Archive
An experiment in personal narratives.
A retrospective on the past decade.
published New Year’s Eve 2020
In our first online release, Placeholder Press asked contributors to explore their experience of the last ten years – January 2010 to December 2019 – through personal essay, poetry, prose and art.
The work below addresses gentrification, displacement, neurodivergence, loss, abuse, excitement, and in spite of it all, love. We hope reminiscing will help us celebrate our joys and keep our sorrows in mind, to learn from our past and move into 2020 beautifully.
It’s been a lot. It’s been hard. We’re both still here. I love you.
Contributors
Emma Levin
’Camden’
Comic
Bunny Intonamorous
’Archive’
Musical retrospective
Nacheal Catnott
’Taking The Anchor’
Poem
Joshua Corwin
’Hello Grandpa’ & ‘The Update’
Personal essay & poem
Jack Felice
Four Pieces
Collage
Holly Jane
’The Wardrobe'
Personal essay
Rachael Kidd
Five Pieces
Oils on canvas
Amy Moreno
Four Pieces
Poetry
Anonymous
’Midatlantic’
Personal Essay
Ross Brighton
Five pieces
Poetry
Emma Levin - Camden
Bio
Emma Levin’s short stories have appeared in anthologies (e.g. England’s Future History), magazines (e.g. Popshot), online (e.g. Daily Science Fiction) and many, many recycling bins. She is incredibly grateful (and still a little bit surprised) to have been offered a place on the BBC’s ‘Comedy Room’ Writer’s Development Scheme for 2018-19.
She blogs at ctrlaltdelay.blogspot.com
Bunny Intonamorous - Archive
Bunny Intonamorous is a digital composer based in Wigan, Greater Manchester. Beginning originally in the witch house scenes, Bunny’s foray into electronic music began in earnest with Pe† Ceme†ery, part learning exercise, and part experiment in fusing their influences into something vaguely listenable.
After the work invested into the Pe† Ceme†ery project finally coalesced into an album, Intonamorous sought newer musical pastures to explore and play in. Starting with Medulasa (formerly known as Partisan), they began to incorporate elements of gabber, grime, trance, ambient and nu-metal, an unfortunately toxic mix that appears to be killing the artist to this day. Their work in this period also yielded releases as The Dubwitch Horror, a goth- and dub-influenced project, Hypersport Ltd., a project themed around the sounds of the Wipeout series of games, and DJ Netflex, a project with the sole aim to marry the lush sounds and expansive headspace of ambient music with the fast tempo and pounding beats of old school gabber and hardcore.
This archival release sees the artist hand-picking special tracks from their back catalogue that expresses their growth in the past decade, finding through-lines of an emphasis on glowing sonorities and hard beats.
Amy B. Moreno
Concentric Circles
They sit at the dinner table, listening to each other chew on their resentment
A tree branch fingers the window – scrape, scrap, tip, tap
Her mouth is pulled like a sting, into a tight line
Knife scrapes on fork
and the light catches the sheen of the blade: a coded warning flash
to an unmanned lighthouse that tastes metallic
She’s heated metal folded over and over in relentless rings of Damascus steel;
its waves and swirls forever embedded with those concentric circles
of cells which were multiplying and loving and growing
Then suddenly dropping like red poisonous berries.
Her body still pulses with taunting nausea.
She longs to run, headfirst, feet pummelling a riverside path,
crushing twigs and defenceless cowering snails beneath her weight of one
Better still, she’d run in a straight line, along a man-built pavement,
wet with linoleum fish scales,
to escape this circular maze
But coiled inside herself, within recovery,
the high burn roars in her ears,
along with the pitter patter of falling leaves.
Autumn is an honest season; disrobed, exposed, no secrets
No plumb fruit, taunting blossom, or white magic.
Coached in jealous crab apples; turning to bitter inside.
Her paled hands fall to her middle,
She holds the whole universe inside her emptiness.
Sharps and Flats on Arrival
two
lines, ))
now I
wait in
nauseas
worry, round
shapes merging,
I place one hand
in the small of my
back, leaning beyond
the now, my other
fingers reply to
flutters: tap,
tap, tap
Right, time it
use counters
for minutes
no pattern, it’s
vibrant waves and zig zag lines
of marching ants and birling frogs tearing apart a lost map
and then
a
warmed pause
of lavender breath
kept still, in a hot water bottle
then
this circular embrace
over and over
holds hands with triangles and stars and black and jagged foil in a vice
it’s everything
and everywhere
and I’m somewhere else entirely
and again
infinite rings sing burning lines
and from the depths of myself:
Here
Waves of Supply and Demand
A technical issue has affected the image that this poem is formatted in - while we work on fixing it, the alt text for the image is below:
Four stanzas are arranged in lines that rise and dip and intertwine. The lines replicate how the levels of the hormones each poem is titled after rise and fall. One reads "progesterone dips, dives like an anxious seabird in worried wings, where did I leave the baby is the oven still on...". Another reads "Oestrogen cocooned in eternal motherhood, casts shadows behind like dominoes clacking one back against the other." a third, this one in blue, reads "on high love over-spills fills down deep joins the dots with rain-drops up and soars. My view changes forever, rolling hills below call their long night chant alone in the dark, echoes of cries of love and hope and bravery bonds with my baby".
Shaped like Paper Dolls and Echos
Bundled up close, but slowly coming apart
into two silhouettes, rather than one
Still joined at the part that cries and feels
And draws my new outline
Each new chapter is a slightly bigger handprint
Cut inexpertly with safety scissors
A punctured dummy uncovered from its secret hideyhole
signals proof you have cut an adamant tooth
I show you how to try the shape sorter out for size; so many options presented to your hands
I’m formed in play-doh, crêpe paper, and
hands, drawn round and stuck to the fridge; crayon offerings
with open, trusting palms
That trace my life line over and over before falling asleep
The days run into one another,
like paint dripping down the sheets of paper
strung up on the clotheshorse
I’m sketched by flaps taped back on to books; which I can still fix
And by train track pieces clipping together childcare + home + work + a new little brother
While the engine keeps spinning along,
I tip out the dressing-up box to search for a suitable costume for each role
And you’re running like a river, scattering outgrown velvety skin
Scraping scooter punctuation marks
And I breathe, and the day is now shaped like patent shoes lined up in uniform colours
and daily reading book logs and clocks
and I’m waiting again;
this time, in the windy afternoons before three o’clock
When you’re still little enough to run full speed into my arms
But starting to build corners to your life that I don’t know
In your sleep, your eyelashes still flutter on your cheeks
as I once felt and replied, tap tap tap, to those tiny feet.
Bio
Amy B. Moreno is an experienced interpreter and translator, moving on to writing poetry and prose for both adult and child readers. She has been published by The Glasgow Women’s Library blog and The Scottish Book Trust, plus several websites and blogs, and has upcoming work in The Ogilvie Review, and Seahorse Publications. She is currently based on the eastern coast in Scotland.
You can connect with her on Twitter: @Amy_B_Moreno
Holly Jane - The Wardrobe
Editor’s Note:
The following piece addresses themes of domestic abuse.
My mobile rings suddenly and I’m gripped with an immediate fear. It takes a few seconds to calm myself down before I shake my head, feeling stupid and press it to my ear. I exhale. It’s only a business call from a PPI company.
The phone is dropped back onto the bed again and I curl up next to it. Why hadn’t I bothered checking the number before answering the thing? Next time, I must remember to do these checks. There was no room for error.
I sit in front of the television, just staring at the inkiness of the black screen before I remember that I don’t need to ask for permission. I turn on my favourite channel, trying to push down the feelings of guilt as I’m allowed to watch whatever I want. I turn off the television half an hour later, I didn’t want to overexert my free will and take the mickey. There was more housework to be done.
Later, I open the freezer and stare blankly at the items inside. My eyes are immediately drawn to the various favourites I’d cooked over the years and set down at the dinner table. I try to forget in the many years I’d made meals, just how much of it actually ended up being consumed as opposed to ending up on the floor, or the walls. Automatically I reach for a box of Southern Fried Chicken, before remembering that I didn’t actually like it. Instead, I hesitantly reach for something else.
Someone knocks rapidly on the door. My heart jumps into my mouth and I immediately head for the upstairs wardrobe. My heart thuds painfully – who on earth would be knocking on my front door at 9:05pm? I close the wooden doors and sit, hunched in the dark – surrounded by clothes I didn’t like to wear. My phone buzzes indignantly at my side and it’s another number I don’t recognise.
“Open the door, Heather.” A voice floats from downstairs. I’m gripped with a paralysing fear as I try to place the voice of whoever had said that. A few moments later, the voice repeats again and I sigh in relief. It was only my friend.
I open the door after double checking through the peephole, letterbox and frosted window. It opens partially before Fran’s sympathetic face peers through the gap.
“Next time I come by, I’ll leave some extra time,” she laughs good naturedly and gestures to her work clothes for the night shift down at the local factory. “Just wanted to drop this by first, just to make sure you have it.”
I stare down at the printed slip of paper in her hands and it’s got a picture of a lily on it.
“I don’t need to discuss anything at a group,” I say softly. “These sorts of things aren’t meant for people like me. They’re for real issues. Real men and women with problems.”
Fran smiles, but it’s a sad one. “I think this would be right up your street, but I understand if you don’t want to go. I just wanted to make you aware that you have the option to.”
“I can’t.” I say automatically and try to search for an answer. There was nothing else that needed my attention that particular day and time. No one I needed to look after. But the very thought terrified me.
“I’ll drive you there if you don’t want to go alone.” She says softly.
A few days pass by and I wake up suddenly, feeling lost and confined. I struggle to remember the last time I left the house and as I pull on my oldest, baggiest clothes. I feel the urge to escape, get out into the fresh air and away from these four walls.
It wasn’t too long of a walk and I certainly wasn’t dressed for it, but I scuttled downtown and into the local church hall just off the high street. I was habitually early, but the lady running the session offers me to take the first seat as she mills around, getting everything set up.
Soon enough, others arrive and I’m surprised at just how much of a diverse little group this was. Men and women of all age groups, all walks of life. They sit around me, some not looking at anyone else at all. The last few rows of chairs fill up and the session is about to begin.
The chair beside me moves and I automatically lean my body away. A lady sits down, about my age. She’s fumbling around in her purse for a chewing gum before she sees me staring.
“Helps to keep my grounded.” She whispers and pops one in her mouth. She offers the packet to me and I realise that I have nothing left to lose. I didn’t want to hide in the wardrobe anymore.
“I’m Paige,” she introduces. “I didn’t expect to see this many people here! Still, it’s all for a good cause isn’t it? What brought you here today?” She turns to me and it’s the first eye contact I’ve had with anyone in a little while.
I open my mouth and struggle to summon any words to mind that would explain my situation. The intense ball of feelings that were tangled at the pit of my stomach. I swallow hard, feeling as stupid as I was once told multiple times.
“It’s OK. I was a domestic abuse victim too.” She says and smiles. I’m not immediately convinced – I could tell a forced smile from a mile away. What stops me is her use of past tense. She knows her smile is sad, but she doesn’t try to hide it. I blink rapidly for a few seconds and outstretch my hand to another human.
“It’s nice to meet you.” I say. And I mean it.
Bio
Juggling a full time career working with animals and writing late into the night, Holly Jane is an up and coming writer to watch for 2020 and is currently working on her first novel, scheduled for release within the next year.
Joshua Corwin
Hello Grandpa
I have a special relationship with hummingbirds.
My mom told me they are the smallest birds in the world.
They represent gratitude and humility, love and godshots.
The latter needs some explaining. Let me hum:
God graced me with sobriety on August 13, 2015.
I was sitting on a park bench around the corner from my
parents’ house at this place called the “view site.” Over-
looking valleys, peaks, nadirs & zeniths representative of
despair & the bottomless pit: an abyssal gorge of treason
against my raison d’être. Smoking a joint & looking to the
sky. Overlooking Pacific Coast Highway. I didn’t know
why I was smoking & doing what I was doing. — This
substance, no longer sustenance for me. My dog by my
internal fireside, peering deep into my inferno, blazing
like the doobie. — Dubious, I cried out. Answerless…
No response. No reason. Pain psychic & depressive.
Feeling psychotic.
At one of my first Twelve Step anonymous meetings,
a fellow in this group of brave souls banded together
to redirect the flames to burn brightly, rather than skewer wild
boars — shared about hummingbirds & godshots:
Little events. Coincidences and winks from God. Doesn’t mean
anything. It’s just a visible wink. Blinking in and out —Tzim-
Tzumic vessels, breaths, smiles. (I regained my faith in Judaism
through the process of the Twelve Steps, particularly with
receiving anonymous Chassidic texts, and ninth-step amends to
my childhood rabbi …)
When I was nearly two years sober, I moved into an
apartment by myself. Living on my own, the neighbor above
would shine a hummingbird feeder out my window. Balcony
greeted song & winged love.
I’d hear their wings flapping, music napping solace to
resound within, as I meditate. Once in a while, I’d sip from a
coffee mug—given by mother—a hummingbird etched, Read
“begin each day with a grateful heart” & I’d sip,
drink in the hummingbird humming, hovering outside my
window… The neighbor, casting ballots of golden chimes.
As cars passed on Figueroa.
We would look each other in the eyes. Angel & man.
Angelic, this winged waiter would dish out gratitude,
me sipping coffee from its etched Talmud, listen to
rabbinical analysis on YouTube; and would follow
me showering the dove into my own personal Mikvah of song.
Sometimes, these creatures would present (and protect)
themselves to me on the grassy mounds of belonging
out in Claremont. I’d meditate, rejoice & remember;
eyes closed, open dove-songs from solace sheltered in the Lord
belonging not just to the grassy pasture-place, but also
to the winged bird inside me. Resonating raison d’être . . .
When I taught a one-day course — a godshot
too long to express, but some bits & pieces I’ll address . . .
I pulled a book out from the Honnold Mudd Library. I was bored
& exhausted, reading for philosophy of language
seminar. And I was drawn to a book. Consciousness & Tradition.
I took the book, read. And felt myself humming, hovering.
That feeling remembered again.
I found it in my bag a few days later, when I
taught a course on “The Art of Story Weaving Experience.” Sitting
on the patio of the inside-out classroom at Harvey Mudd; muddy
waters washed away as a hummingbird hovered above my shoulder.
Yesterday was July 27th. I drove to the view site. The place
where I last used. To scatter there ashic, dustic, rustic remains of
my late grandpa Mert. The dishes in my soul sink. Emotionally
tone deaf in my solar plexuses & aortic authenticity. I called a friend
from the Twelve-Step meeting I first attended. I was humming soon.
Five minutes early, I sat there. Before family arrived.
In peace, I read recovery literature, given to me when I felt like
carrying on my shoulders suicide. Handed to me by the man
who showered words at my first anonymous meeting — about
hummingbirds & godshots.
As I read, a hummingbird
descended to greet me.
Hello grandpa, I said. It
Vanished.
Grandma & others appeared
from the distance.
Roaming this dusty forest of
Memories.
Words & videos were
spoken, murmured & hummed.
Narration in
Song…
Yes, I’m leaving. On a jet plane. Don’t know
when I’ll be
back again… —
As ashes scattered, our lot departed
on the trunk of
an old, wise
tree—
w/ knowledge,
& the earth…
returned
a hummingbird.
Hello
Grandpa.
The Update
I tread transgressions
against how far I’ve come
as a kid diagnosed
on the autism spectrum
at the age of 5
and processing delay
at 6
along with anxiety disorder
and ADHD —
I don’t want to repeat
circles, with my feet.
One smaller and the other
— reminds me of my mind.
Neurotypical.
[also, alcoholic —
Thank God I’m sober,
but that’s
another story.]
Like a pacifist in rage
I need to accept my brain chemistry.
But persevere.
Circles.
Those feet
make them.
Quake.
And color loses its vivacity…
Like the squeamish self I am—
(Just
see me at the doctor.
Please.
Don’t.
I’m embarrassed,
by how I fade.)
O, it’s so hard
to fit in
when you’re hardwired
to differ.
Range
like a spectrum of shapes:
I circle,
but I transcend.
But because I do,
I have these fits
{usually every 3 months or so,
sometimes once a year}
It comes from acting
typical
when you’re
Atypical.
— did I tell you I had to learn
thousands of idioms?
[I thought …
when someone
said, “it’s raining
cats and dogs,”
That it was.]
— flashcards of rules…
I don’t want to rock back and forth,
as I pass on going out the door,
because I am now the floor…
unable to speak
when I have so much to say…
That happens every now and then…
and my feet repeat themselves in circles…
around a shape – a square or rectangle or circle perfect:
the kitchen table, where Dad is late
because he’s paying the bills,
so I can get the therapy I need,
and the speech therapy
— to learn idioms … like … “it’s raining cats and dogs”
— I feel like “it’s raining cats and dogs:”
the words and screams of atypicality,
in dysfunctional
familiac ways – words invented
I have so much to hear.
I have so much to say.
I’m trying to not repeat the circle and fall on the ground…
But perhaps. Putting on the guise
and persevering like I do.
Perhaps, I need to fall.
Perhaps, I need to circle.
How else could I draw the line
of when it’s time to stop the update?
Bio
Los Angeles native Joshua Corwin is an emerging poet and a graduate from Pitzer College in Claremont, California, where he earned a B. A. in Mathematics and a minor in Philosophy. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2019, his work can be found in Al-Khemia Poetica, Spectrum Publishing Vol. 20, Vol. 21 and Cento – Special Issue, Rattle Poetry‘s Rattlecast #9, #10, #13, #14, #16, #20, #22, Poetry Super Highway‘s PSH Live, also forthcoming in Ginosko Literary Journal and poeticdiversity. His debut poetry collection, Becoming Vulnerable, details his experience with autism, addiction, sobriety and spirituality (coming soon). Collaborating with The Miracle Project, an autism non-profit organization, he is developing poetry performance classes for individuals of all abilities, including those with autism recovering from alcohol and drug addiction. He writes to honor his grandpa, Mert, whose last words to him were “Don’t ever stop writing.”
Nacheal Catnott - Taking The Anchor
Oh, do you remember
The man who used to own the grocery stall
By the anchor
At the top of Deptford Market?
He’s no longer there.
Then they took the anchor.
Grabbed from behind
Like a hooded figure
Evicted without notice
Broken.
And then they wonder why
The rise in crime is so high.
Do you remember when they
Teared down the Heygate Estate?
To put a new
Shiny one
In its place?
Full of strange faces
Oblivious of the histories made in that place
Do you remember the stories by your Grandparents?
I came here in 1985…
I bet they did not expect
To be tossed out
Like day-old rice
On a Sunday night.
Yh there’s a Costa on Lewisham Way now,
Great right?
But
Don’t be blinded
Don’t lose sight of it all
Because soon you will realise
Like I did
When the rent went up and we had to downsize.
Bio
Nacheal Catnott is a British Caribbean artist and filmmaker whose practice addresses topics such as race, migration and cross cultural diversity in the UK.
Ross Brighton
Poem
I believe in
I believe in
I have lived one thousand deaths hauled from
though the jaws of hate
(there was a you there standing
standing wearing personhood like a cloak)
inertia is a thing
the first personal pronoun is owned by
the first personal pronoun falls through cavernous space
swing
swim
sing through
exalt for
four time decays luminescent in the slipstream of fingers
fingers luminesce
imma burn
imma burn
imma burn
burn triumphant
in excelsis
fire
space
fire
are you ready to go now?
the thousand sunshines of love
immolating terrible
toward every monadic site ever addressed as “you”
Poem
light of
off star fall
off
death edge interger
in tall trial
it behooves introspection
it behaves as [blinding flash]
[animal silence]
[the manipulation of time]
a world
a tear
is there such a thing as more
Six Fragments, Two Deaths, October / November 2017
I.
N O V A
R O S E
A R O S E
N O V A E
II.
circumradiant
omnistellar
Macrocosmic
infintesimal
singular
‘I’
III.
An
Ark
for
those
who
passed
through
Here
IV.
the
yoke
of
the
world
the
yoke
of
the
word
V.
small
ride on
small air
cavern
whisper
clarion
of
Charon
VI.
Green leaf
Grief
No worst
Word
no final
-ilty
no know
-ing
No
-thing.
No.
___
No name, no naming, no Gelobt-seist-du, no I am.
No.
___
No no.
___
And still
the day dies
again
still
the sun
so gold
so vermillion
[Poem]
The O in no
Man
O tree
O sun-
beam
give till
& toil
way
& bramble
breast
vine & bough
world woe-fruited
break
in word
s, cold
caesura dark in dawn
gold arc & pinion
orb for
ever
in line
hundred-honeyed
suns &
bleed silver
︱ hoop hove
out
o’er
hour
&
pour , our use
still weightless
& unwaited
&
no
thing
stirs
brief burial
sky ;
still lip
& moon loom
an empty bell
torn, starless, shod
birdborn
circum-
Flex
counter-
Nance
fur furl
gold pinion & hoof
shod bright,
all seen as seam,
&
river,
arch,
door,
wave,
hill
Bio
Ross Brighton is a poet and critic based in Auckland, New Zealand.