lunulae issue III: 'unreality'
excerpts from the magazine
lunulae magazine issue III, ‘unreality’, is here…
You can purchase the digital and physical version here. (https://payhip.com/lunulaezine)
The issue is 100 pages of curiosities and writings and other installations — dream diaries, ritual objects (of bone, silver, clay), tarot readings, artist’s journals, prophecies….
Its subject is ‘unreality’. What is the unreal? It is everything. It is everywhere. It becomes apparent slyly — in liminal spaces, in mist, in your childhood home. In the memory overlaid upon the imminent experience. In the sudden displacement back into one’s own body, feeling skin and its mediation of the world. The unreal is what slips over you when you begin to pay attention. Victor Schlovsky’s defamiliarisation. This is what art aims to do: to renew perception, to ‘make the stone stoney’.
I hope that this zine succeeds in some approximation of this. The book, small and fragile, is a stitching together of parts. A dreamscape and archive, composed of fragments carved out of dream diaries. A commonplace book of quotes. An exhibition space. Altars to pray at and prophecies to receive. A wunderkammer, cabinet of curiosities — from shell to talisman to cross. It is haunted by apparitions, white with bone and clay, consecrated by sigils.
Thank you for your patience, and I hope that this issue brings some light and strangeness into your world.
What follows is a few excerpts from the issue, including a short prose poem of mine:
transcript from interlude II (the high priestess):
‘The Child’ by Anna de Waal
“There is a child in a castle somewhere. The child has a name. The name is unknown.
The child has ten fingers, and eyes with eyelashes. The child sucks the milk of dreams. The child’s mouth is red. The child spits out pearls when cross. The child is a symptom. The child prays, every night — let me return. I did not ask for this. The child cries — I do not belong here, in this world with sounds that hurt and invisible things. The child sits in a room of their own making. The room is big. The room has high round windows. The room has floorboards that scream and spiders in endless spin from corner to corner to corner.
An inventory of the room is as follows :
twenty-four pearls, slick and gelatinous to touch.
twenty-four adult teeth, bloody.
twenty-four guttered candles.
a hare, gutted.
three black locks of hair in three locked amulets.
the swollen white body of a lamb, inc. two weeping heads.
four apples, a pomegranate, three cherries. all with a waxen sheen.
a calla lily stem, roots dripping with mud.
a frayed red ribbon.
a trapped cloud in a jar.
a shard of sea-blue sky-glass.
The child is a collector. The child is very proud. The child holds the lily, the locks, the lamb up to the window and beams. Look! Look! And a chorus resounds back, Yes, Lord! We see, Lord! And in the morning, the child finds a heart, beating wetly, leaking into the rug inside the door of the room.”
I am always looking for contributors and collaborators, in any form — please do email (lunulaezine@gmail.com) or message @anna.c.dewaal or @lunulaezine if interested.
Much love to all on these cold winter days —
( Anna )
PS Contributors can email lunulaezine@gmail.com or message @lunulaezine for 75% off the PDF. ˚✧⁎⁺˳✧༚