Fathom 1993



Inside Cover



Jason Holt (3)
Dana Graham
Mariam Pirbhai (3)
r.j. inglis
Sean Maschmann
Graham Touchie (3)
Leslie Stockhausen
Nicole Fernandez
Helen Prosser
Sean Lawrence
Simon Gauci
Derrick Higginbotham


Ramona Ryan 1
Ramona Ryan 2
Urs Frei


Ramona Ryan





     She came out of the woods and entered the forest of glass and cement. Stepping gingerly, unaccustomed to the even firmness of her under-footing, she avoided the ancient undecomposed debris.
     On her back she carried a weaving loom frame, a spinning wheel and her clothes, all tied skillfully together with a hemp rope. She turned in a white building, passed a security guard, who stood with his white teeth, red mouth open at the sight of her. She boarded the waiting elevator with the certainty of a traveller in a new and directed adventure. She pressed the fourteenth floor button and rode to her destiny (the thirteenth floor).
     She came off the stopped cubicle and looked around to see which way to walk. She chose the left and turned her feet towards the linear hall-way. The red carpeting showed a dark geometric pattern in the glow of the dim gold light fixed at each two door interval. When her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she stopped and opened the brown rectangular door.
     Inside, the interlocking rooms shot white light from all directions. She placed her possessions on the white linoleum entrance and explored her new interior. The room to the left was her small kitchen, also with white linoleum, and white cupboards and appliances. Straight ahead was her living room, with white short pile polyester carpeting and white nylon sheers over the width-of-the-room window expansion, beyond which there was a grey-white cement balcony overlooking the sun-bleached city. From her entrance, to the right, was her bedroom. It had the same white carpeting with a window, the size of half her loom frame, on the side of the apartment building. All her walls were painted a white semi-gloss latex that was unmarked, as no-one had lived in the apartment before.
     She retrieved her bundles and moved everything into her living-room. She assembled her pine loom and put it facing the window on her side wall. She placed her spinning wheel opposite the loom looking into the interior of her apartment. She scooped up her sprawling clothes and took them to her bedroom and folded them, one by one, placing them on the floor of her mirrored closet. After everything was in place, she sat herself down on the white pile and felt the rough texture on her exposed knees. She had started her quest.



     Walking through the brambles gives her pain. The needles stick to her rough textured clothes and plucking them off is a frustrating exercise. First she takes the bulb of the bramble and yanks. A mess of tiny fibres hangs on as the bramble is being tom off. She cannot remove the bramble any other way. There is a fuzzy spot where the prickles were. Then she takes any of the residue needles between her tweezer-like fingers and again pulls. Everything is pulled away that is unwantedly attached. Or so it seems.
     Her load is heavy. She doesn’t notice the load as a separate piece of dumpable baggage. She does notice the weight. She is proud that she carries the weight and that she has travelled such a great distance with it. She had come such a good long way from where she was even just yesterday. She even had increased her load.



     It is all white. And cold. The flesh has been torn off the bones. The bone is smooth. The fuzzy muscle has broken off. It has frozen in the cold. And now it is off, around her feet, like thin mica sheets that have split at their weakest point. Their cleavage is the breaking point. That is the technical term, cleavage. But the flesh didn’t cleave. It dropped off. At its cleavage point? No. It is flesh, not rock.
     She is not a rock. She is a skeleton. With a consciousness. Because she is human. And is a woman. And is still alive. And is known to exist in the white north, somewhere standing, looking onto the perfect ice-flow that has perfect white snow being generated by a fleshy, round faced woman of swarthy complexion. This is frustrating.



     The grey skeleton. Was a woman, has thirteen ribs. The pelvis doesn’t show signs of ever having given birth. It weaves snow. It’s quite practical, really. It keeps the warped and wafted threads attached to the wings that protrude from the shoulder blades. The wings are swarthy. Unclean. And pure snow is being woven. A blanket of snow, white. The wings were red. Blood red. Now they are swarthy. Life has stopped in them. They were alive. They were someone else, actually. But that is another myth. Not useful for this myth. This myth deals with the generation of the pure white snow from the bone white skeleton that has knowledge of brambles in forests, carpets in buildings, red mouths, and journeys with loads of looms on her back. It is hovering above the perfect ice-flow, weaving.


last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul