The diffused light is getting even more scattered. Sluggish tectonic plates move outwards. Grey is being scratched and picked by snowblades and shards of granite. The frost had been cracked open. Dark chasms, quartz threads, violet ozone icicles — everything that was once hidden now are protruding bewildered by oxygen deprivation. Swerving parabolas of gases had been doming, booming and contracting.



Solid copper cascades down the steep, slick basalt walls and forms rivulets. Swarthy emissions — the pebbles and pumice, the grains of mountains and meteors — striate the ridges. The gravity-fed avalanches and waterfalls bring together oceans.

CALLIPER



when that stiffness ceases, please, give yourself the time

when that bursting ceases, please, give yourself the time

when that creasing ceases, please, give yourself the time



you seem just to do not function

to scorch from tips of fingers to the throat but

Speed

all I think

to breed to steep

dispensaries of sadness

the companion reader of tears

of apprehension and

rental landscape wildness



I feed myself and teeth clink on the fork

the heart breaks

its own silence

I thought repentance must be brought together



but Speed

all I think

to twist and seal

my throbbing joints



With a precision

Perseverance clips

Her wounds





LIDAR

Who are they, these drifters,

Nacre du printemps.



Indexing. One, two, three, four…



Birds of pray. Booted from the veil of the dream.

“It’s gonna blast and won’t do you any good.”‒ said Ildar.



He knew himself he was lying, I could read that from the corners of his lips. He was aware how good it’s going to be, how powerful the experience. I’ve closed my eyes and waited, being all plank, stretched across blue rubbery med-mat. Few snapping sounds followed and an abrupt tingled feeling struck my wrist. My eyelids involuntarily spread to see slender fingers tensed, as if torched in agony, all too familiar now bending slowly two-way into a metalic unknown.



The next second ‒ it’s all black and I’m starving. Starving hard! Craving to devour everything, every parcel of my skin tingles with uncontrollable urge to gulp it, suck it all up. I could recall all those rare, brief moments of a deathdrive, urge to be, so distant and partial now. And now here in this womb-like void, each drop of cold sweat secreted from my body was shouting, - ‘give me sight!’. Sizzling subtle fry of it all. Urgh.

“I’m force, bb, limitless. hefty. motherfucking. force.”



Airborne wave stretching inner tendons swiving the globe like a tiny nugget. Tendril optics giving crisp panorama vision.

Suburban sky has wounded the earth.







‘Why do the birds sing?’









I don’t rememeber the last time I’ve used one of those hotel room phones. They are pretty much useless, right? Admit, these are ghost-objects, like, material junk somehow tickling ancient memories of our tiny lizard brains. We look at them no different than a fly watching car pass by. None-how. The sight of them is somehow disorienting, debilitating. Sorry, I’m a bit sick of them. Anyway. This time it fucking rung! It rung, and didn’t stop. I was in the shower when it first burst out. And you know, I’ve got the feeling of someone calling from, like, back in time. It was real eerie, shivers down the spine. After getting out, all wet off the shower, I’ve picked it up. Nothing. Silence on the other end, some soft mutter resembling a gasp, and then I hear or dream an exhausted whipser: ”I have no mouth, and I must scream”.





RADAR

Maybe written by

Bihath (Otobashi)

If you would ever try to describe a blooming orchard ‒ Cazzalle asks me ‒ would you imagine that as the most beautiful place or somehow you would build one from memories, even if they are scarce and scorched.



Cazzalle’s tricks would sometimes help us both find a theme for conversation. More than often it would break down and choke after three or four ripostes. It would always be something about long lost. A feeling so strange and unfamiliar to me, that sometimes it would become quite intriguing to see how me, Otobashi The Sentimental, would go around running errands, with a slight cramp on my back, hair fuzzy from the humidity and wind. Me, Otobashi That Whines that is overwhelmed when forgotten, cranky.



Then the hull softens, becomes alive, silky and porous. Froth Otobashi! Where would you run? Cazzalle still has a basket with a white enamel lid, with some cracks. I think they are for the well water Sarpatanga. Alluchine would shout ‒ fold mi fingres, fold mi sarpas ‒ and sink in the armchair so that the buckled belts tie.



My beddings are empty, meaning that their akus are empty, nothing more, Cazzalle. I tuck my feet, and I’m the bed. The blankets would fall into streams and get so sodden with color. Now only I can warm me, now only I am to be. The gorgeous echoes of fake dawn in my insides, on my outsides. My outer crust, 18-fold guts, the mosh, the pebble frosting, the galvanic coating.





I lost my key and retained it same day, somehow flows bound me in hoops, I barely sidestep. It seems I have become a upside down cone of hissin', tiptoeing and drilling through slabs.



Lan cassxoic vu partemosch es Ibn Otwosn

Galgeshah ihs phan Barvudan

Ostob Ludassha walle

Takou el xash aldas kontour passareshmi savann dazde ocio cios

Galdar ihs phon tutsche





The hindrance of sun and salt in wind

put me on a replay

would I question

The soils why they mirror lilac weight of my eyelids

take me on a detour





The Hi-Lighter Event Horizon



I could start counting the number of takes and awakenings needed. If it happened just in the mornings, I would be fine, but they occur throughout the day too. It’s just the ugliness of dealing. The better ones take turns, but the best — take times. I could easily get mixed up. Do it as I want, I could have said to myself, and my musings might have been the problem.

Figures arise perplexed, mutable and astounded. It takes a wandering type of mind to elate the embarrassing points in surges of thoughts. Emerging, they flip, and instead of consuming the life-energy or leaving one corrupt by its own angst, they take different workable forms: basins or fundaments, comm towers, ladders, roof tiles or wiring. They become quilted cotton robes and warmth. The light of ever-changing, the cyclical, the looping and never determined Ultimate Present.







THE GREAT OUTDOORS:

SOFT VOICES & THE FLAT EARTHS 1

by Monika Janulevičiūtė and Miša Skalskis





Limited edition of 255

Two soft cover zines,

February, 2018.

Published by TLTRPreß

Supported by Sonic Acts

ISBN 978-3-9819640-0-4















Freshly bound “Soft Voices” and “The Flat Earths 1” further explore The Great Outdoors universe. The doublet brings about familiar yet uncharted social fabric(s) in the form of a promiscuous sci-fi. Unitedly being driven by short attention span, they are all about the extremes. In a traction of microsecond narratives sway from being intimately close, consoling, and suddenly lifting up, unbounding internal heat and instigating shiver.









Appearances:

December 1 ⎯ January 14

JCDecaux premija,

Contemporary Art Centre,

Vilnius, Lithuania



July 12 ⎯ 22

Mothership,

Exo Exo,

Paris, France







Embassy of The Great Outdoors

Embaixada do Imenso Ar Livre

Laukinės Gamtos Ambasada

We are not sure how we got here either. We are not sure if we ever got out. It is best to relax and let it stick to you, try not to step into a tiger's nest. We think. We are not sure. We are attempting to find out. Step into the great outdoors and try to find out with us.

An excerpt from the incident report

I arrived into the “Great Outdoors” at 4.47 a. m., which is usually when anything worth happening stops happening. We found all the signs of imminent regret: high atmospheric alcohol content, incoherent music, barely maintainable bodily connections. We began by licking the ashtrays and questioning a few protruding limbs, eventually moving on to the inner forest area. The general morale seemed untouched, but shaken, the social foundation overgrown with vines and reduced to an undefinable form. At 5.23 we finished circling the premises with no sign of the incident and no other findings to report. At that point, though, a barely formed moan, the reluctant, almost stillborn kind, crawled into our line of sight and lingered there, demanding to be followed.



We passed through the smoke rooms and screens, avoiding contact with mossy surfaces. It led us down into the basement level, a thick and quiet mess of roots, valves and uncooperative clientele. The music synchronised with the dripping coming from taps and pipes, getting louder as we turned the last corner and stopped. What was laying there? It wasn't even a body. It was like a viscera tree, a trace of sunlight beneath the sheets. I felt my eyes water and sing, and then my gaze curled into spirals, hit a mirror; just for a second everything stops. The body learns to unthink itself.



The two men stand, mouths agape, facing what just moments ago was an incident, and now borders on the edge of epiphany. They had never been so close to a fold, seen a river of juice, felt themselves so entirely consumed by a sticky mass of joy, the glue that kept the holy clusterfuck together before the bloody birth of time. Something that is always there but never visible, usually destroyed on the threshold between camera lens.



All the crevices ripe with potential, the endlessly dynamic act of fuck off, unborn, us, a mass, curious navels whispering to each other: we are same same same. They say: we want to merge into a sinkhole of attraction, right here, in the middle of you. The great outdoors is inseparable from the great within, and each of us is inseparable from the massive throbbing energies of intimate potential and love. Everyone nearby witnessed that the officers could barely talk as they left. Their tongues had split into high heavens and wiggled towards skins yet unknown to man.

An expert of the witness testimony

The room is stale. The tension between questions and answers creates a thick, bread-like atmosphere. Every detective remembers it as part of the job – after a few years it becomes hard to stomach a baguette. But food was the last thing on my mind at that point. No carbohydrate is as complex as the situation we had on our hands, on our faces, dripping all over our jurisdiction. And no taste as compelling as the sweet tang of a fleshed-out investigation.



Q: Please concentrate. We can take a break if you want, but sooner or later we will have to resume the interview.



A: Yes, yes. I am fine. Let’s proceed.

Restless fingers pick at holes in her pockets.

Q: You mentioned something called The Great Outdoors. Could you elaborate on this place? What were you doing there?



A: Fuck knows what I was doing there.

She lingers awkwardly between a hiccup and full-frontal assault;

the interruption lasts less than a minute.

A: I mean, fuck actually knows, probably better than I do. It’s where processes have their own consciousness. That's why the main entrances are always so crowded, everyone's hoping to rid themselves of responsibility. Most get hooked, then go mad when they can no longer afford to abuse it. Honestly, I don't even like it there. None of the greenery ever makes sense. I prefer that nose-tickling pink. A lot of them do too... A fantasy is harmless, but in the great outdoors fantasies are quick to grow into realities, and then mistakes and regrets. And those hurt more than a motherfucker. You can't water plants there, you know? They kick you out. There's already so much perspiration, and too many surprises springing from it alone. Sometimes I'd spend hours shaving moss from my stomach. Another drop or two, and the orchids grow teeth.

***

This book is dedicated to experiences of detachment and many afternoons spent detangling our hair and our problems. It could not have been possible without the soft scent of despair and a few bewildering substances, which are better left in the past but were supposed to be consumed in the present. We would like to thank all that was doughy and malleable and give a polite nod which is hard and stings. The Great Outdoors is a place for everything living, but whoever wishes should be left alone.

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IMPRESSUM

Written by

Monika Kalinauskaitė

Illustrated and designed by

Monika Janulevičiūtė



First edition.

Free electronic publication,

October, 2016.



Limited edition

Soft cover pocket book,

November, 2017.

Published by TLTRPreß

Get your copy here





ISBN 978-609-95749-1-2



Contact: monika at 121.lt



