Wednesday, October 6, 2010


I finally sent off a box of zines to the DePaul Library Zine Archives. It is an odd experience, handling their familiar, dog-eared (cliche, sorry), pages. One thing printed matter does that reading online doesn't is carry a collection of physical sensations with it: the thickness of the pages under your fingers; the (sturdy, flimsy) way it's bound and how the pages turn; the smells of inks; the sharpness or blurriness of type; the places it wants to fall open to when you pick it up.So when you reacquaint yourself with something like zines, memories that are physical as well as mental emerge. Handling them put me right back into my state of mind twenty years ago.

I found size-related zines I kind of had forgotten I had, including the first edition (does that phrase have the right connotation in this context?)--a first issue--of i'm so fucking beautiful my sister gave me. It's a powerful lil thing.

The page that jumped out at me, the one that I remember engaging with the most, was this one:

I can remember being very intrigued--scared--excited--nervous--about the idea of fat being "punk." I felt like it left me vulnerable, believing that. It could be punctured so easily as a rationalization. I had a sneaking suspicion it was true, despite wanting to call bullshit on it with the rest of the world. Fat could be many things, but never punk, especially in a punk world. But--it was. It is.