a’misa chiu

SHINE ON YOU CRAZY DIAMONDS

a’misa chiu

dedicated to our co-conspirators of pleasure

If you liked Jan Svankmajer’s films, you might also like the stop-motion documentary Monster Road.

ATTN: IMPORTANT
-make bed -zine fiend -find nearby bike cafe -silhouettes & shadows -housepaint nail polish -disco & freeze tag -salton sea & salty seeds -thought trains on memory’s back -Derrida’s Ghost & ghosts in general -hypertext & links -cats eating rainbow-sprinkled donuts -bell peppers & gender -salvation & thrift store styling -spirals and seashells -busrides abortions & macrame -siamese twins -exorcism & outliers -glow in the dark bunnies -duck salad & rubber duckies -90’s lifestyle -homegrown herb -screamo & beano -woven tophats -catarthic release -mutes and salami -thank you cards -wipe, flush. -take a bow -wake up

a’misa chiu

theo ellsworth

theo ellsworth

keenan keller

keenan keller

keenan keller

keenan keller

The Cup is Full

writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa

writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa

writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa

writing by vicky luu, comic by yumi sakugawa

albane simon

albane simon

Awake. Janice Lee Don't pay attention to me, I'm just a whisper in the dark, the sunset bending behind us. Father, when you watch over us during the night, what do you dream about? So what if the tuna fish wants to make love to the shark? How does this courtship work, in the absence of cultural expectations, who asks who, whose permission needs to be asked? Mr. Toona, I would like to ask for the hand of your daughter. A response: But you're a shark. How long does such a courtship last? And how long before the rigor mortis starts to set in? Proust once said, "Now that Olympus does not exist, its inhabitants dwell upon the earth." You, me, him, her, the lost gods of a lost era. If I am a god, you are a god. If He is a god, I am one too. The octopus stuck in the bottle is smarter than you. His eyeball burps, and one wonders, while gazing into the optical illusion that makes up an optic system, why award such superior vision to inferior species? If He is an intelligent creator, why build something upside down and backwards? It's safer, cleaner. In reality I remember little about myself, only random lines on the road my feet tread upon when I was really looking up at the sky. I'm on the brink of something. The light forever of the sun that fades away when the ancient ones awake. Dreams are closer to the real than one thinks, the logic of this world skewed, falsely multi-dimensional when really there's only one dimension that matters, the one we're only able to access when the ghosts peel our eyes closed and remind us of the past events we so viciously try to tuck away. Memories consolidated and reconsolidated so many times, I don't remember the faces of my mother anymore. I can see a face, but the emotional state I'm in, it could really be any face, every face looks like her face. Only dream-glimpses allow me to see her, but even in my dreams there are obstacles. In one dream I saw her, but my brother held me back. It's omma, I told him. She's not real. She's dead, remember? Don't touch her. That's not her. He grabbed my hand, lead me up a stairway that led nowhere. We were running away from something, an incoming fire perhaps. This city's always on the brink of burning down. He is a castaway, the ever-arriving present envelops me. This course has become accustomed to my presence, a premonition of a misty window, I see a red tree out there, but that species isn't native to this area. I keep hearing certain phrases over and over again, and I don't see the source, so it must be who's saying it. Ecclesiastes: "There is nothing new under the sun." And what nothing are we talking about? What is the source? Of the sun? What is? The Word flies at me and I try to catch it. Replenish this and I will give you that. The entire neighborhood will. Dust to dust. I'm compelled to remember things over and over again, even if that's not the way they happened, that's what I see. It's come to the point, here on the brink of a mind, the mind ravenous like a shark, it's come to that point where I only trust what I see in my dreams.

janice lee

tina tae

tina tae

tina tae

tina tae

call me bitter, but there’s no career in art. it doesn’t make money, it’s not especially essential (not like vitamins or running water) but it’s sort of not fair that other niche interests can make a buck out of what they like and artists are trod on like they’re a completely useless breed. take the nyc service industry. i’ve worked the food and retail fronts, and i guarantee that the high majority of the staff are ‘artists paying dues.’ we’re a lovely bunch: bright, sparkling, polite to the nines and we’re serving a room full of idiots. lipstick bitches, sloppy assholes--they’re married and expecting a spoiled brat in four months. how do we engage these people in conversation? oh, we talk about the weather. they think we’re too dumb to do anything else. and we’re puzzled how they find their dough with zero lights on upstairs. it’s really a mystery. and we create our drawings, paintings, and halfearnest rhyme to *cleanse* the bad-feeling. but come time, when the same customers come back and we show them these works, will they understand? moral of the story: be nice to your struggling artists because they will have their moment ;o)

tina tae

tina tae

jared konopitski

jared konopitski

teresa matsushima

She is black and white
See her clearly in a foggy mist, She sees a world of do’s and don’ts Values bend from right to wrong Her Hot Her Her mother, like rushing water through her life than cold father absent, then present heart holds love and hate

Sometimes she sips coffee, sometimes tea Her children push and pull her from bear hugs to arms length Her husband once brittle, now more pliable.

teresa matsushima

In her mind, she accepts and condemns In conflict, there is contention and restoration She holds tightly to morals yet finds herself in compromise She needs help but asks for none A dichotomous world She is tit for tat She is this or that She is fight or flight She is black and white.

a found object

a’misa chiu

randy nelson

The Train Tracks on Normandie Ave
The railroad tracks on Normandie Ave tell ghost stories. I used to walk along them as a teenager. One time, I found a bullet from a semi automatic gun. I picked it up and threw it down on the rail. It produced a long vibration that shook my knees, and for a split second, I heard Jordan Daily, the old train conductor. Chain smoking change in a time where menthol cigarettes didn’t exist. “Times are a changing man.” Steam was the only thing that made sense. A locomotive push in the wrong direction. “I sympathize with this city,” he said. “The local hobos need a place of refuge and the train cars are beginning to sound so silent without a blues harp soundtrack.”

randy nelson
“It’s starting to be replaced by cop sirens and automatic guns. I thought God was suppose to protect us.” I guess faith is a fickle thing. “I dread the day that my phones rings and I get a call from the coroner telling me my son was shot playing marbles by the train station.” “He was shot by accident, they would say.” “Wrong place, wrong time, right between his eyes” Every fathers nightmare but some fathers reality. “If he dies today,” Mr. Daily said, “I’ll leave this business behind.” The times of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer are dead. replaced by bullets by the rail road tracks. “Tell me a ghost story,” his son said, “one that would louder than any train whistle or engine.” “Son, ghost stories are for grown ups,” he said. “Stay being a kid.” “Because these train tracks do tell ghost stories, I just don’t want you to haunt them.”

alex chiu

alex chiu

alex chiu

alex chiu

[SHINE ON YOU CRAZY DIAMONDS*]**
EYEBALL BURP 5, SPRING 2011
a’misa chiu colorishdreams.com theo ellsworth thoughtcloudfactory.com keenan keller drippybonebooks.com vicky luu www.flyfarfrom.wordpress.com yumi sakugawa yumisakugawa.com albane simon albane.ultra-book.com janice lee janicel.com tina tae tinatae.blogspot.com teresa matsushima jared konopitski randy nelson parkinglotwarriors.wordpress.com alex chiu alexdoodles.com
*title by mark matsushima **no part of this publication may be reproduced without personal permissions from respective artists, except for review purposes only.

ABOUT
Founded in 2008, by artists A’misa & Alex Chiu, Eyeball Burp is a cultural outlet that features the nooks and crannies of the art world. Eyeball Burp began as and still is a small press publication, xeroxed and hand distributed throughout Southern California. Building alongside fellow artists, musicians, and thinkers, Eyeball Burp also hosts and organizes a variety of community events, art shows, and workshops in the Los Angeles area. Finally, Eyeball Burp functions as an active blog space exposing thoughts, images, and ideas internationally. / 75

www.eyeballburp.com

cover artist: tina tae

eyeball burp press