“Do It For The Vine: How Six Second Videos Help Us Be Good Readers” by Jacob Fowler


I want to believe that I am not wasting my time watching Vine compilations on YouTube, that the hours I spent scrolling through the Vine app during college were not lost but rather purposeful in some way. Luckily, I have rationalized spending this time because I have discovered–or rather, decided– that Vines are the ultimate medium for creating good readers. I can justify this idea by leaning heavily on Vladimir Nabokov’s lecture titled “Good Readers and Good Writers” and focusing on three principles he outlines for good readers: fastidious reading, impersonal imagination, and summarization avoidance. Nabokov is certainly not the terminal figure in deciding what a good reader is –as no one with a sex crime book can be–but his lecture incorporates itself nicely into this miniature-internet-video-analysis.

I will use the word “reader” as freely as Nabokov does in his lecture/essay. For us, a “reader” is not only someone who looks at words on a page. For us, a “reader” is anyone interacting with a closed system of media with the intent of enjoyment and some kind of artistic appreciation; and the Vine is the ideal closed system for cultivating strong readers.

Perhaps the most advantageous quality of the Vine format is its length. There is a rich history of scholars from Flaubert (whom Nabokov quotes in this lecture), to Cleanth Brooks, to Roland Barthes who claim that there is no reading, only rereading. Vines are only six seconds long and it is easy to find oneself becoming a pedantic re-reader when the subject of one’s focus is limited. And it is this sort of pedantry, one which focuses the on the intricacies of the “text”, one which Nabokov advocates for, that can lead to an enhanced experience with the art form.

In a novel, television show, or movie — art forms which require long or multiple sessions– it is easy to be lost in any number of nuances and complexities; even the most attentive reader or viewer might find themselves racing down a rabbit hole that is only tangentially related instead of fastidiously consuming the main piece. Instead, a single Vine can be consumed multiple times in under a minute. No chance for mishap, only a medium that encourages short bursts of close reading. Take, for example, the “So, no head?” Vine.  There is so much to unpack in that short video: the movement, the inflection of the words, the character himself; all of which would be impossible to register with one pass of the video. Rather: this Vine demands and encourages rereading, such as all Vines do.

Additionally, Vines demand imagination, but not only imagination, the “impersonal imagination” which Nabokov advocates for. A two line caption and a six second video provide little context for the reader. So it is the role of the reader to imagine everything that the Vine cannot include. This is the mode in which the aforementioned unpacking must happen. With imagination, the Vine comes alive in interesting ways which excite the reader. Only through imagination, and the unpacking and contextualizing of the piece, can the reader fully engage with the Vine. Other art forms have the space and time to provide necessary information, with the Vine it is all on the reader therefore creating an attentive and imaginative recipient.

But not only that, it is the responsibility of the reader to imagine without identifying with any of the characters. Here Vines also have an advantage over most literary or otherwise artistic forms: their characters, due to the shortness of their medium, are nearly unidentifiable. All subjects of Vines –whether humans, animals, or characters in sketches– are caricatures. Vines are not funny or enjoyable because the character is relatable, they are funny because the characters are grotesque. This is not to say that they are gross, but that, since there is no time to flesh out and define characters, they are all parodies of the human condition: recognizable enough to be funny, but too burlesque to be personal.

The best literary analogue is John Kennedy Toole’s novel A Confederacy of Dunces. Which, without delving into it too much, is hilarious because of the enormity of all the characters. This is just one example of a long book that has uncontainable characters; every Vine features such characters and thus, impersonal imagination is not only fostered but demanded by Vines.

Finally, Vines escape summary. Imagine, for a moment, trying to describe your favorite Vine to someone who has never seen it. Not only would your summary probably be longer than six seconds, it would also be an inadequate representation of the video. The “Hurricane Tortilla” kid, the “suh dude” boys, the white girl retelling her birth story, the “you’re disrespecting a future army soldier” boy are all entertaining not because they are easily summarizable, but because they cannot be summarized. No artistic medium protects itself from the danger of summary as effectively as Vines do.

I have found it impossible to write about Vines without using words such as “entertaining” and “enjoyable” which leads me to a similar conclusion as the author of our source text. Nabokov, in his lecture, comes to somewhat of a conclusion that being a “good reader” is not as important as enjoying and succumbing to the piece of art. Nabokov states that “the wise reader reads the book of genius not with his heart, not so much with his brain, but with his spine.” and, perhaps, this is the lesson to pry away from Vines. Perhaps it is less important to worry if this time spent interacting with Vines is justifiable and accept it as an opportunity for sincere entertainment, an entertainment rooted in a specific epoch riddled with insincerity. Vines are, and presumably will always be, special to millenials; let’s enjoy them with a fervor strong enough to support “a castle of beautiful steel and glass”.  


Works Cited

“Good Readers and Good Writers” Vladimir Nabokov, 1948



Jacob Fowler (he/him/his) is an elementary school teacher living in Oakland, CA. He recently graduated from Pitzer College with a BA in World Literature. His poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Selcouth Station, Ghost City Review, and Riggwelter Press, among others. You can find him on Twitter @jacobafowler.

“wash it down with gin” (NF) and two paintings by Kelly Matheson


Each joint has a price. In terms of insurance, that is. Worker’s comp is a son of a bitch to people who sprain an ankle because you wore flip-flops to work that day or slipped on ice in the break room. But if you find a band-saw and make the calculated decision to remove appendages to work the system, you’ll find a legend of values for each limb and ligament. I know this because my brother cut his fingers off. I half wondered if he did it just to get out of work for a few months. At least it got rid of those trashy prison tattoos on his fingers. That’s the kind of contempt you hold for someone who has tried to choke the life out of you on multiple occasions. He received a settlement check that gave him the only stability he ever had.  A trailer that he paid the down payment on and then never made another payment. He rented the lot, of course. It was in the middle of nowhere and we only visited him a few times to help him clean and move in. He was riding a sympathy high for a while. He got to live the way he wanted. No responsibilities like working, paying bills, or cleaning. Just smoking, bartering his pain meds, and making god-awful food. He sat in a singlewide trailer, chain smoked and corresponded with a slimy attorney every day to make the best case and get the biggest payout. He got a check for somewhere in the neighborhood of $17,000. A hell of a bankroll for someone who’d been relegated to poverty his entire life. With it, he played house. He found some semblance of love and got married. Even attempted to start a family. Several months of marital and patriarchal bliss. He added an entirely impractical iguana to the mix. Years later, on one of his quests to live on the fringe of society, he let the beast freeze to death. After a year of growing moss and a rubber tree, a Magic Chef range and having to maintain 700 square feet, it all proved to be too much for him. All relationships were too much for him. I have no qualms admitting his accident was most likely on purpose. My brother was a rambler in a post-rambler world. There are no more brakemen and hobos. Only sad, lonely homeless men who claim park benches in the winter and creeks in the summer. It never did sit right with me knowing he was sleeping in the park or on someone’s floor. He wouldn’t reach out often to me considering my brash nature and my selfish shithead of a husband. He wasn’t welcome as an overnight guest and he knew this. I can blame my husband, but that kind of life scared me. No stability, no check, no 800-thread-count pillowcase and lamp to light my nightly escape from reality in some book. Brian was a bastard. Not in the descriptive sense, but in reality. He knew because he was told over and over and over again. Drilled in him that he was a mistake, born to be resented.  He was made in a one-horse pseudo-old-west town as revenge for my mother to pay back my father for all the bullshit he pulled. My brother, his namesake nonetheless, was the collateral damage. With each signature and roll call he was reminded that he was the illegitimate child of his mother and named after the man she avenged herself against. He was not wanted and he would never truly know his lineage. He was always a problem or issue to be dealt with, with thrown punches and sharp words. Funny thing is I met his so called biological father. He looked nothing like him. So in all these fights and mud slinging there was a name that rang out. But now I knew that wasn’t even his real father. I never made this known to my brother, we never talked about anything really. Until the day this mans obituary came out. I’ll never know if my brother believed me when I told him, there’s no way that was your father. It made me feel sad for him. It made me remember when he turned eight. The doctors handed down the news. It felt like a terminal diagnosis at that time. Juvenile diabetes. To a family with no money, no prospects, and too much pride to accept help. Two shots a day. Insulin and syringes twice every day. Every day was a struggle. He was already ostracized in every way. In his own family. In school, due to his learning disabilities, which could probably be explained by his illness and the ever-present mood swings. Now he was different physically. He never belonged anywhere. His sheared wool was always black as soot. Constant fighting with my mother, who poured her resentment of his existence straight into him, unapologetically, which only exacerbated his distaste for living in reality. His ability to lie as a means to an end was honed at a young age. She told him what a sorry piece of shit he was. The fact of the matter remained that my mother and brother were so much alike in the fact that neither of them could hold a job very long or maintain any kind of relationship. They were both infamous for screaming matches in the front lawn. Fist fights and dramatic attempts on each others lives were just another day. In our little slice of rural North Carolina, it was always a first-name basis with all the deputies. In a time when mental illness was an urban issue, these were nothing more than rural realities. Nothing you can do to help them.  Keep them from shooting the neighbors. Anything more is out of my pay grade. The rest of the souls living in that hellhole are just SOL. So you wake up. Another day of shit to eat. Go to vacation bible school where you are taught to be grateful for the shit you eat. Forgive your mother and file your brother away in a part of your brain that can’t be explained or contacted without pain and confusion. Make a complacent attempt at finding normalcy and stability. Then they both die, and you are left craving shit for breakfast.


Kelly Dishmond is an artist and writer who lives in Hickory, North Carolina. Kellsbells1783

Excerpts from ‘Autobiography’ by Hatelet (NF)


Wading through my memories feels like walking into an attic that has a roof battered by raindrops and is filled with rising spirals of dust.  When I was 16 years old I fasted for four days. I was at a boarding school that was at high altitude, and I ran every day of the fast, on a winding trail that climbed through rock and pine trees and dry, oily soil.  I got weaker every day of the fast. I started to feel like I was made of too much dry air– brittle, spacey, birdlike.

The last time I was happy was around two to three years ago.  I have been sick for a long time. I forget what my life was like before this.  I recall things with difficulty. In moments of lucidity provoked by medication, I feel as if everything in my body is flowing.  I like the pagan light that comes from the earth, that illuminates forest clearings where dryads and faeries lurk. How do mushrooms see?

I relish pain sometimes, but there are so many different kinds of pain.  Pain is a blunt word that means “aversive stimuli”. There are so many ways a body can fail, that it is hard to articulate the feelings.  Some kinds of dull pain are worse than sharp pains. In sickness, the body sometimes senses geological spaces, flows, and times. The body becomes desert sand, bones of giants, rock and mineral strata grinding slowly against each other.  It thirsts like rock does. It is helpless like rock.

I do not like marijuana.  When I smoke it I think of the book “Flatland”.  Everything becomes two-dimensional; the walls scream.  I like opioids, especially oxycodone. I have never used intravenous drugs.  As a child, I used to say that my favorite color was blue. I don’t think I have a favorite color now, but I would like to live in a red room with a bright yellow incandescent bulb.  

In the spaces in between falling asleep and dreaming, I am transported to dimly lit planes that I think are embryonic versions of different geological-spatial formations.  For example, I was at a central or southern african savannah before it was formed. I was in the most northern part of the tundra where you pass through the border and everything starts to twinkle and things become green again, welcoming you to the other side.  It was as if places I’ve been had a negative correspondence that wasn’t an ideal form but was nevertheless otherworldly.

I like cats and consider them my equals, or better than me.  Because of this I do not like to talk to them as if they are babies, although sometimes I do raise my voice in a sing-song way when they are particularly cute.  I think of Hell often. I might believe in reincarnation, but I’m not sure. Death is completely opaque to me. I have only lucid dreamed two times in my life. My memories elude me often, which is why this piece of writing is an endurance sport for me.

I feel that many women are angels.  On LSD I would often feel that men had an uncomfortable energy around them, women were more cooling.  One time on LSD I experienced a sort of “imprinting” in which someone who took care of me for the duration of the trip became a fixation for me, for no other reason than that.  We didn’t have anything in common but for this period, she had been my mother. I am too immature to have been in love, but nevertheless I have been in love once. I do not think I have many years left to live, but telling myself this is most likely a coping mechanism.  I do not know if my inability to kill myself is weakness or strength. After all, the present is very precarious, and many things could go either way for me.

I used to enjoy food far more before I got sick.  As a child, all my strongest memories were associated with food, although I was never at all overweight.  This is probably because I was largely friendless for most of my childhood. My relative lack of romantic relationships or serious friendships in childhood through high school may have been responsible for me developing a feeling of being constantly late for something, as well as a feeling of being orthogonal to the world.  

I think human life is so frustrating because we are “not quite there yet”.  I have always been an extremely messianic person, but this zeal has been mostly extinguished by events of the past year or two.  The Tibetan Book of the Dead says the inability to distinguish between different types and qualities of light is a serious concern for those in the intermediate state between life and death, but I think it is also a problem for the living.  I have always had a fear of not being noticed enough. This fear has been exacerbated by becoming a total hermit due to circumstance, and because of this, I use social media in fitful bursts occasionally, then retreat when the light hurts my eyes.

I turned away from religious and occult belief like a spurned lover.  I am a zealot and thus I believe or oppose belief in extremes. I cannot stand to be abandoned by God, and thus I am not patient enough to be a Christian.  I still like to wander into services sometimes. I like shaking the hands of the other people in the church and wishing each other peace. I find many religions and myths incredibly evocative, but the only ones that I think are really real are the impersonal metaphysics of religions that involve some form of reincarnation without a god.

I used to ski a lot, mostly alpine, but some nordic.  I loved skiing through glades with deep, powdery snow.  I mostly skied alone, all day, for a large portion of the winter months of my adolescence.  I sometimes got lonely and frightened once the dark came right as the mountain was closing and I waited for a ride home with my parents.  I used to be triumphant about being an atheist as a young child, until I realized the gravity of disbelieving in life after death, at which point I became often scared and depressed.  Winter always used to be my favorite season. I have seen things in the shadows and quiet of a snow-dampened, dark wood.

The last time I was truly happy or excited must have been in September of 2016.  In September of 2015, I met someone who I would fall for at a party a half-mile into the woods near my college.  In September of 2016 I went to a party in the same woods, after we had broken up, and met her there again. I try aggressively to not believe in magic, or coincidence, but the repetition of this occurrence felt like closing a circle, and set the hairs on my arm on edge.  That night I think some kind of threshold was crossed, and I walked into the unreal world that I reside in now.

I think that perhaps the closest one can come to the supernatural is by refusing to believe in it, but going through the motions of belief very strictly, as if one did.  Trying to draw a perfect circle, chanting in monotone, are all things that do something to the fabric of things regardless of whether they are believed in or not. Only fraud requires belief for it to work.

I slowly and imperceptibly become accustomed to the unreal and terrible existence I have, but I wake up sometimes in a start; terrified of how time passes and leaves me with nothing.  I remember when I was four, that I used to think the willow trees we passed on the South Carolina back roads actually turned grey at night–I didn’t realize that it was just how light works.  I was comforted by them as they seemed to be benign beckoners of a soft and rich dreamtime. I would sometimes play with the other children at the houses where we went to hear bluegrass and country music.  We were told to watch out for snakes and rusty metal scraps, and to not go too close to the river. Many dramas were hinted at that seemed inaccessible to me. I wanted adventure, but never really got it. I would hang out downstairs where people played music casually, offstage.  The floor was unfinished concrete and the air was filled with cigarette smoke and the bathroom was lit by a red incandescent bulb.

I can’t stand the idea of useless suffering.  Time passes and then congeals, in dirty glass jars in a cabinet in a small wooden house that cramps in on itself–this makes me nauseous.  I hate when things are not redeemed somehow. I don’t want my hand to be forced, I would like to not have to redeem my life in a final act.  I do not like anything much anymore. I am becoming immaculately boring, except for my rage, which I cannot usually express but would dignify my stupid existence.

I know that more women attempt suicide than men, but more men succeed.  Women are more likely to use less lethal means, like taking pills or cutting their wrists.  Men are more likely to use guns or hanging. Pills are less successful mostly because people taking them do not know much about pharmacology, generally.  It is not very difficult to kill yourself with pills if you know much about pharmacology. Anti-emetics are a very important aspect of this method because many people vomit up the pills.  

We were talking earlier about different types of pain.  I do not mind the feeling of a needle piercing my vein, but the duller feeling of the plastic catheter sliding in bothers me.  I broke my leg once, when I was about 16. I was playing an informal, or “pickup” soccer game at my high school in the mountains in California.  I was not wearing shin guards because it was an informal game. I was playing goalie, and I didn’t want to let my team down, so I charged the ball.  The player on the other team did not stop, and kneed my shin. There was a sickening, hard slap. I was helped off the field and then     




“Tenting Tonight in a Four Poster” by Walter Giersbach [Non-Fiction]



[Pictured: Marion Fisk on the Chautauqua Circuit billed as “America’s Foremost Cartoonist.”]

I eagerly anticipated tales of Indian lovers and horrifying winters and camping with a horse-drawn wagon when my grandmother came to stay each summer in the early 1950s.  The rewards came when Moms let me sleep in her rope-strung, four-poster bed with the canopy that formed a tent.

I rushed to get in my PJs and pulled the comforter up to my chin while she unbraided her long gray hair and placed her false teeth in a glass of water.

Then the stories began.  My favorite was about a boy, born in New Hampshire years ago, “who would rather die than hoe beans.”

Moms said that with the boy’s talent for music, “He took a hollow reed and fashioned a flute.  His father felt that such genius should be encouraged.

“So, the boy and his sister learned to play on a pump organ.  They played everything they knew, then they made up their own songs.

“When the man was 21 years old, he went down to Boston, purchased a horse and wagon, and a little organ and drove through the countryside giving concerts in schools and churches.

“Then the time came,” she said, “when Uncle Sam ordered, ‘Come, follow me.’  It never occurred to him to seek an excuse why he shouldn’t enter his country’s service.”

I knew who Uncle Sam was, and the air raid sirens told me we were fighting the Germans and Japanese.  But she was talking about some long-ago war and I was quiet.

“He was away the night the summons came, and all the way home the words and music to a little song kept running through his mind.  When he had reached home he took an old violin and wrote a simple little piece.

“A few days later, he went down to Concord, New Hampshire, to report for service.  He was found physically unfit and was dismissed. But there was a demand for a song by which the soldiers might march and sing in camp.  The Oliver Ditson Company advertised for such a song, and the young man sent down the simple song he had written, offering to sell it to them for fifteen dollars.

“They were disgusted because of its simplicity and refused to have it at any price.  Instead, they hired a musician of considerable note to write a song for them. But, the soldiers wouldn’t sing it.  Then, they remembered the little song they had refused, purchased and published it, and in less than six weeks it was being sung by every Southern campfire and in every Northern home.”

Moms would make sure I was still tucked in — and still awake — before she continued.

“I remember when I was a little girl, seeing an eccentric looking man come into our yard.  He was driving a brown horse hitched to a pink express wagon, and in the back was strapped a melodeon.  My father and mother — your great grandpa and great-grandma — received him with joy in the kitchen.

“I was allowed to sit up late while I listened to them talk, often about things I couldn’t understand.  But I liked to listen to his kindly voice. At last they sang songs, and he told us this story of his boyhood and sang the song he had written the night of his draft, the song that made Walter Kittredge known and loved all over our country.”  And she began to sing softly, sadly.


“We are tenting tonight on the old camp ground,

Give us a song to cheer,

Our weary hearts, a song of home,

And the friends we love so dear.


“Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,

Wishing for the war to cease,

Many are the hearts, looking for the right,

To see the dawn of Peace.


“Tenting tonight, tenting tonight,

Tenting on the old camp ground.”


Moms passed away in that bed in 1961 at the age of 86.  The bed is now in the guest bedroom of my house.

Marion Ballou Fisk — my Moms — had traveled the Chautauqua Circuit across the country week after week between 1906 and 1926 to support her family.  She was billed as America’s Foremost Lady Cartoonist when entertainment and uplifting lectures were delivered under the large tents. In small towns across America, this was the only source of culture and respite from weary, rural chores.

I finally dug through cartons of her papers and found her hand-written stories — including this one — and a photo of her as she told crowds about Walter Kittredge who wrote one of the Civil War’s most famous ballads.

I’m sure that one of the most rapt audiences Moms ever had wasn’t a real audience at all. Just a small boy sleeping under the “tent” in her four-poster bed.



Walt Giersbach’s fiction and non-fiction have appeared in a score of online and print publications, including Soft Cartel.  He served for three decades as director of communications for Fortune 500 companies, helped publicize the Connecticut Film Festival, managed publicity and programs for Western Connecticut State University’s Haas Library, and now moderates a writing group in New Jersey.


‘On Dissociation: An Anesthetic Aesthetic’ by Milvaspectre


Much has been made of the relation of certain writers and their affinities for drink or for various intoxications. Most often, besides liquor, one is likely to hear of a writer or philosopher partaking in opioids or in psychedelics. A vital strain, I aver however, that is missing in this discourse is that of the class of drugs known as “dissociatives”.

Dissociatives or “dissos” are a class of hallucinogen (the others being psychedelics and deliriants) characterized by antagonism of NMDA receptors. Drugs of this family include: ketamine, dextromethorphan, PCP, and nitrous. Their effects on humans include but are not limited to: a sense of confusion, lack of balance/proprioception, distortions of time and space, increased appreciation of music, closed eye visuals (including geometries as well as roving eye landscapes and immersive dramatic scenes). One has remarked that they feel like “it’s 72 degrees in your head all the time”. Dissos also are known to lack hangovers and instead supply afterglows and antidepressant properties. At higher doses they can induce “k-holes” or “holes” wherein one can lose one’s sense of place and have surreal ego death-like experiences.

The importance of these substances to the arts is perhaps not obvious immediately due to the dissociative family seeming relatively recent as far as drugs go, as well as seemingly never occurring naturally. This would make one think the disso is relegated to the niche, to being a weird class of “designer drugs”. We must remember, however, that LSD was a designer drug at one point.

The figure who looms largest over this legacy is undeniably John C Lilly, the scientist most famous for his development of the sensory deprivation tank and for his experiments on dolphin intelligence. After the illegalization of LSD, Lilly began experimenting with ketamine and later PCP. His work navigated everything from science to philosophy and spirituality and was often inspired by his entheogenic experiments. Tributes to Lilly can be found everywhere from the cult film, Altered States, to Serial Experiments Lain to Ecco the Dolphin.

Continue reading “‘On Dissociation: An Anesthetic Aesthetic’ by Milvaspectre”