letter from the editor

    The intention of this revue is to allow others to participate in its unravelling with contributions concerning the wondrous strangeness of things.  For this reason it is encouraged that all whom are interested please contact the editor-in-chief with all relevant queries and criticisms at this address:    charliecreeps@hotmail.com

    As other contributors collect amongst these pages their contact information will be included herein and thereby allow readers the opportunity of contacting said contibutors at their own discretion. 

charlie creeps

 ____________ 

contributors

carjackmatt@hotmail.com

adrphoto@hotmail.com

ethan@radstrom.ca

letter from the editor

    The sounds come from far away and far and wide.  They come from miasmal caverns and angelic gardens.  They swirl and gambol and soar and lurch in often grotesque arabesques of heartwrenching emphasis.  They flutter on wings even too delicate for dayspring butterflies and grapple with quavering impetus our most frothing and carnivorous of appetites.  They beseech our most touching of sentiments while inspiring our most ignominious of  judgements.

    We cannot remain impervious to the ubiquitous echoes sourrounding us and moving through us.  They draw us inexorably into the bloodstream of strangeness the layers of which are endless and wholly without absolute allusion.  We can only listen and decipher for each of ourselves the import of what we hear… 

charlie creeps

 [disclaimer notice:  all songs copyright Charlie Creeps]

 I’ll Get Along

More Than Enough

Bloodshot Years

Stone Mountain

letter from the editor

    There are mostly persons in our world who embody villianesque traits and whom hitherto have gone unrecognized for their contributions to the wondrous strangeness of things.  I speak of those of all genders and ages and types and leanings and inclinations and I do insist upon the pervasive embracing of all for whom villianism can be considered an identifiable crime.  Is there any amongst us then who are not villians?

    I believe not.

    I also believe that in the often shrouded corners of our conscience lurk impulses which are thirsty for the light of proverbial day.  They crave the sanctified rejoining with others also harboring primeval whimsies and who desire consummation in the elemental push from nascent impulse towards dawning realization.  This is what gives each of us our villianesque aspects each in our own way and these peculiar aspects are what ‘the grotto’ shall constitute as its contents.

    Come then and listen and hear!  Come look and see!  Come taste and smell and touch and wonder!  Come one and come all villians into the spectacle which surrounds us and which moves through us and which we are all a part of!

charlie creeps

Asphyx

one big teardrop

of unknowing sadness

hung from the corner of his eye—

catching multitudes

of dissonance like sunlight

absorbed by ashphalt

before it fell

falling with a guttural feeling

like an emotion down the spine

until it splashes

                                     on the ground

almost without

                                      noise

but he has heard—

he’s heard about what isn’t in the news

and how the river’s turbulence

beneath the bridge frightens the hookers

and what plays sinister behind

a man’s translucent eyes

when he’s just doing business

and how loneliness

can be as deafening as thunder

and that cowardice comes in many disguises

(most often with a smile)

and that nothing is never

as much as it sometimes seems

and how heartache

is a necessary prelude of wisdom

and that there’s birdsong

even on skidrow early in the morning

and what nursery rhymes reveal

that scripture never can

and how the wind is invisible

unless you listen

and now the splintering

of a single teardrop

has coalesced

like an emotion up the spine

into these many songs

because he has heard

[disclaimer notice:  all songs copyright CARJACKMATT] 

I Fall Down

Long John Done

letter from the editor

        And so shall begin the telling of tales.  I know not from whence they derive but I do understand that the telling must be shared in order for the puzzling laughter to continue.  I hear the echoes of said laughter rippling like stones thrown into a fathomless deep…the ripples dissipating in torpid splendour as they are replaced by more mirth driven echoes.  They disappear to where they will and they come from where they come and no more can be said in regards to the inscrutable behaviour of laughing echoes. 

    What can be done is simply the humble offering of the tales borne upon these inexorable echoes as they resound through the air.  Do please read and thereby may the shapeless laughter be cast in a temporal mold…

charlie creeps

self-portrait

 [disclaimer notice: all photographs copyright Alix Reynolds]

  Being Charlie Creeps, editor-in-chief of the Vaudevillian Revue, I had the great pleasure of sitting down with one Alix Reynolds…a woman whose photographic art very much encapsulates the copious vision of the Revue.  Her work is a flourishing combination of beauty, imagination, anthropological insight, experimental musings, and good old-fashioned vernacular ‘love of living’.  Truth beauty and beauty truth, as once was written long ago, is an euphemism that could very appropriately apply to the work of Miss Reynolds.

  But…would it not be better to let her speak a few of her own words?  Very well then.

  Charlie:  Why is photography such a popular medium?

  Alix:  Well…I’m not sure that it’s more popular than other mediums out there, really.  I guess because it’s generally more accessible, especially for people who don’t perceive themselves as artists.  You could say that, in a sense, it’s the great equalizer of the arts.  And…well…people like capturing the world around them and photography allows them to show others how they see things.

  Charlie:  Do you feel, then, that photography is more about documentation or expression?

  Alix:  I would say equally both.  Sometimes it is about documentation and that’s perfectly fine.  As for my own work, I would say it’s more about self-expression.  I’m interested in exploring the whole medium, whether it’s considered traditionally authentic or not.  There are lots of people who are caught up in those categorizations and they limit themselves.  I think, in that regards, photography is being perceived more and more as a legitimate artistic medium whereas, traditionally speaking, it’s been seen as sort of the half-wit brother of painting.  But it is derived from painting and it’s intimately linked with painting except you’re just painting with light instead of acrylics or oils.

                                  Risa Cuba (Holguin, Cuba, 2009)

  Charlie: What photographic subjects do you find yourself most drawn towards?

  Alix:  My favourite subjects are people.  I’m an anthropologist and so I love people and cultures and how people create these places and how these same places shape people.  They’re challenging to photograph and I like that challenge.  So I guess I generally find them to be the most interesting and engaging subjects.  But at the same time, when I get behind the camera I’m not looking for anything in particular.  I shoot what comes at me.  You know, in a sense I’m not always conscious of what I’m doing.  I don’t always choose a subject but rather I’ll just follow where particular circumstances lead me.

  Charlie:  Do you feel just as comfortable in front of the camera?

  Alix:  No.  I have a terrible phobia about being photographed.  It’s a control issue with me.  If I know the photographer I don’t mind but I want to know whether or not it’s a good picture of me.  I know it’s a contradiction, irony, or whatever but I know of more photographers who hate having their photos taken than otherwise.  Just like a cameraman on  a movie set doesn’t necessarily want to be the star.

       Padaung Woman II (Refugee Camp, northern Thailand, 1998)

  Charlie:  Is a picture really worth a thousand words?

  Alix:  I don’t know.  I guess it depends on the picture.  I suppose that’s your goal…to make photos that move people.  I love when I overhear people talking while looking at my photos and their comments and insights aren’t anything like what I might regard in these same photos.  Maybe the best measure of whether a photo is good or not is if it captures people in this regard.  I know that some photos capture something that just can’t be expressed in any written or spoken form.

  Charlie:  Well…your answers and insights to my queries have been most enlightening.  I thank you for lending us the time for this interview. 

  Alix:  Oh…you’re very welcome.  The pleasure was all mine.

  Charlie:  Goodluck then with all of your photographic shooting and I hope we have the chance to talk again one day.

  Alix:   Thank you very much and until next time…take care.

  editor’s note:  please visit Alix Reynolds’ own website (listed under our ‘knots in the rope’) for more information and samples of her work

                      View To The North (Lowe Farm, Canada, 2009)

she gave me sweet surrender

on an evening such as this

when the waves came on crashing

I heard her scream I heard her hiss

she gave me one long surrender

with the look that was in her eye

and a sentimental feeling

made me lurch and then tan her hide

because she loved the surrender

when her body was no longer hers

and the pain was like bliss

and my slapping her did not hurt

instead she crashed like the waves

rolling all over the road

because her pleasure was never enough

she did not care if the neighbours heard

and I screamed like a dream

when I felt a demon cry her name

all night long the night was hard

her hips shimmied and they shook

my whip was sharp as a razor

her tongue was as soft as a curse

I couldn’t believe she could receive

the beating of my lustful heart

how she gave me sweet surrender

how she gave me sweet surrender

    Her rent was paid with the monthly welfare cheque delivered punctually on the last Friday of each month.  The building caretaker would set up a small table in his doorway on these Fridays and cash the cheques of each tenant who received welfare.  They would endorse the back of their cheque and he would pay out the remaining difference in cash from a small metal cashier’s box he would bring out for the monthly ritual.  Most of the tenants received welfare but since it was a small building with relatively few apartments the whole procedure would usually take the caretaker until just mid-afternoon.  He was very well organized and so this gave him plenty of time to deposit the cheques at the bank before it closed.

    Ann-Marie Penner would always head out to the grocery store and liquor mart with the cash after her rent was paid.  She would buy some miscellaneous foodstuffs and cigarettes for herself and a large box of dry cat food and a few cans of tuna and fresh litter for her cat.  On the walk back to her apartment she would stop at the liquor mart and purchase a bottle of whichever rye whiskey was on sale.  When she finally returned to her apartment and opened the door her cat would be waiting for her, meowing, and beginning to twine itself around her legs before she even had a chance to set the grocery bags on the kitchen table.   

    “Yes, yes, I know,” she said. “Just give me one second, will you?  Can you at least let me take my coat off?”  She set the grocery bags on the kitchen table and then removed her coat and hung it on one of the hooks near the door.  The cat kept moving about her legs as she returned to the kitchen and took the bottle of rye whiskey out of the paper bag.  She brought a glass tumbler out of the cupboard and poured herself a nice drink.  She then took a small ladylike sip and held the tumbler in the air as she swallowed and closed her eyes as the whiskey settled in her stomach with a pleasant burning sensation.

     “All right, all right, okay.  Now for you.  I haven’t forgotten about you,” she addressed her cat with an irritated tone.  The cat was meowing incessantly now and Ann-Marie set her tumbler of whiskey down on the table and brought a can of tuna out of one of the grocery bags.  The cat jumped up on the table as she moved towards the cutlery drawer and brought out a can opener.  She opened the can of tuna and set it down on the kitchen table next to the cat.  “There you go,” she said.  “Happy now?”  The cat immediately stopped meowing and began to greedily eat the tuna, making lurching movements with its head.  Ann-Marie took her tumbler of rye whiskey and a fresh pack of cigarettes from one of the grocery bags and moved into the living room where she sat down on the couch.  She opened the pack of cigarettes and lit one up and then sat back with her whiskey held in her other hand and crossed her legs.  Her gaze wandered towards the window.

     She was planning on going out this evening.  Friday was a good night for soliciting people.  They were usually in a good mood with the weekend’s arrival and when people were in good spirits she found they were more receptive towards strangers.  A good mood will open people up and allow her to intrude upon their gullible friendliness.  The key was always in choosing the right candidate for her story.  When approaching individuals she would invariably seek out men since their fragile confidence goaded them into helping a helpless woman put out by unforeseen circumstances.  But it had to be the right man, whose appearance wasn’t too sharp, since these men were the ones with a weak sense of themselves and so much more pliable.  Women were a tougher sell.  They tended to be skeptical of other women in whatever situation they found themselves; never mind a chance encounter on the street.  A woman had to be middle-age and without a ring on her finger since that was the best indicator of loneliness.  A lonely woman was inevitably vulnerable and more prone to sympathize with her plight of being stuck and having nowhere else to turn except towards the mercy of strangers.  Couples were the easiest customers.  They would already be talkative and outgoing which made it simpler to gauge their sentiments.  Their thoughts towards her story could immediately be read on their faces as they looked towards each other for an answer about what they should do.  The subtle and not so subtle facial cues let her know just what sort of people she was dealing with and whether she should implore their sympathies more else back away and just wait for their answer.  Couples wore their hearts on their sleeves and those that had susceptible kind hearts wanted them kneaded and used.  Whenever she saw two men or two women together she would usually just leave them alone since approaching them constituted a mild affront on their pride.  When pride was at stake, however small an amount, it would result in a dead end since very few people cared to lose status in the eyes of their peers.  “But I’m seeing more and more,” Ann-Marie thought to herself as she brought the tumbler of whiskey up to her lips. “People are always surprising me no matter how often I may be turned away.  There seems to be no end of good honest people in this godforsaken world.”

    The evening had already descended although it wasn’t yet completely dark.  Traffic was still steady and pedestrians were milling about on the sidewalks.  The air felt comfortable and the streets were gleaming with moisture and puddles of melting snow were being splashed by the passing automobiles.  The streetlamps had lit up awhile ago already and shone with a lusterless pallor all over the neighborhood.  Ann-Marie Penner approached the intersection where the Ellice Street Café was located.  She had been waiting and watching people walking on the sidewalk from a short ways up Maryland Avenue when she spotted a talkative couple approaching the café.  They gave her a good feeling and so she decided to intercept them.

     “Excuse me,” she addressed them in a meek voice.  “Do you have a minute?”

     The couple stopped in front of Ann-Marie Penner and the man answered, ”Yes?”

     “Can I ask you for a cigarette?” she continued with a defeated manner.  “I noticed you both smoked and I could really use a cigarette right now.”

     “Yeah, sure,” the woman responded and brought out her pack of cigarettes.  She gave one to Ann-Marie and then asked,”Do you need a light too?”

     “I do and thank you so much,” Ann-Marie said before the woman lit her cigarette.  “Are you from this neighborhood?”

     “No, we’re actually from out of town,” the woman answered.  “We just came in for the show here tonight.”

     “Oh, really,” Ann-Marie feigned interest and then continued with complete mildness in her demeanor.  “You two seem really nice and I hate being in this position, I really do, but I am having a really awful time tonight.  I’ll explain if you’ll allow me.”

     “What’s the trouble?” the man answered and Ann-Marie knew in that moment her efforts here would not be in vain.  People were people and it wasn’t often they surprised her and this occasion began no different than all the others when she had walked away with a few dollars of other peoples money in her pocket.

     “Thank you,” she said.  Then she proceeded to spin out her yarn.

Poppa, it’s friendly & amusing that you gave her a big hug & a kiss
& you shrieked, “this one’s cute! I’m glad we’re gonna keep her!”
– dear Poppa, I warned you — why don’t you listen?

it’s clever that you got me to help Mama make a cole slaw
while you kidnapped my fiance –
you took her for a stroll in the orchard
with your paw firm around her & your cane waving stiffly ahead

Poppa, she says it’s okay
that you talked incessantly about your prostate condition
teling her that you’ll never lose yours
because, “a man without a gland is not a man”
it’s intimate, Poppa, but alright — just remember — I’m marrying her, not
you –

dear Poppa, it’s even acceptable that you inquired about our sex life –
you told her that you produced 7 children & 3 miscarriages
& you said, “horniness runs in the genes, right?”

she laughed when you said that — my fiance, the feminist –
but she did think you were rather forward for a father-in-law
when you turned on the jacuzzi & yelled, “clothing verboten!”
she says you had a grin on your face like a rutting wild boar

she ran back to the house then — troubled but silent –
you trailed her — your red face wheezing –
you proceeded to guzzle your 6-pack of Heineken

dear Poppa — I believe if pot roast was served, or meatloaf, or ham –
the meal would not have been ruined –
but the entree, unfortunately, was the arched & bulging Bratwurst sausage
one on a plate with a wad of mustard

Poppa, you were swimming in Heineken then — lost in nostalgia
remembering when your prostate was strong & Mama turned you on

my fiance — the feminist — eats quick when she’s nervous
– she gobbled her sausage –
dear Poppa — you were clearly overboard when you looked up leering & said,
“you can chomp on mine next, schnookie-liebschen!”

my fiance, the feminist — she picked up the Bavarian crockpot
– she circled the table, she dumped the steaming saurkraut into your lap

dear Poppa, she’s sorry the trauma agitated your prostate –
but she’s stubborn, she means it — it’s her special day –

you can’t come to our wedding
unless you wear a strait-jacket & a gag in your mouth