<wood coin history>
UNDER CONSTRUCTION. Whole issues in PDF (or better) format coming soon.
10/2008 : SITE DEBUT (Tails issues)
11/2008 : Flag Football Issue
02/2009 : Help Like Kelp is Issue
02/2009 : Watch the Star-crack Spread Issue
05/2009 : The Horny Play Boy Bunny (Jackalope) Gets Some Issue
05/2009 : Is Art in the Heart or Does Art Lie Apart from the Love Issue
05/2009 : A Scratch And Dent Sale Issue]
12/2009 : You've Reely Scored a Movie Issue
12/2009 : Religion, Spirit, Prophecy/ Issue
01/2010 : Of Drains and Ladders in this Life Issue [novella by Hugh Fox]
02/2010 : On Education in 'America' as We Plunge Issue
03/2010 : To Use or Not to Use Issue
07/2010 : Predators then Pets then Foodstuffs Issue
02/2012 : Controversy! Blasphemy! Slander! Marriage! Trial! Vow! Habit! Binder! Option! Endgame! Trust! Contest! Issue
02/2012 : Gender Roles in Equality: an Egalitarian Problem Issue
09/2012 : Already Okay with Little Brother and Big Brother Watching Issue
09/2012 : Natural Sciences and Supernatural Physics Break Issue
08/2013 : The Dreamscape Escape Illusion Issue
08/2013 : After the First Examination of Issue Issue
01/2018 : FLIPSIDE DEBUT (Heads issues)
01/2018 : Gross Under Net Makes Tragicomic Worth Issue
04/2018 : Cozies Portend an Everyday Mystery Resolution Issue
06/2018 : Lots of Parties Belong in a Democracy Issue
09/2018 : Manly Banks and Girly Streams Issue
10/2018 : The Becoming Uncommon Drama Issue [play by Mutahira Moqueet]
11/2018 : Fortune Spoke on the Big Wheel Issue
12/2018 : EDGE DEBUT & HIATUS (3 Edge pieces)
01/2018 : FLIPSIDE (Heads issues cont'd)
01/2019 : Open Makes More Sense than Close(d) Issue
01/2019 : On the Futility of Everything Counts Issue
01/2019 : Boot Moot Root Toot Kahootz Issue
09/2019 : Trip This Fall into a Whole Shabang Issue [novel by James K Beach]
Is 18 more or less than enough to issue? How about 28? I plan on doing 8 more issues, making 36 issues total, plus unlimited Edge pieces if interest keeps up with this site. Who is reading us? What is art but art for its own sake? Aesthetics and satire ply their kitschy tricks again, maybe. As the grunge band Nirvana ironically proclaimed: Well, whatever, nevermind--
On March 5, 2020, an email in my personal box from "WHOIS / I CANN" sent a phony "1970 archive" of Wood Coin Magazine, as registered to "---"... Yuck. Anonymous art thieves. I despise plagiarists! (You'll see my note on now-president Biden under the Rashidi Barrett bio-blurb on the [contributors] page.) Within a week I was archiving pages and found Chinese words embedded into the html on a page of Herzer poetry; immediately I sent an IC3 to the federal government. The next day, the "covid-19" shutdown happened, knocking me out of my ability to get online or even use a restroom for a few weeks. Intense hacking on my two laptops bought with the May 2020 stimulus check again left me stanranded without public access to the internet. An imposed hiatus, I guess, is what I considered the last year and a half! Anyway, who knows everything? It seems a cult or org or "phantom menace" of some type is stealing my life's work, or is in the process, maybe; maybe it is a sick game; or, it's 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. I was advised against doing so, as well as advised to "go for it"...
My eyes are picking up subtle subliminals in the visual art-- and after 12-1/2 years of poverty with bouts of homelessness and accompanying silence from former contributors I am slowly removing the covers from all of the 28 issues published on this site, to be replaced by stock images (this time I'd pay a fee for use of those bin-images; from 2008-2012 the background of each separate piece consisted of free photo-bin images, however pure or corrupted).
Besides, the 10 cover images split to cover the 28 issues of this magazine were all solicited and the artists of those images are either unreachable or suspiciously acquainted with my younger sister (who I never introduced to them, nor did I receive any invites from the other 9 artists) who incidentally refuses to be estranged from me yet has remained distant and weird enough to make me nearly regret sending her a pile of flag football images to design the first cover-- however much I appreciate the artistry and symbolism (the two types of boys grown in one body, with the straight athlete hunkered down eating football below the arsty homosexual rising above the game; at least, that's what I saw in it when she sent it, first in black and white then with color after I asked for vibrant sports jerseys; she added the hair at that time but the Rolling Stones lips were already on the boys by then); I do wonder why she was the only family member or past acquaintance or peer to offer any writing or images for consideration by me for my Wood Coin dream. Out of everyone I once knew in person or via telecommuting in journalism or businesses...
Anyway those 10 cover-images maybe need to get deleted, using Barrett's image as catalyst for the burning of visual art in a literary magazine. (As for my sister Kari, I haven't seen her in over five years yet her likeness seems to follow me on my wayward travels, as a body-double or herslf in costume;) I'm in no way doubting that the suicides of many artists & writers-- to include Hemingway, Parker, Wallace, Hunter S. Thompson, Kurt Cobain & the other 27 Club musicians, Chris Cornell, et al-- are related to similar mind-fucking tactics. But anyway.
Skip this 'graph? (After the glut of anonymous punishment I've received next to few compliments I'm guessing the true innovators get ignored and secretly harassed while copycats dance and smile for fans of their ersatz dogpoop. More on the hacking below... For the record I would never recommend an impoverished publisher put a magazine online due to the financial and mental strain of keeping the magazine afloat. A few tech-glitches or insignificant hacks that hurt mostly me as editor have snowballed into a catastrophic end-of-the-world experience of a total tech breakdown. User-freindly software for a Bachelor of Arts has quickly turned against me, especially over the past three years. This month is the worst ever. Neither of my two mobile/cell phone numbers receive calls and I've been unable to dial a phone number with success, with gobs of tech-gunk convincing me that those numbers were ported out and or disabled to prevent me from, well, whatever, doing anything. And one phone is back up, the other has voicemail, hmmm...) Whine, whine, whine? I'm under incredible stress. That being stated, I love art & lit sincerely since it offers the only comfort begotten from delving into art & lit. Does that make sense?
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 nearly forgotten poet on the shelf, when I met her, and her foibles were widely known in town and in Manhattan by then; 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 "lady who only eats chicken" 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, of a forgettable brand, for the curious. She also forbade scents like cigarette smoke--I had quit smoking 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 and tantalized me. 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 (LSD) or psilocybin ('shrooms)... At age 20, I invested in counterculture before I even fully realized what it consisted of, but anyway. Retrospection is retro. At the time I got some flack. Conservatives did tell me to take care. But Carol was of a different sort, having enjoyed quite a sophisticated and wealthy lifestyle from birth, yet choosing to "go for it" as a dazzling poet & writer with variegated friends who did almost anything, collectively. (A B&W snapshot of her circa age 14 as 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, the size of her chin led me to suspect something else was happening, perhaps a body-double?, forgetting even the Ree Dragonette clues I'd been receiving tangentially; I suspected a rouse or several of them.) 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, as might be construed from whichever photo. A nice photo of her from 1961, taken by Ed Druck, can be found in her bio blurb on the [contributors] page. 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 TeeVee character from Willy Wonka's sadistic factory. (All that early-1990s acid I took, I guess.) That she tried to raise her son as a protégé dressed also in black with a similar haircut is indicative of her spirit, always pushing against the establishment. (We each agreed that popular politics push on either end, in retrospect.) Her son Peter anyway "hated" her, according to the Estate lawyer in 2006; 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? or just by her being weird or strange or on drugs or even a true bohemian? I dunnoo why he hated her. I loved Carol then, sorta. Her habits and rep were bad news. Yet her Light Years antholgy was novel, and she'd just completed proofing the galleys on her Antics short story collection! 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 the lawyer, he was never compensated for the time he spent advocating her validity as an artist, 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 her friends in 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 old 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 that 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, as the Estate lawyer might attest, showed up at the estate sale and bought folding blinds found in the basement. (Echoes of her "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 a sublime style, moody personality, and art everywhere, alongside her 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, a half-year that changed my life. 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!)
Scroll down for the Wood Coin submission instructions, as I hereby continue my digression: I do still think I took the right path by working as Carol Bergé's personal editor-- it led me to create this magazine, minus any hints or papers or whatnot from the five boxes of Bergé archives in her living room, minus any grand scheme "they" might've concocted recently about the internet-- I figured out the correlation between mimeographing and the internet all by myself, alone in fact, juxtaposed metaphysically and decade-wise to what I was then learning about the 1960s and 1970s, while immersed in her Light Years manuscript after her death. I put what I learnt from her books into practice while compiling my own version of her Light Years anthology titled The Village Others, actively in 2015; after her death in 2006, in the back of my mind, I simultaneously created a literary arts magazine (this one), and right away set about contacting everyone from Carol's 1970's CENTER prose magazine alongside all living writers cataloged in her Light Years tome while generating the html pages of Wood Coin. Also I contacted family, old friends and college peers and work associates-- only my sister submitted, with a captivating cover image that I quickly split into three for the first three issues; I kept that threefold design. (Simultaneously a hobo arrived into my sphere, named A.D.P. but using a pen name, XeusZenon; as I was gathering FFI images and text, A. showed up to ride along in my car or sleep in the ski basin alongside me and my idealistic rebellion; he thrived beyond idealism since "they" were attacking him like alien monsters in the stratosphere, firing invisible weapons from invisible ships, knocking his societal place into the gutter "just to be cruel" despite evidence that he belonged above the streets-- if only my chance encounter with XeusZenon could be validated as authentic rather than orchestrated to fulfill a covert agenda-- he anyway abandoned me as soon as I secured us a place to live while clipping pot plants or building a long Roman Driveway for the Santa Fean he introduced me to... We lived "that" life. With a ready smirk and attuned height the poetic junkie would daily steal orange Robitussen from grocers to quell a heroin habit. He also shared a poetry e-file with me which found its way into the first few issues of Wood Coin... He thought the first issue "worked" but was dead by the second, with me finding out online via some of his music college friends in late 2009... Yet a stop appears here, which must serve now as buffer to any further history of Wood Coin.) Around that time I also chose the "Found Objects" images for my Welcoming pages and worked out several novice designs for the site, some of which is archived. All other background images (since deleted) I'd culled from free photo bins and photoshopped for effect, but have since deemed them extraneous. The initial Quotations and Salutations pages I've also kept, each quote coming from either something I was reading at the time or from those prestigious quotations books found at all libraries, and each salutation was written by me after researching various sources (uncredited). Most of the magazine's design and content was completed at public libraries or universities, at first. And I had some success immediately, in this country as well as overseas; word spread though my cheap advertising and by my spammily inviting teachers at secondary schools and universities to visit, mixing in of course the subtle notoriety of some of the writers and artists included here who responded to my initial queries for material. My hiatus after finishing the first 18 issues could've been retirement from publishing, if not for a few submissions in 2017 that made me wanna do a flipside of 18 issues. And 2018 began wonderfully, as well as 2008 did in terms of response and new submitters. I thought I had control of my artillery as recently as two years ago. Yet, it now appears the hijackers might be hijacking my "original idea" in lieu of plying their own ideas and obtaining a legitimate PhD. (It takes a new invention to get a doctorate, is what I hear, although plenty of copy-artists and sexy folks have gotten their letters without a clearly novel idea. Anyway...) My hijackers might also be simple bullies with no hijacking agends! Regardless, life is harrowing today. I took the job with Carol and she died after only about five months. Devastated? That came later. In early February 2006 I had returned from a weekend in Albuquerque with my lover, to check in for my shift, but the front door of her house was locked for the first time and when I peeked into her bedroom window her "handyman" mattress was rolled up on its metal frame... My lover cried but I was unmoved. And then the rest of the adult life of a naive writer-turned-editor-turned-publisher happened. Lots of this can be found as sketchy adulation in my memoir titled "Goathead"--except: minus the day when Carol called me into her bedroom (on hospice/morphine) sans shirt with her tiny exposed breasts sagging as she held up her arms to hug me; minus the suspicious broken wrist and bruise on her back which drove her into her bed; minus my assertion that somebody from the oxygen canister unit was her assassin, etc. Her only friend was Carl Ginsburg, her multi-millionaire arts supporter, who gave her a few grand every few months to keep her employees funded and accountable, and whose money I doled out faithfully as editor-accountant (all but the last week of shifts, as Carl failed to fund us after her death). But Carl liked me-- I took him out to lunch our second meeting-- and we struck up a deal to publish Carol's last two books via AWAREing Press, with me as managing editor. Blah, blah, blah... Here is where life got complicated... Yet I've barely begun describing the Coe College angle to Wood Coin, or my childhood influence on its design, or my "life experience credits" as yet unaccredited by an institution, which has shaped the venue.. If interested, write me for more details. Or write me with anything now on your mind...