Watch out!Jump out the window, slide down the roof, hurl your weight down the closest fire escape.They’re coming to get you, and each and every one of their desires demands satisfaction.
It’s not clear how to please them.The questions they ask destabilize every logical system known, even the various intermittent clarities of dreamwork and delusion formation.And yet we cannot shake the premonition that we have summoned them, that they have heard our call before we ourselves have consumed their decibels and are only here by exclusive invitation.We stand before the mirror, but our mirror image can’t stand still, leaping into hidden dimensions where we presume it undertakes crimes yet to be categorized or appreciated.
In Wittgenstein, there is the possibility of an unconscious toothache, much as in Freud, there is the chance that a mysterious tropism we can’t even countenance enough to disavow creates a gravitational tug permeating a solar system of desire.These creatures, too, chimaerical, phantasmic and speculative, are the result of Christmas lists we never knew we made, grocery tallies of items we never knew we needed, rambutan and dragon fruit scattered half-eaten at our feet, as if we’ve dosed up on Ambien.
They are here not because they have arrived or made an entrance, but because their substance is coeval with ours.And what never comes can never go: we might as well all sing Karen Carpenter songs and make ‘smores, because we’re inextricably connected via this Bell’s Theorem of the Doppel, implicated by it as much as we in turn imply it, simply by drawing breath.
And so I bring you our first nebu[lab]_mini, the super-concentrated version of nebu[lab], with a focus on those impossible biologies we lump under the term cryptid:
vNo stranger to the apocryphal, Dana Lang, a fantastically twisted New York City playwright with a keen sense of objective humor and irony, gives a glimpse of what happens when killer mycology meets the Jersey Devil in her monsterpiece Death Caps and the Jersey Devil.
vNot one to hide thigmotaxcally in the corner, New York City trannie terror Rose Wood turns it out and up with performances eliciting questions of abjection and horror.
vHardly a novice to the grotesque, NYU drag historian Joe E. Jeffreys, for whom the ephemeral sticks around just long enough to be documented and preserved with the gentle precision of a lepidopterist, deciphers Rose’s ruses as only he can.
I am pleased and proud to present the work of these two maddening artists, and hope they turn on quiet genes no physician would recommend activating and the lights of secret rooms no architect has included in her blueprints.No need to utter "Bring it!"—the fun has already begun.If we survive the encounter, it will only be to dance the Roger Rabbit with Terry Schiavo and share a bloody pomegranate beneath a new moon with Hogzilla.