We’ve always wanted to go to Africa and Ghana was a country we knew little about. Without knowing why, we decided to go for a visit and find out firsthand how the people live. We arrived at the Kotoka International Airport in Ghana’s capital city Accra at night and, me, I had a fever. They stopped me from going through the security check to screen me for the Ebola virus. I got a little bit scared but only for a minute.
Dengue Fever embarked on a 12-day, 14-gig, 10-city tour about a week after the U.S. and international release of their latest album The Deepest Lake. Zac Holtzman, the band’s bearded guitarist/vocalist, talked to Core Magazines about their adventures on the road, how they ended up together and some memorable moments they’ve shared.
What do you do when you’re alone, without communication devices, in an unfamiliar city in the middle of a festival with a million revellers from seven continents? Well, a New Yorker would go back to the car and wait patiently until her friends came to the same conclusion.
The frequent appearance of hearts in his photographs may be interpreted as some kind of sign – a pending miracle, an awakening, a message from the universe – or just one great, big coincidence. Whatever the reason, artist Stephen Hues accepts that hearts just always seem to appear to him or he is drawn to objects that contain them.
Louise Moyes has a rare ability to connect with perfect strangers and she does so frequently on her journeys to St. John’s from Montreal, taking in the scenery and the people along Newfoundland’s isolated south coast via the Lower North Shore of Quebec and into Labrador, and turns those conversations along the way into pieces of art for the stage.
For 13 years I have gone back and forth between St. John’s and Montreal…between Montreal …and St.John’s. St. John’s and Montreal. And so has Marilyn – the first time we met was in 1989, she’d come into the Continental Cafe in St. John’s between 3 and 5 for toast and tea. We’d let her stay as long as she didn’t make too much ssshh (noise)!…
When you go to Berlin, bring your Depends. In the major areas, like Brandenburg Tor (Gate) and other tourist spots bathrooms are either restricted or the line up is so heavy, that even if you have your euro or 50 cent piece ready you could fall over hopping on one foot before you finally get into a stall and the tide not stemmed.
There might be a culture of shame for public bathrooms. They are staffed by attendants who feverishly try to keep them clean by going in to freshen things up, wipe things down, and provide napkins to patrons with each use.
I see a photograph of myself. In it I was on the bus travelling north to Tehran. We were going to visit friends, but that is not so important to the story. I was sitting alone because he was not talking to me. We were driving through the flat, dry landscape of my dreams, like the movies. I was wearing a maghnae, like a schoolgirl would wear, or a nun’s wimple. It’s tight around my face, but easier than wrestling with a headscarf that slides off my hair too easily. This particular day there was a stray hair sticking out, under my chin. I remember trying to locate it, unsuccessfully. It was troubling me. In the photograph I can see it, under my chin. That little hair sticking out reminds me of how I felt that day. Resigned. As much as I may have tried to tame the stray bits, one always found its way out of its cover.