<about wood coin>

Beware of hijackers who want this artillery...

"Original and quality magazine.
Heavy on quirk."*

Visual art & text (c) 2008-2020 Wood Coin.

Images on Welcoming pages (c) 1981 Joe Ruggiero, Found Objects, as found and permanently borrowed from the Santa Fe library.

Rights revert to the writer or artist upon publication.

ISSN: 1946-4320.

Creator Designer Editor Publisher: James K Beach.

 

<the issues>

For those of you eager to delve in, without further ado, here are links to the three sides of this coin:

TAILS (2008-2013)

HEADS (2018-2019)

EDGE (2018)


<factors>

Inspired by the concept of a wooden nickle, Wood Coin Magazine was launched in poverty to provide visibility upon a virtual platform for unknown or overlooked or blackballed or otherwise shadowed artists. Several contributors are quite rich, others almost there, while the majority reside in the middle class, and a few await or awaited salvaging via money... For me as publisher, poverty went abject then bounced up and back down... it keeps moving subtly yet growth has yet to happen... (I've never grossed more than $25K per year...) until... who knows? For me, a person's wealth matters less than his or her intergrity and intelligence and ability to create solid and vital art.

As a credit token the publication aspires to call attention with its unique design and invasive editing (more on this topic below). Also important to consider while reading this magazine are possibilities of multiple meanings and interpretations of terms, to include double-entendre, pun, allegory, command or joke, plus verbs or nouns or adjectives to be read in any direction; "coin" for example is a noun or a verb or an adjective, while "wood" stands for tree-product or small-forest or eupemistically a hard-on, and even could be substituted phonetically for "would"... And add in the cropping of words, such as "woo" or "in"... or, reinterpretation of words such as "co-in (as in COINTELPRO, the Jane Fonda and CIA fiasco of the 1970s)"... Lest anyone forget that the Olde English term for "crazy" was "wood," or that prison or gang slang turns "wood" into "white"... The depth of language! My 36 twisty issue titles are built for mind-teasing. But dear reader, everything else in this magazine can easily be looked at as wholly on the surface and consistently correct regarding English grammar. Excepting variation per writer's style, Wood Coin is uniform regarding style.

This word-puzzle has literary and figurative edges. To put it together please roam the site and consider the measure and pith of each piece. Getting "lost" while reading is a pleasure sometimes; when flummoxed try using the "back" button on your browser. A note on the PDFs: To avoid malware (however embedded) on any PDF anywhere, you might want to adjust your browser settings to open, rather than download, documents. Or simply verify that your PDF reader is updated if you believe common software to be a step ahead of hackers and therefore trustworthy.

As of today, March 5, 2020, it has come to my attention, via an email in my personal box, that WHOIS has commandeered my orginal, soul-driven attempt at sharing my voice and art with a phony "1970 archive" of Wood Coin Magazine, as registered to "-"... Yuck. I despise plagiarists and art thieves! It seems a cult or org is stealing my life's work, or is in the process maybe; or, it is a rouse to instill fear, panic, doubt, etc. within me-- alongside the insides of many believers in wearing one's heart upon one's figurative or literal garments.

Here is where, then, I can detail a few instances with Carol Bergé, my mentor, who hired me in September 2005 as "editor"--a term she herself advertised in local print papers' help wanted sections, to include the cities of Santa Fe, NM and New York, NY; since I was on unemployment insurance at the time, Carol's ads caught my instant attention during those required weekly job applications. She chose me as her personal editor from "over 70 applicants," as she put it during my interview. In retrospect, Carol instantly thought I had what it might take to generate interest in her as well as push my own creative agenda, because she chose me almost on sight. A link on the Contributors page leads to my memoir about her, as published in Warhol Stars by a kind gentleman who not only knew I was unknown and unaffiliated with Warhol, but prided me on it, ostensibly because I got the story right? Carol Bergé was a leftover, a forgotten poet on the shelf, when I met her, and her foibles were widely known in town and in Manhattan at the time; I liked her anyway, although I nearly quit her when she told me that I would need money, subtly implying that money was a sure way to combat whatever forces had been holding her down and would next chase me, as hindsight. That, and the "chicken lady" and Kentucky Fried fame with Wendy's potato shame alongside forgiven Folgers coffee or Swanson's chicken broth, often swallowed with a "cold fizzy"/flat soda pop, for the curious. She also forbade scents like cigarette smoke--I was a nonsmoker then-- or perfume, due to her breathing, for the curiouser. The most curious will wanna know Carol confided in me that she never paid any taxes; the IRS maybe was fooling with her? After her anti-gov advice I reconsidered and got square, this after several years of freelance income nonpayment of tax-- they forgave a $10K debt, is all-- although maybe the IRS is messing with me anyway? I am solid today. Anyway, I did debate quitting her right off but, part-time at $25 an hour, or $15 an hour for limited nonediting hours where I acted as a sitter, was good under-the-table money; besides, as a grown 33-year-old "alternative youth" from stifling suburban midwest middle-class, the topics of her writing fascinated me and tantalized my vacanct mind space. Since choosing a hardy college lit education I esteemed the beat poets and aspired to continue where they left off--as a virgin with only solo sex experience until age 18, my appreciation of what the beats intended was profound as a freshman in college, as anyone might understand! Keg parties and illegal pot changed all of my false modesty 1990-1991, as infused by weekly dosings of blotter acid or psilocybin ('shrooms) if the LSD sheets were unavailable... I invested in counterculture before I even fully realized what it consisted of, but anyway. Retrospection is retro. At the time I got some flak. Conservatives did tell me to take care. But Carol was of a different sort, having enjoyed quite a sophisticated and wealthy lifestyle from birth as she plotted intermingling several public lives, hypoethetically. (A B&W snapshot of her circa age 14 as wealthy 1940s "bobbysoxer" highlit a massive chin; this same chin of hers is duplicated in the news-photo of Carol's heydey performance in a crate throwing oranges and D.H. Lawrence phrases at thirsty audiences, as documented in her anthology Light Years; cosmetic surgery plausibility aside, her chin led me to suspect something else was happening, forgetting even the Ree Dragonette clues I'd been receiving tangentially; I suspected a rouse or several of them, right away almost.) The vibrant Carol I met had a refined girly chin and a body akin to Barbie's kid-relation Skipper, rather than the generic or androgynous physique of a hermaphrodite. Bergé did live in a body tiny enough to be heralded on television stages, mostly due to her doll-like proportions... Once she blurted that media actors are "really small people" and I sniggered while thinking of the minimized Mike TV character from Willy Wonka's sadistic factory. (All that early-1990s acid, surely.) That she tried to raise her son as a protégé replete in black with a similar haircut just before puberty is indicative of the spirit of an age now retro if not overwritten. (We each agreed that popular politics push on either end, in retrospect.) Her son Peter anyway "hated" her, according to the Estate layer, a miffed and pampered child who became a physician's assistant for whatever reason, perhaps to validate the concrete biological sciences, the whole time being exasperated by no trust funds or bonds or new lit to parlay into a recoup of the pain she'd caused him growing up, just by being weird or strange or on drugs or even bohemian. Yet her Light Years antholgy was novel, and her Antics story collection was just finished! On the merit of those works I surrendered a normal place in society and took to outputting original art while awaiting any dues owed for championing her... As for Randy, his hourly losses as Carol's neighborhood lawyer "friend" or "employe" never made up for the time he spent advocating her validity as an artist, dismissing me and her other workers as transient or incidental, perhaps falling for a nefarious scheme by my enemies that promised riches or health, I dunno. Vampires may be involved if you've listened to alternative rumors about the Light Years group. But I've skipped ahead? The Carol I met in 2005 had scaled-down sound-stage doll-like proportions and a keen mind despite what anyone else might claim! She did know the elite. She also knew the dregs. (A snapshot, allegedly taken by her, which was pinned to a corkboard above her desktop near the bobby-soxer image, featured William Burroughs with his sleazy hand placed on the shoulder of a willing tween boy also pictured alongside his dad Charlie P. and spook John, circa 1985--well, this snap I took home, rather than dutifully sending to the archives along with say her bloody-knives Fluxus art-book or Tavel's first edition Street of Stairs or the banned nude-boy Lord of the Flies set photoessay titled "The Boy"; Carol was evervescent with art and I did a fair job of distributing what she owned... Yoko Ono, Estate lawyer Randy might attest, showed up at the estate sale and bought folding blinds found in the basement. (Echoes of "Silence: for Johns Cage and Lennon" reverberate into a hoodoo realm if crazy enough! Carol spirited her era even as an outcast. Bounced out of the realms of influence and money/power Carol rolled and rocked on anyway, away from the stigma of having an inexplicably "vanished" lover named Alan Dye alongside a string of failed relationships and a son opposed to her every belief. After being sublimated out of her career field in the mid-1980s she rallied and joined up with the antiquing crowd by the early-1990s... A gem, a token, a Fabergé egg, a monolith, a goddess, a throwback, a harbinger, a joy--? Carol P. Bergé. My quest for a universal truth manifested in an old dying woman with only style, personality, art everywhere, a literary oeuvre. What a choice, as I discarded misogynistic and fay-gay tendencies in order to serve her. In essence, it was fate, life's design, a cosmic joke, a new beginning, those six months with a living legend. Yeah. Carol in her deterioration and in her prime turned my crank. I became reobsessed with the 1960s, researching anything esoteric or obscure on the topic, especially in Manhattan. Sure, Carol lived well during the 1970s, but by 1984 the NY Times disgraced her publically, re her third published novel, dismissed as a first attempt. Plus criticism about her libelous "Derrida"-type fiction surfaced en masse, and her career dwindled, possibly due to the "pleasure-smashing" est cult she once joined to stay alive. I learned all of this quickly yet superficially, as I immersed myself in her writing. Of course I kept the freelance gig, as long as possible, anticipating great things if I could only push past any of their lingering baggage or garbage... Enough, for here. More can be found on the Contact page.) I struggle to recall if any other celebs shopped the Estate sale, as none spring to mind. Yet all of this and Yoko too could be a delusion!

As for the hijacking: My "mistakes" were prognosticated, and self-mocked, with one character error on each heading of the now-defunct Editor's Note pages starting with the seminal issue; but, reinserted first-draft or concocted foreign-to-me errors popped up soon thereafter-- the several few instances of page code "hacking" I've found on this site are irksome. These invisible and silently-articulated alterations can be attributed to mind-fucks wearing white or black or tan or whatever hat colors; inexplicable auto-merges of docs; writer editor proofreader errors; webhost glitches; uploading of issues issues. Points of entry include everywhere from site host to public internet to phone or personal computer, with even a few weeks of VPNs which got quickly hacked. You will see a handful of pages noted with what "they" did to the text, for whatever reason, but for the most part I simply deleted the bad coding or replaced corrupted text without making a comment. (One thing I cannot understand is how the font size keeps changing on certain pages; it started with the Hugh Fox novella and has spread to other pages, to include my own fiction! The html style coding is exacly the same on every page, which might suggest hidden white-text coding... Yikes.) It's easy now to understand why expert website maintainers get paid such large sums! The vandalizing or "gouda-cheesing" of sites was commonplace in the 1990s, and it still exists, as I've discovered while shaping this labor of love. (Are "they" merely trying to fill the voids in their souls? See: dissertations on the benefit of "seedpod people" being fodder for hungry cannibals-- they maybe taste like veggies but the supply is limitless? Rent all three Invasion of the Body Snatchers films for info to extrapolate.) (Bear in mind that I have depression, anxiety, paranoia, klazomania and delusions involving stalker celebrites in costumes and make-up and full-body disfiguring suits! Aliens and human actors acting like aliens, to avoid detection, is my assement of who controls this century now that pedophilia no longer runs Hollywood from beneath the public's scope of understanding. Meanwhile the aliens keep to an alien agenda? Reverse-engineering from their 1950s crash obviously led to the tech-climb and money-craze of the 2000s and we should all be suspicious of tech for that reason, alongside the many novice or pro hackers we assume are already all over our gadgets these days...) Fuck. I am a pauper, yet I persit in this missive. Against who, I dunno, ghosts from the 1980s who bullied me, most likely, but I dunno. Meanwhile myself and the writers and artists in this lit mag received no monetary compensation for any of the contributions here...

For bios of artists, poets, writers included in Wood Coin, see the [contributors] list.

Visit the contact page for instruction on how to [submit] prose, verse, visual art to Wood Coin.

James Kevin Beach

Because of my peripatetic nature, Wood Coin was put online in several areas in the United States...

Issues FFI (11/09) - WSSI (02/09): Santa Fe, NM.
Issues HPBB (05/09) - SDSI (05/09): Albuquerque, NM.
Issues YRSM (12/09) - TUNU (03/10): Santa Fe, NM.
Issue PPFI (07/10): Albuquerque, NM.
Issues CBSM (02/12) - NSSP (09/12): Minneapolis, MN.
Issues DEII (08/13) - AFEI (08/13): St Petersburg, FL.
Issues GUNM (01/18) - TTFW (09/19): Providence, RI.

Site was reconstituted (re-upped) 2013 and 2019-2020; Wood Coin's [history] will eventually include links to printable PDFs of full issues, as well as vintage pages, perhaps for sale if I can create a worthwhile PDF version of this magazine... As of now, Wood Coin Magazine is free to all and ad-free as well, as it's been since 2008.

*review quote: Cartwheels Collective, 2009