Kinpaurak is about recognition. The recognition that something has already been lost, and that loss is not a tragedy, but a beginning. That the body still sings, even when flayed down to its sinew. That the voice still speaks, even when its tongue is swollen, split, and slurring. That a thing does not need to be perfect, or sacred, or whole, to be worth keeping. That we are still beautiful things. And dying things. Still wild things.
We are not here to embalm the past. We are here to dig through its viscera, to feel what still writhes, to press a finger into its wounds and see what pulses back. Beauty is not always clean, not always soft, it is the glisten of fat, the shimmer of cartilage, the raw nerve exposed.
dedication
To Anubis, Ἄνουβις, Inpu, Inpw, Jnpw, Anpu, ⲁⲛⲟⲩⲡ, 𒀀𒈾𒉺,
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This is for You. For Your patience. For the way You wait at every door we’re afraid to open.
You teach us that transformation is not a punishment. That to be in-between is not to be lost. That even decay can be sacred if someone loves you through it.
You are the patron of all our beautiful almosts, our strange middles, our hauntings and broken blossoms.
And if we are sometimes messy, dramatic, too sad or too alive, we hope you understand—we’re trying. We’re still becoming. You of all Gods must know how long that takes.
So this magazine, stitched from shadows and weird little sparks, is Yours. May it delight Your long ears. May it sing to You in the language of things that almost make sense. May it never pretend to be clean.
Curious about our guiding principles?
kinpaurak 