on your face. Yes, 

you. Nearly 100% of humans do. We are 

inoculated shortly after birth, by our mothers 

or those otherwise in closest proximity 

to us. This gift of mites has been given for 

thousands of generations, likely since before 

we were considered modern Homo 

sapiens. The mites are called Demodex, 

species names D. folliculorum and D. brevis. 

If you take a plastic slide and scrape 

it along your nose or eyebrows, and then 

put the oils and dead skin under a microscope, 

with a good eye and a bit of luck, 

you can see these mites for yourself. They 

have eight legs, like all mites, which are 

technically arachnids, cousins of spiders 

and ticks. But rather than thin, long legs 

like a spider, Demodex have fat, stubby 

legs attached to their fat, little bodies. 

They use these to grasp onto a hair, the 

rest of their body sticking slightly out of 

the follicle. They’re honestly kind of cute. 

I know this, not from seeing Google 

images of Demodex, though I’ve seen 

plenty of those too, but from seeing my 

own Demodex mite. We did this as a lab 

exercise in my undergraduate Ecology of 

Human Parasites class. We had dissected 

worms and fish, but this is the lab I 

remember most. Dr. Chelsea Wood stood 

at the front of the lab room showing us 

images of what we should be looking for 

amongst our own skin. Then, she walked 

around checking everyone’s microscopes 

when they thought they had found one. 

We all stayed hovered over our microscopes, 

only taking breaks to scrape more 

dead skin onto a slide, both excited and 

disgusted about the prospect of seeing a 

mite from our own faces. Suddenly, I saw 

legs. Eight legs and a tube-like body. And 

then I excitedly bumped my microscope 

out of focus. I had likely found Demodex, 

and then I had lost it. Carefully, I zoomed 

out. I scrolled back and forth and back and 

forth, and was able to relocate the mite. I 

sighed with relief, though more carefully 

this time so as not to hit the microscope 

again. I raised my hand and ushered over 

Dr. Wood. She looked down the lens for 

a few seconds while I waited anxiously. 

So often, we thought we had identified a 

specimen, but when Dr. Wood checked, 

really it was just an air bubble. But Dr. 

Wood then confirmed, “Yep! You found 

one.” She brought my slide up to her more 

powerful microscope to take some nice 

pictures. My classmates each took turns 

looking at my Demodex. Though the prevalence 

rate on humans is estimated in the 

upper nineties, I was the only one in my 

class to find a mite. It’s a bit of a blind 

search to go through random dead skin 

on a microscope slide. But finding one of 

my own Demodex mites earned me ten 

bonus points towards the final exam, so I 

didn’t mind. My classmates insisted that I 

name the lone mite. We named it Jimmy. 

As a biologist, I know there is life 

on me and within me, and I mean that 

literally. Besides mites like Demodex, I am 

home for a multitude of bacteria. They live 

in my gut, between my teeth, on my skin. 

My microbiome is everywhere I am. The 

bacteria in my digestive system are part


of my digestive system. Like a termite 

relying on its protozoans and the bacteria 

within those organisms to digest the 

wood it eats into sugar, I need my own 

bacteria for successful digestion. An infant’s 

gut microbiome and immune system 

development can be influenced by 

whether they were born vaginally or by 

Caesarean section, and what initial bacteria 

they encountered during birth. As 

soon as we enter the world, we are bombarded 

with bacteria fighting to make us 

home. And all those years later, we can 

still see the early signs of worlds colliding. 

Demodex mites live in a world different 

from our own though. It is a scale of 

giant hairs and deep pores. That is their 

food, the dead skin and sebum coming off 

our faces. And, I don’t know how to put 

this poetically, but Demodex mites don’t 

have an anus. They eat and eat these 

pieces of you and then die full of you, full 

of your cells and your being. Until they 

explode and now your face is covered in 

mite poop. Or I guess, parts of yourself 

turned into mite poop. 

To my microbiome, I am a great 

home. I provide them food and shelter, 

and the bacteria in return provide things 

like digestion and protection from harmful 

bacteria. The same goes for larger organisms, 

like my Demodex mites. Some biologists 

argue Demodex mites aren’t even 

parasites since they hardly affect me or 

my fitness, aside from being suspected 

to occasionally cause skin conditions, like 

rosacea. Perhaps it’s just commensalism, 

a positive-neutral relationship. The Demodex 

benefit, and I, the human, am unaffected. 

Ecological relationships and terms 

like parasitism are less clear cut than you 

would think. Still, the Demodex mites are 

always with me. When I crack open a new 

book or when I lie down on my pillow for 

a nap or when I snuggle against my cat 

or when I put in a load of laundry or when 

I reach up to scratch my face, they are 

always there. (I bet you’re scratching your 

face now.) The vastness of it all makes me 

feel a bit powerful though. Suddenly, rather 

than a small, lonely human on a vast 

planet, I am the world for a small, lonely 

mite. 

As scientists, we are often taught 

to remove loveliness from our work. This 

is true in writing, especially. Though there 

is creativity in the research process, the 

written word must be bland, straightforward, 

explicit. Loveliness can be distracting, 

so get straight to the point. This 

conflict between my two selves, one analytical 

and one who wants more loveliness 

in the world, constantly meets its 

maker. Science is lovely though. And scientific 

words can roll with pleasure off the 

page and tongue: Pathogen; prehensile. 

Osmosis; organelle. Gamete; guanine. 

Deciduous; Demodex. Dēmós meaning 

fat. Dēx meaning wood worm. In the Domain 

Eukaryota. Kingdom: Animalia. Arthropoda, 

Cheliceria, Arachnida, Acari, 

Trombidiformes, Demodicidae, Demodex 

folliculorum. 

Science is lovely when I smell 

freshly cut grass, or hear the buzz of a 

honeybee. With cut grass, you are really 

smelling airborne green leaf volatiles, a 

carbon-based compound. It’s the individual 

pieces of grass using pheromones to 

communicate with blades and plants farther 

away. Fortify yourself, danger is coming! 

Though the messengers cannot run 

away or save themselves, grass still try to 

warn their compatriots. The mental image 

of these floating pheromones is both 

heroic and sad. The distant grass is only 

expecting insects, and time to prepare a 

defense, not an all too nearby gas lawnmower. 

Their efforts are futile, and they


too will soon smell of freshly cut grass. 

The buzz of a honeybee brings to 

mind their complex social structure. There 

are numerous rankings and jobs within a 

hive, the most basic division being into 

female queen, female workers, and male 

drones. But even deeper, workers have 

countless jobs, from raising young bees 

to doting on the queen to cleaning the 

hive. All members are geared, or at least 

all the female workers, towards protecting 

the queen and the longevity of the 

hive. This makes sense if you look at their 

genetic makeup. Unfertilized eggs, only 

one gamete, develop as males. These 

drones have two goals: eat and mate. On 

the other hand, fertilized eggs develop 

as females. Worker females, sister bees, 

share far more genetic material with one 

another than biological human siblings. 

Sister bees are 75% related, to our 50%, 

so they are even more inclined to protect 

one another. 

Scientists rigorously debate if altruism 

exists. Like sister honeybees, nearby 

blades of grass are closely related, so it 

makes sense that they would try to warn 

their cousins. If I can’t survive, maybe you 

can, and you will carry on our common 

genes. Of course, grass does not have 

a brain. No blade has ever thought this 

through. It’s simply that those historic 

grass blades who warned their cousins, 

passed on their genes. Bees do have 

brains, but I highly doubt they run a probability 

calculation when feeding their 

queen. This is all merely a statistical game 

for scientists to play. Many scientists assert 

that there is no such thing as true 

altruism, that all acts of care stem from 

this game of still trying to ensure the longevity 

of your own genes. Whether bees 

or grass or humans, it is a selfish act. We 

must expect an act of care in return. I help 

you, you help me. But I don’t buy this for a 

minute. Maybe we are sometimes unconsciously 

helping blood relatives for this 

reason, but that can’t be the only reason. 

And help transcends families, species 

even. Dolphins have been known to circle 

and protect human swimmers from nearby 

sharks. Surely, our genetic relationship 

to dolphins is distant enough that it’s just 

out of compassion. I will even settle for it 

being curiosity. What could the dolphins 

possibly expect in return? Even among 

organisms less developed neurologically, 

care must be innate. 

Sometimes in science we are inclined 

to remove loveliness from the 

world. We can lose the forest for the trees, 

so to speak, and see only trees trying to 

ensure their genetic survival. Or only the 

species diversity makeup of a forest. Or 

only the chemical structure of a yellowing, 

fall leaf. Science is lovely though. The 

unwavering presence of Demodex mites 

on my skin provides an odd form of reassurance: 

I am never alone. There will always 

be a mite munching on me, helping 

recycle the cells I shed, probably until the 

day I die. I merely give the mites food and 

a warm home. They give me a constant. 

Isn’t that just a more obscure form of altruism? 

Maybe only to a poet.


Kinetic Tapsety 

Aaron Lelito


Franklin Carmichael Of The Group Of 

Seven Using Duct Tape For The First Time 

Colin James 

Tuesday was essentially a washout. 

Can’t say enough about 

those student volunteers. 

I just sat there dreaming 

in vernacular strokes. 

From the side rhetorically, 

I may appear thoughtful.


SONG FOR STANDING BELLS 


What’s left of every word is bone and shell. 

Etched husks, wind-hewn, deserted instruments 

we ring with breath. The body’s empty bell 

brims. A tunnel of hum, we rim and spill 

through syllables, skimming lines to animate 

what’s left. Every word. Bones, shells, 

feathers, wave-worn stones. This windfall 

hour. The song you hold this moment’s 

wearing breath. The body’s empty bell 

resounds the notes, vessels cast to spell 

what’s missing. Unveiling the whole in fragments. 

What’s left if the very world is bone, a shell 

drained dry. Your voice divines, a word-drawn well 

to reach the remnant sea. To swell the absence 

we ring. With breath, the body’s empty bell 

flows through interstices, fills every hull 

and carapace. Toward nothing. Toward resonance. 

What’s left of every word is bone and shell; 

we ring with breath the body’s empty bell.


Playmates 

Edwin Evans-Thirlwell 

assume waver and full 

baring of parts sufficient to avoid 

unnecessary friction, 

don’t forget to describe 

the protuberances: 

albedo pop-up a crop, fresh 

no listless or tangible function, 

even the defunct to belong 

to an intimate and acceptable 

definition, 

fragments and components 

to be objects in themselves, 

a catalogue 

of orbits and a diverse range 

of ends, 

reparation to be conducted 

within a scope adequate 

to avert cascading 

snow or wet sand, 

dynamics of loose material, 

graze of use, 

sidewind and bones 

angst upon marble, 

voluptuous and insular - 

a frill and a thrill 

festooned with toggle switches, 

emerging 

from high life 

in milk and honey, 

striking the hatch 

A Day Refusing To End 

Edward Lee


The Tiniest Suns 

Maija Haavisto 

it starts by introducing tiny crinkles 

on the tops of cookies 

some dislike the effect 

while others make them 

crack intentionally 

the ridges spread into faultlines 

and continue opening into sinkholes 

at that point it’s much too late 

you might lose a limb or two 

but you don’t even care any more 

you’re too busy staring at the static 

it’s easy to get lost into it 

the intricacy of the blooming pixels 

you’re static and it’s not funny 

but you laugh anyway 

tires pop, eyes pop 

once you ...let’s not go there 

look mom! no limbs! no head! 

the spherical limb fully severed! 

no body! no me! just static 

that goes bzzzzzz 

like a swarm of angry bees 

no one’s driving this bike 

(but bees! so many bees!) 

as it heads into a ditch 

where unmanned bikes tend to go 

that is where I’d go look 

but yeah, there’s nothing to be found 

the circuits still bubble up sparkles 

and you could stare at them 

all day, I think you do 

I think that’s where you’ve been 

all day 

orbiting the tiniest suns 

Edward Lee 

Another Day, Another Chance

Aaron Lelito is a visual artist from Buffalo, 

NY. In his photographic work, he is primarily 

drawn to the patterns and imagery of nature. 

His images have been published as cover art 

in Red Rock Review, Peatsmoke Journal, and 

The Scriblerus. His work has also appeared in 

LandLocked Magazine, EcoTheo Review, About 

Place Journal, and Alluvian. He is editor in chief 

of the art & literature website Wild Roof Journal. 

See more of his work on Instagram @runic_ruminations. 

Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Lecturer III at 

Eastern Michigan University where he teaches 

literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, 

MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has 

recently appeared in various publications like 

CP Quarterly, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Version 

9 Magazine, About Place, Novus Review, 

Wingless Dreamer, and Fahmidan Journal, and 

most recently he has had a poem accepted by 

Lavender and Lime Literary. In his free time, he 

obsesses over soccer and comic books. 

Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry 

published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying 

from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness 

Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski’s Porch 

Press and a book of poems, Resisting Probability, 

from Sagging Meniscus Press. Formally 

from the UK he now lives in Massachusetts. 

Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. 

His paintings and photography have been exhibited 

widely, while his poetry, short stories, 

non-fiction have been published in magazines 

in Ireland, England and America, including The 

Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths 

Knoll. He is currently working on two photography 

collections: ‘Lying Down With The Dead’ 

and ‘There Is A Beauty In Broken Things’. He 

also makes musical noise under the names 

Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures 

Fighting, and Pale Blsond Boy. His blog/ 

website can be found at https://edwardmlee. 

wordpress.com 

Edwin Evans-Thirlwell (he & him) is the London-based 

peddler of cardboard solar systems, 

playable gardens, boxed cats, poetic FAQs and 

bad fables about the ugliness of eating. His longer 

projects include a verse response to NA- 

SA’s Golden Record. He also writes videogame 

criticism for places like Edge, Wired and Heterotopias. 

One of these days he’ll realise that 

this was all a terrible mistake. Any day now. 

Emerald Liu is a Sino-Belgian writer who has 

previously written for The Millions, Drawing 

Matter, and Far-Near amongst many others. 

Her poetry has been featured in group art exhibitions 

in Antwerp and NYC, you can find her 

poems in Verses Magazine, Superfroot, Giallo 

Lit, etc. She is currently the Poetry + Prose editor 

of Asians In The Arts. 

J. Villanueva is a Chicano writer/poet from 

deep south Texas. When he is not agonizing 

in front of his computer, he is building and riding 

his motorcycles. He currently has work(s) 

forthcoming in Alebrijes Review. He is currently 

an MFA student at the University of Texas-Rio 

Grande Valley. You can follow him on Twitter @ 

Jay_theaztec. 

Linda Dallimore is an emerging composer and 

flutist hailing from Auckland, New Zealand. She 

loves writing music for orchestras and chamber 

ensembles. Her music explores textures, 

colours, and often draws inspiration from personal 

experiences, the environment, and social 

and political topics. Linda’s music has 

been played by the New Zealand Symphony 

Orchestra, Rhode Island Philharmonic, Albany 

(NY) Symphony Orchestra, Auckland Philharmonia 

Orchestra, Ensemble Klangrauschen, 

B3:Brouwer Trio and the Aspen Contemporary 

Ensemble. Linda completed a Master of Musical 

Arts in composition at Yale School of Music 

in 2021, studying with Christopher Theofanidis 

and Martin Bresnick. As an alumna of Berklee 

College of Music, Linda majored in composition 

and flute performance. She is a member of the 

Composers Association of New Zealand and 

represented by SOUNZ centre for New Zealand 

Music and APRA AMCOS.

Maija Haavisto is a poet, novelist, medical 

writer, artist and disability activist. She has had 

17 books published in Finland, including the poetry 

collections Raskas vesi (Aviador 2018) and 

Hopeatee (Oppian 2020). In English her poetry 

has appeared or is forthcoming in e.g. Cosmospen, 

Topical Poetry, Littoral, ShabdAaweg Review, 

Asylum, Eye to the Telescope, Shoreline 

of Infinity and Kaleidoscope. Find her on Twitter: 

http://www.twitter.com/DiamonDie She 

also has poetry readings available on YouTube: 

http://www.youtube.com/user/DiamonDie 

Mina Hyeon was born in Seoul, South Korea, 

and spent years in the States. Her early experience 

of diverse cultures became a seed for 

her to understand the world better. She has 

loved playing video games and reading sci-fi/ 

detective novels since she was seven years old. 

Enthusiasm in understanding humans and storytelling 

led her to major in film&theater, and 

after years of field experience, she started her 

MFA study in multimedia at Korea National 

University of Arts. Working in the XR industry 

as a co-founder/producer of GiiÖii immersive 

storytelling studio, she won awards at global 

film festivals such as SXSW with her XR projects. 

She is developing her art in the theme of 

a ‘multiverse traveler,’ which aims to seek the 

potential of the virtual environment as a physical 

space and an extended sensory receptor of 

ourselves using AI, XR, generative art form. 

Robert Fanning is the author of six poetry 

collections, including four full-length collections: 

Severance (Salmon Poetry, Ireland, 2019), 

Our Sudden Museum (Salmon Poetry, Ireland, 

2017), American Prophet (Marick Press, 2009), 

and The Seed Thieves (Marick Press, 2006), as 

well as two chapbooks: Sheet Music (Three 

Bee Press, 2016), and Old Bright Wheel (Ledge 

Press Poetry Award, 2001). His poems have appeared 

in Poetry, Ploughshares, Shenandoah, 

Gulf Coast, THRUSH, Waxwing, The Atlanta 

Review, and many other journals. A graduate of 

the University of Michigan and Sarah Lawrence 

College, he is a Professor of Creative Writing 

at Central Michigan University. He is also the 

Founder and Facilitator of the Wellspring Literary 

Series, and the Founder and Director 

of PEN/INSULA POETRY, a site for Michigan 

poets. He lives with his wife, sculptor Denise 

Whitebread Fanning, and their two children. 

Stephanie Alishan is a London-born Armenian 

artist and writer working primarily in film, 

photography and immersive installation. With 

a background in Veterinary Science, Alishan’s 

work is rooted in the physical form: desolate 

contorted bodies and immense natural landscapes. 

Exploring themes of intimacy, sexuality 

and loss, her work centres around the need 

for confession, especially in terms of the female 

experience. Having exhibited work internationally 

between London and Guatemala, Alishan 

produces work in a variety of traditional media, 

always pushing the limits on what can be 

achieved through solely analog materials such 

as film, photographic emulsion and projection 

integrated with her writings. @stephalishanstudio 

Varvara & Mar is an artist duo formed by Varvara 

Guljajeva and Mar Canet in 2009. Often 

duo’s work is inspired by the information age. In 

their practice, they confront social changes and 

the impact of the technological era. The artist 

duo has exhibited their art pieces in a number 

of international shows and festivals. Varvara & 

Mar has exhibited at MAD in New York, FACT in 

Liverpool, Santa Monica in Barcelona, Barbican 

and V&A Museum in London, Onassis Cultural 

Centre in Athens, Ars Electronica museum 

in Linz, ZKM in Karlsruhe, etc. Varvara (born in 

Tartu, Estonia), holds the position of Assistant 

Professor in Computational Media and Arts at 

the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology 

(GZ). Previously she has held a position 

at the Estonian Academy of Arts. Mar (born in 

Barcelona) is a Ph.D. candidate and Cudan research 

fellow at the Baltic Film, Media and Arts 

School in Tallinn University, focusing on AI and 

interactive art. Link: www.var-mar.info

ISSUE IV

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