Mark Bernstein commented on a really interesting educational project, where the students created a wiki as part of their studies. The students were very active with the project, and learned a lot about technology, sharing information, etc. Unfortunately, the standardized tests have no way to measure this type of learning, so the time spent may have actually hurt the students academically.
A damn shame, if you ask me.
This will be a zine with literature and art, in particular, but we’re open to anything, in general. We’ll consider artwork of any media, style, or subject. The zine will have an online component, as well as a paper issue, so feel free to submit video, audio, etc.
We reject the notion that great art comes only out of misery and that all good artists are filled with angst and frustration. We say: delight — rather than despair — in creation. Artists are still constrained by certain dogmas, or unquestioned “truths” about what art is or should be. We encourage you to question rules about art and literature. We prefer to explore sensory imagery. Create an innovative process, combine media; and remember: there are no categories!
As a contributor, your work remains your sole property, and you grant our zine one-time rights to publication. Compensation for your inclusion in this, the inaugural issue, will be in the form of contributors’ copies, your name in lights, everlasting glory, etc.
To contribute, or for more info:
zine@nocategories.net
She’s my Daisy, always my daisy
Daisy my derring-do is all for you
She’s not the same as she was in her youth
not quite the same in the mind
but she’s mine. I’m hers.
Seems the way it’s always been.
It was after the war.
All the planes had landed
All the troops disbanded
We headed home once more
The marching, the days and days of marching
They were at an end.
The bleeding, the ceaseless bleeding,
Screaming pain of broken bones.
This was on the mend.
We could ignore what came before.
My Daisy, My darling Daisy
I won’t be long. I’m coming home.
I’m coming home to you.
But when I do, what you mustn’t do
is ask me anymore.
Don’t ask about the war.
Does it hurt? She wants to know.
The wound is open, but it will close.
I dressed it tightly, rewrapped it nightly
with shreds of the clothes that I wore.
I came marching home to you
My Daisy, always my darling Daisy.
My Derring-do is all for you.
It won’t be long. I’m coming home.
I’m coming home to you.