Volume 1, Issue xi
Wild Greens 1, no. 11 (September 2021)
Welcome to the September 2021 issue of Wild Greens
September’s here. With the turning of the calendar comes a wave of nostalgia: the end of summer, a change in the weather, back-to-school ads on television.
So much of nostalgia is tied up in experiences we share through music, media, and TV.
Lisa Molina’s poem, “Relics,” spins off of vinyl’s new trendiness. Lisa reveres records as “relics” (and suggests that the people who listened to them are relics too!) Sam Ken’s “Warrior Princess” relishes in retro nostalgia for Star Wars through one of the franchise’s most iconic characters.
Holly Genovese’s essay, “Emo and the Problem with Seth Cohen,” reflects on how beloved classics look different when you’re older. She argues that the main character of the early aughts’s The O.C. personifies the sexist tropes of the emo music he loves. Douglas Hardman’s poem “yearn for the best,” is personal and global. He looks suspiciously at the way nostalgia is employed to cover up and glorify our painful past.
In Lauren Kimball’s new comic, Turtle and Hare have different relationships with communication, and snail mail takes on a whole new meaning.
Dave Brey’s meditative poem, “Nostalgia, or Zen and the Art of Time Travel” invites us to gather our memories like a harvest. Jessica Doble’s intimate poem “Suspended Falling” literalizes this concept of harvested memories— drawing a parallel between the soybean harvest out her window and the suspended feeling of moving back into her childhood bedroom.
Carly Lewis’s “Mushrooms” captures the fleetingness of a moment— the realization of a memory in the making. Kiley Miller’s “Bittersweet,” ponders food, and how taste can bring you home even when you’re halfway around the world.
Robin Brownfield’s mosaic “SuperMike” depicts her son’s love of Superman, both as a child and now as a grown-up. Kathy Panek, now a piano teacher herself, reflects on her favorite quirky piano teacher in “Madame L.” Last, my strange little poem “Onfim”: I attempt to capture the pang of nostalgia I felt when learning about the life of a child who lived eight hundred years ago. The poem follows a seven-year-old boy in 13th century Russia who drew and wrote his schoolwork on birch bark.
Take a trip down memory lane with your friends at Wild Greens.
by Lisa MolinaNot so long ago, people thought the old relics died with new high tech ways; compact, digital, not even tangible. Streaming in the air, but only if you have Wi-fi, not Hi-fi.
I remember well waiting months, weeks, days for the release,standing outside in moonlight doors unlocked at midnight.Oh, how I wanted that first one!
Taking it back to my dorm roomlongingly looking at the cover artforeshadowing the alchemy yet to come.
Finally, the cosmic moment-Sliding the shiny onyx treasure gently out of the sleeve.
Careful! Don’t smudge it with your fingerprints!
Setting it on the round table as the diamond tip of vision settled into that groove of groovesto read and hear the
rhythms/words/rhymes/meters/yearnings/betrayals/triumphs/ecstasies/lovers/breakups/reunionsall while spinning round round round hypnotizing the ears and eyes of my mind. Sometimes, a revolutionary change,for you knew this was The Onethat would seal the legacy forever.
And now, these holy relicsare sought by collectors;Special release dates! Alive again!
All so this new generation can attempt to come close to the sacrament of that first Receiving.
Some of us wise old-timers preservedthose holy relics of our youth on shelves.
These days they are precious stories to be told and retold through generations.
And, for that, we are cooler than cool.
by Sam Ken
8x8 Oil on Canvas
Inspiration: What makes you feel more nostalgic than Star Wars? The original conjures sentimental feelings that last a lifetime.
Emo and the Problem with Seth Cohen
by Holly Genovese
The new millennium brought us The O.C., and with it the idea that it was better to accept shitty treatment from a cute boy with a good comic collection than a solid relationship with a seemingly vacuous hunk.
For girls in studded belts and band T-shirts, still lining their waterline, the idealized guys of teen TV were not all that great. The leading men of Teen Dramas of the 1990s were the heartthrobs of 90210 or the insufferable Dawson from Dawson’s Creek. The O.C.’s Ryan Atwood, the bad boy with a heart of gold and a closet full of white tank tops, fit the heartthrob mold. But Ryan Atwood was joined by Seth Cohen, and Seth Cohen was different. Seth was smart and competitive, into Indie rock, comic books, and “good literature.” There was a Ryan in every show, but at the time, Seth felt new.
I’ve spent much of the pandemic revisiting old favorites―books, films, shows, and music. Culture that I felt I outgrew a decade ago, before I needed that familiarity, comfort, and warmth as I settled in for seemingly endless months on the couch. Even though it’s a teen show from the early aughts, I never really thought I outgrew The O.C., as much as I hadn’t felt compelled to haul out my DVD box set in years. But during the Texas Winter Storm, we lost both water and internet for over a week but somehow kept our electricity. This meant I was safe, but very dirty, hungry, uncomfortable and unfathomably bored. So I pulled out the DVDs.
To my surprise, I was no longer team Seth or Ryan, and I was only rarely annoyed by Summer’s antics and instead frustrated by the boys. And I still loved Marissa, the hottest of all messes. I realized the character I most disliked was Seth.
Seth wasn’t a good person, not really. And he especially wasn’t a good boyfriend, or even friend, to girls. When the series starts, Seth had an over-the-top crush on Summer, a crush that in retrospect was creepy. He had never even really talked to Summer, but he named his boat after her, memorized her grade school poem, and idealized a fantastical image of her that never really existed. Even though Summer was quite the catch, it never quite seemed like Seth actually knew, or even liked, Summer. He much preferred the idea of her that he had imagined. For Seth, Summer was an object to acquire and not a person.
And once Summer starts to reciprocate Seth’s feelings, he somehow gets worse. He seemingly cannot decide between new girl Anna and Summer, stringing them both along instead of dealing with his own feelings. In many ways, Seth feels like he “should” like Anna, the nerdy smart girl who shares his love of comics―who he contrasts sharply with Summer. Because, for Seth, girls in bikinis who love fashion cannot be smart or interesting themselves. During the whole pseudo love triangle, he even gives Anna and Summer the same gift, “The Seth Cohen Starter Pack.” which shows an impressive lack of tact and incredible narcissism. Seth is the center of the story, not Anna or Summer.
The starter pack, if you’ve forgotten, included Bright Eyes’s “Lifted or the Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground,” The Shins’ “Oh, Inverted World, and Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism” as well the novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon and the film The Goonies. Here, Seth reinforces the problems with early 2000s emo and pop punk, genres that The O.C. helped to popularize, in the form of a “gift.” In her defining essay, “Emo: Where The Girls Aren’t,” Jessica Hopper writes “It’s evident from these band’s lyrics and shared aesthetic that their knowledge of actual living, breathing women is notional at best. Emo’s characteristic vulnerable front is limited to self-sensitivity, every song a high-stakes game of control that involves “winning” or “losing” possession of the girl (see Dashboard Confessional, Brand New, New Found Glory and Glassjaw albums for prime examples). Yet, in the vulnerability there is no empathy, no peerage or parallelism. Emo’s yearning doesn’t connect it with women-it omits them.” (16). Even as Seth attempts to win both Anna and Summer, he doesn’t see them as human, but as possessions, reinforced by the music he gives them both. When taken together, the gifts double down on Seth’s need to “educate” the women in his life, women who mostly knew more than he did. He, for example, assumes Anna, who is equally obsessed with comic books, has not yet read the Pulitzer Prize winning Kavalier and Clay. His favorite bands, which many of us grew to adore, weren’t all so great about women. In Death Cab’s “I will possess your heart” Ben Gibbard sings “How I wish you could see the potential/ The potential of you and me/ It’s like a book elegantly bound but in a language that you can’t read.” How condescending can you get?
Seth constantly underestimates women. In the very first episode he is shocked that he could like the same music as Marissa, as if liking clothes and having *issues* means you cannot have good taste. Though Anna was brilliant, interesting, and homesick for Pennsylvania, Seth is convinced she would only move home because he broke her heart. And Seth’s shock and bitterness that Summer both got a higher SAT score than he did and got into Brown University shows that he feels entitled to have better taste, better scores, and a better future than women. For Seth, the nerdy kid who liked comic books and indie music was somehow inherently more deserving of high scores, women, and elite colleges than everyone else.
To be clear. Seth wasn’t the only male lead of the early aughts to inspire awe simply because of his so-called good taste. It was an archetype that worked. Jess Mariano of Gilmore Girls, the alternative millennial girl’s dream guy, made up of clash lyrics and a painful obsession with Ernest Hemingway, treated women poorly. He didn’t talk down to them in the way that Seth Cohen did, but his casual disregard for his relationships with women-whether it be his girlfriend's Shane and Rory or his mother—was made acceptable because he liked books and punk (and let’s be honest—was played by Milo Ventimiglia). Dan Humphrey of Gossip Girl was more obviously a villain (he somehow turned out to be gossip girl after all), but was seen as the intelligent, observant writer from Brooklyn, endgame for Serena, even after it was revealed he was spying on her and her friends for 6 seasons. Liking books, good music, and avoiding sports was somehow seen as virtuous, a moral high ground that made sexism and cruelty acceptable.
I think a lot of us, who grew up watching The O.C., listening to Indie and Emo, and trying to be the cool nerd girl, thought that we needed to take the sexist crap from nerdy boys as if it was somehow less damaging than the stuff hyper masculine bros pulled. But in the end, it might have been worse. At least you knew Ryan Atwood was going to punch someone. The toxicity of the cute, nerdy boy with “good taste” was hidden in plain sight. The nerdy boys of Emo and The O.C. felt they deserved women, women who they saw themselves as smarter, deeper, and better than. It’s no leap to see the ways in which this behavior could turn dangerous— or the ways in which countless teen girls turned these messages inward, until we saw ourselves as the objects in those emo songs.
yearn for the best
by Douglas HardmanChildhood dazeBaseball gamesSandy beach tripsMidnight neighborhood adventuresTrips that bore amusementAircraft carriersAnd ash falling from the airScreams silenced by fistsSisters’ lives threatenedMy mother brokenMy spirit beatenSunshine and laughterConcealed the dark cloudsBut transparency is keyYou cannot suppressWhat shaped you
History is sugarcoatedMinus the Great Depression(that one they got right)Genocide masked with promiseColonization rewarded with statuesShackles transformed to cuffs“Make peace, not war”Against the backdrop of actual warShield their eyesMake it easy to swallowSince their jaw was broken by the fists of men incapable of empathyVicious cycles bore repeatingWhile we continue to glorify the glory days
Pessimism is a diseaseIt’s just hard to hard to see the upsideWhen my rose-colored glasses are bloodstainedBut I lied beforePerspective is keyThe past may haunt youKnuckled down and afraidI found it hard to yearn for the bestWhen I never knew what could beOnly what wasNow I knowI can yearn for the bestThat has yet to beBecause nothing could be as badAs what the past once did to me
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Service with a Slime
by Lauren Kimball
Nostalgia (or Zen and the Art of Time Travel)
by Dave Brey
by Jessica Doblethree feet of dusted sunlight between well and trimthe old joke—parents’ basement transparent
soybeans stalked, awkwardsagging pods
a pandemic childhood bedrooms encase past livedthe fit it’s tight
domestic shorthair grooming dappled sill
still scenting,stink bugs and exploration
after harvestbarrenstill with one—heterodomesticity
furrowed fieldsunimpeded wind winds
ruffles crows’ feet squinting gleaning bone-picked fieldspromises
by Carly Lewis
Rain boils on the red mudded moss of the mountain’s woodland floor with every pelted drop. I feel the cabin at my back blur behind the downpour’s sheets like a memory—thousands of miles away—but it’s just up the steep, backyard hill. The shifting stone I stand on holds up my vibrating body as I remember…That afternoon—feels like last year—I sat at the cabin’s kitchen table with three old friends. Twin flames smirked in mine and Eileen’s eyes, preparing to face God as we bit into bacon cheeseburgers…with one special ingredient. Secret. Ancient. All natural, never store bought. Some might call it spiritual, and they might be correct. I certainly felt spirited, tumbling out of that kitchen into the downpouring rain, hiking my grey sweatpants to my knees to catch a breeze through the gauzy humidity before sprinting into the verdant forest with Eileen’s hand gripped in mine. The trees inhaled and swallowed us into their coven—to shelter us from the storm. From whatever world there was in August 2020. Inhaled to exhale, inhale…exhale. It felt better to breathe when we were trees. Allowed to stand still with those old-timers who stood there for centuries, and had the rings to show off their achievement. Allowed to grow our own roots and tie ourselves to the earth that grew us. Now I tilt my head to the cool marble dome of sky, laced with the sketches of branches that wave down to me as “Strawberry Fields Forever” murmurs from the speaker in Eileen’s back pocket. My cheeks climb up to my eyes—a smile. Then a whisper: easy…this won’t last forever…
by Kiley Miller
Food is a special kind of time machine. Each dish is a different memory, a different relationship or experience. An aroma or taste traps me, hooking my brain through my nose or leading me by the tongue to place me back in time. A smell wafts around a corner, and I’m watching Grandma and Grandpa ‘Bel ― short for Nabel (nuh-BEL) ― weave their way around each other through the kitchen as a dozen aunts, uncles, and cousins yell over each other in the adjacent dining room.
Each memory is like that: sweet and inviting with a twinge of an unexpected, bitter gut-punch upon realizing that the past is where those moments live now.
We sat at an outdoor café in Morocco, my boyfriend and I in April 2018, sweating and waiting for our order. We watched tagines doled out at the tables and people-watched as tourists swarmed the food carts and vendors around Fez, and I was thankful for the occasional breeze that offered some relief from the heat and carried savory hints of what was in store for us. I didn’t think anything of it as my plate was dropped off in front of me, a glistening and slightly blackened, bone-in chicken thigh and leg over a mound of couscous piled high, adorned with cooked veggies. I split off a bite of carrot, scooped up some couscous, and shoveled it in.
My teeth sink into the softened carrot, and my eyes brim with tears.
The spices are one dimension of the surprise, the North African and Mediterranean flavors coming to life and exploding one by one: an almost bitter turmeric made sweet by the brightness of olive oil, and the forceful garlic complemented by the simple salt and pepper. The texture added to my surprise. The outside offers just a little resistance then opens up to an inside of an almost mashed-potato-but-creamier consistency. It’s delicious but not so tasty as to make a person cry. But the flavor is just one piece of the puzzle that my brain is frantically trying to sort out, to account for the waterworks display that’s quickly unfolding.
You know the scene in Ratatouille where the mean critic takes one bite of that eponymous dish, and you’re swooped back in time to his childhood in provincial France?
In the span of a blink, of one flex of the jaw, the bazaar around me morphs into the chaos of my family. My French-born, Algerian-raised grandpa is the only cook I’ve ever known to roast a carrot just so.
It’s late afternoon in suburban Ohio. I’m back at the sunny dining room table and the sounds of spirited conversations pulsate around me ― an experience made impossible as I was, literally, thousands of miles and an ocean away. My grandparents were over a decade deceased, the house with its revolving door of family members on parade long-since sold, and the creek and apple tree that hosted endless summer games with my cousins hadn’t crossed my mind in years.
But, there I am with a plate of Grandpa’s roast carrots and couscous, sitting in the high-backed chair with the scratchy, canvas-esque seat, the TV overly loud from across the house and further obscuring the conversation around me. Grandpa’s raspy and heavily accented voice filters in from the next room as Grandma’s equally raspy, stutter-step of a laugh collides with the careless clanging of dishes in the sink. Movement around me signals the musical chairs of a big family as the seat next to me is emptied and refilled by a different cousin-aunt-uncle.
It's a moment that lasts a lifetime and sits heavily in my empty belly as I realized where I was, rocked unexpectedly into another dimension.
My heart raced as I opened my eyes and saw my poor bewildered boyfriend staring at me with more than a little concern. I quickly shook my head, dislodging a few tears.
“It’s Grandpa,” I tried to explain to my future husband. He’d come into my life seven years too late to have tasted such a dish. He’d never experienced the hustle and bustle, the lively chaos that was yet another signature of life at my grandparents’ house. I didn’t expect my teary, stammered explanation to make sense. “I’m home.”
by Robin Brownfield
Glass tiles, wood board, glue, grout
Methods: mosaic assembly
Inspiration: When my oldest son was 2, he was such an avid Superman fan. I made him a costume that he wore everywhere. Years later, as a middle-aged man, he's still in costume!
See behind the scenes of Wild Greens. Our Ko-fi page contains concept art for past issues.
by Kathy Panek
When I reached the age of eight, mom decided it was time for me to begin piano lessons. I’m not sure whether I asked to learn or the decision was made for me, but there was a big old Schultz Upright Grand taking up prime real estate in our small living room and apparently begging to be played. Mom asked around about possible teachers and finally enlisted the help of the elementary school band director. Mr. B was fresh out of college, could play the piano, and was willing to come to our house to instruct me, a big plus. I don’t think he had ever taught anyone else to play, which I guess made me his first guinea pig. My lessons went smoothly for the first year until he introduced “stride” piano—an accompaniment style that incorporates alternating bass octaves and chords. This is quite challenging for a young student and I suspect mom had put a bug in his ear about the possibility of me learning a couple of her favorites that required the skill—The Missouri Waltz and The Tennessee Waltz. Soon, his handwritten, mimeographed copies appeared on the piano along with chord charts and other music theory materials.
I believe it was at about this time that I began to balk about practicing. I enjoyed playing the piano but was not allowed to go outside to play with my friends after school until I had finished 30 minutes of practicing. How could I concentrate while a gang of kids played games and rode their bikes up and down the road in front of our house? It was absolute torture. I pleaded with mom to understand but she stood her ground while I cried and kicked the old Schultz.
Mr. B left our school a couple of years later making it necessary for mom to find me a new teacher. There were two piano teachers in our town and I don’t remember why she settled on Madame L. Her credentials were impressive but I’m not sure mom understood that at the time. Hungarian by birth, and educated at the Royal Academy of Music in Budapest, she had studied with composer/pianist Bela Bartok. During the day, Mme. L taught students at the Chicago Conservatory College, then caught the commuter train to the suburbs and spent evenings and Saturdays teaching half the students in our town. Ten-year-old me became one of those students.
When I appeared for my first lesson, knees knocking, I noticed that Mme. L’s home was decorated in a very different style than that of most people I knew. The upholstery was done in red velvet and every last chair leg and arm rest had been covered in gilt paint—even her grand piano! (Years later on our first trip to Europe, my husband and I toured the royal palace in Vienna and found every room decorated with velvet and gilt. It was then that I realized Mme. L had tried to create a bit of imperial splendor for herself on this side of the Atlantic.) Apparently, my teacher had no time for filing cabinets because the closed lid of her grand piano was piled high with stacks of sheet music and lesson books. When the kitchen door swung open, we caught a glimpse of a wild color scheme that convinced us Mme. L must have been color blind— blue walls, purple ceiling, and red woodwork!
Madame L, like her décor, was like no one else we knew. Her broken English was challenging to understand and her handwriting in our assignment books was difficult to decipher. When she received cash or checks they were immediately stuffed into the bodice of her dress. Her mantra was “count out loud” and she frequently reminded us that we were fortunate to be studying with her instead of the other teacher in town who didn’t make her students count. We were also informed that our pedagogical genealogy included some very famous teachers and that we were great, great grandstudents of Franz Liszt! We had him to thank for the finger exercises we detested.
She insisted on being addressed as Madame L, but for some reason we could not fathom she called me Marguerite for the first two years I was with her. Mom labeled my piano assignment book “Kathleen” and put the monthly tuition check in an envelope labeled, “For Kathleen,” but I continued to be “Marguerite” in Mme. L’s studio. Exasperated, mom finally confronted her and after that I became “Katty,” the closest she could come to pronouncing my name.
Because her schedule was so full, Madame L rarely sat down for a meal. Instead, she would disappear from a lesson for a few minutes and then reappear, still chewing a mouthful of something or nibbling on a chicken drumstick. During one of Mme. L’s absences, my sister was warming up with scales when she noticed one of the piano keys was sticking. Peering into the piano, she was surprised to see an old chicken bone that must have succumbed to the piano vibrations and fallen inside! Mom could only shake her head and roll her eyes when we described such occurrences.
Quirkiness aside, Madame L was a wonderful teacher. She helped me establish a practice regimen, and taught me to play the classics not only with accuracy, but with expression. I coveted the composer busts that we earned for demonstrating good practice habits and I soon learned that Mme. L was absolutely right about the counting aloud. She also broadened my musical horizons by escorting me to a recital by pianist Rosalyn Tureck at the college where she taught, presumably to encourage me to consider the school as my future destination. The solid musical grounding I received from her helped me find my niche in high school. As a freshman, I began my training as choral accompanist, a position I retained throughout my high school years, but to Mme. L’s dismay, I was spending more time practicing choral accompaniments and stage band music than learning the repertoire that was necessary for me to gain admission to a music college. Believing that the high school music teachers were using me, during my senior year she boldly marched into the school music department and presented her case. As a result of her advocacy on my behalf, I was given the opportunity to play a solo at one of the concerts and a piano concerto with the band.
My days with Madame. L ended when I left for college in Wisconsin. In vain she had tried to persuade my parents to send me to the conservatory in Chicago, but mom and dad were adamantly opposed to their 18-year-old daughter commuting to the city every day. Before we all left for college, Mme. L invited her senior students and even our friends from the other teacher to have dinner at her house. Having no idea what to expect (cooking was not known to be on her list of accomplishments), we had a hilarious evening and saw a fun-loving side of our teacher that we had never experienced. As “insiders” we enjoyed introducing our friends, students of the other teacher, to the eccentricities of our beloved Madame L.
I’ve had other teachers since Madame L, but she remains for me the most influential and highly regarded. If even one of my students feels the same about me, I will consider my life’s work to have been worthwhile.
by Rebecca Lipperinibirch bark— softI’m seven— I go to school1220— maybe 1260 in the city, the streets are paved with woodthe city is already more than three hundred years olda time scale represented in the rings of trees along the wooden streets, a five domed stone cathedral— white as birch barkinside, frescos and icons line the walls in patterned rowsSaints Constantine and Helena in red ochre, umber, and green earth their hands are clasped around an azurite wooden crossHelena had dug the wood up from the ground in Palestinein 326— as distant from me as you are the cathedral is St. Sophia, meaning holy wisdomand inside, a library— and below, graves— and outside, mewriting my psalms on birch bark Greetings from Onfim to DaniloI draw myself and my teacherI draw us together with our friends I draw myself – as a knight! on top of a horseI draw myself as a wild beast – I caption it – I am a wild beast!I breathe fire
author's note: I came across the writings and illustrations of Onfim, a young boy from 13th-century Novgorad, through the usual means (the internet). I was so moved by the idea of this seven-year-old boy writing his schoolwork and doodling in the margins– and of all of it preserved on wood. You can read more about Onfim, and see some of his illustrations, here.
If you like the issue, you can donate to Wild Greens through our Ko-fi page!
Artists and Contributors
A reclusive creative, Dave enjoys making things in fits and starts when he can get out of his own way. Influenced by American ideals and delusions, he believes that creating and sharing art, writing, music, and love are the why behind all the world's how.
Lisa Molina is a writer/educator in Austin, Texas. Molina has twice been a winner of the Beyond Words Magazine 250-Word Challenge, and has also been published in both print and online publications, including Wild Greens magazine, Trouvaille Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, and Amethyst Review. She taught high school English and theatre, was associate publisher of Austin Family Magazine, and now works with students with special needs. Her son is a 3-time childhood cancer survivor. When not writing or reading with her silver tabby in her lap, she can probably be found playing piano, singing, or hiking and swimming in the cool, clear waters of the Barton Creek Greenbelt near her home with her daughter.
Sam currently lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado with his wife and dog. Though possessing a degree in graphic design, he is a passionate oil painter. His previous work submitted to Wild Greens magazine, "La Fille Sans Soucis," was recently exhibited at the Cottonwood Center for the Art during the month of August.
You can find him on Instagram, Etsy, and Facebook: @samkenart
Holly Genovese is a PhD student in American Studies at UT Austin. Her work focuses on African American aesthetic resistance to incarceration in the American South. She is also interested in prison abolition, Black literature, prison literature, and poetics. Her academic work has been published in the Rapoport Center for Human Rights and Justice Working Paper Series, Quaker Studies, Fabric, and is forthcoming in Invisible No More: The African American Experience at the University of South Carolina. Her essays and criticism have been published in Teen Vogue, Jacobin, The Washington Post, the Los Angeles Review of Books, Literary Hub, Electric Literature, Public Seminar, and The Chronicle of Higher Ed.
Douglas is a veterinary technician by day and a brooding lyricist/poet by night. He has a background in theatre, with a few original productions under his belt. A love of the city and hiking the Wissahickon is making Philadelphia feel like home since August 2019. He has an original writing series on YouTube called “the hideaway” where he presents his poetry and song lyrics in spoken word; while breaking down each piece, Douglas explains metaphors, inspiration, and offering vague writing tips for creative writers.
Lauren Kimball lives in Philadelphia. She teaches literature and composition at Rutgers University, New-Brunswick. In her spare time, she plays with paint, digital pens, words, and home improvement tools.
Jessica Doble recently graduated with her PhD from the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. Her scholarly work has appeared in All about Monsters and the Xavier Review. Her poetry has appeared in PubLab. She's currently writing a fantasy novel that accidentally turned into a series.
Carly Lewis is a visual and written storyteller residing in her hometown of Richmond, Virginia. A graduate of Hollins University's creative writing and film programs, she tries to find a meeting place in the middle of those two subjects, creating a specific atmosphere or a surreal, different world entirely in her pieces. She is also an avid music enthusiast with a taste for artists who break the rules, and has even written about them in Spindle Magazine, and LARB's Publishing Workshop journal, PubLab. Check her out on Instagram and Twitter at @carlyisclary and on YouTube at Carly Lewis.
Kiley is an Ohioan-turned-Coloradoan, living in Northern Colorado with her husband and two dogs. She teaches college composition and can usually be found at one of the local bookshops or breweries. Her passions include words (producing and consuming), beer (drinking and brewing),and adventures (near and far).
Robin Brownfield is a former sociology professor who turned to art after becoming disabled. While she dabbles in numerous art forms, she finds mosaic art is a great way to recycle old materials and found objects. She has created murals, garden walkways, ornate tables, and countless other mosaic works, but recently, she has turned to creating portraits and works for social justice. She was recently featured in a FOX-29 News report, because she was commissioned by Tamika Palmer to do a mosaic portrait of her daughter, Breonna Taylor, whose death, in part, launched an international movement for justice for victims of racist murders. She has also won numerous awards in juried art shows, was featured as one of the Best Mosaic Artists in New Jersey in Best of NJ, and has had her art displayed in galleries all over the United States.
Writer and Musician
Kathy is a piano teacher and church musician who resides with her husband in suburban Philadelphia. An amateur genealogist, she is currently recording her family history for future generations. Creating with paper, making greeting cards from repurposed materials, and hand binding her travel journals satisfy her creative urges. Spending time in her garden and especially with her children and grandchildren bring her joy.
Follow her on Instagram @panekkathy.
Jacqueline is a senior undergraduate student at the University of California, Riverside, working toward earning her BA in English and creative writing. She was a 2021 publishing fellow with the Los Angeles Review of Books and served as a co-editor, copyeditor, and producer on the fourth issue of PubLab journal. As a bookworm, writer, and homebody at heart, she spends her spare time looking for new fictional worlds she can lose herself in and working on crafting stories of her own.
Music Editor and Sometime Poetry Editor
Tim Brey is a jazz pianist living in Philadelphia. He holds positions as Artist-in-Residence and Adjunct Faculty at Temple University and The University of the Arts, where he teaches jazz piano, music theory, and improvisation. Check out more of his music and his performance schedule at https://www.timbreymusic.com.
Arts Editor & Artist
Hayley creates the cover image for each issue of Wild Greens magazine and serves as the Arts Editor. Hayley is a social justice seeker, world traveler, rock climber, dog snuggler, frisbee player, event planner, and story-teller. She loves to paint with watercolors, embroider, and write. She grew up reading sci-fi and fantasy, and to this day she still turns to those genres to help her make sense of the world. She calls Philadelphia home, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
Maggie Topel is an artist and writer living in Philadelphia. She designs our seasonal Wild Greens logo and social media avatar.
Rebecca Lipperini is a writer, teacher, and academic living in Philadelphia, and the founding editor of Wild Greens magazine (hi!). She holds a PhD in English from Rutgers University, where she taught all kinds of classes on literature and poetry and writing, and wrote all kinds of papers on the same. Her essay on the soothing aesthetics of the supermarket was recently published in PubLab.