Solarpunk Zine Making as a Ritual of Grief
/I’m hunched over a folding table at Enabling Arts. Marker ink on my first zine spread is still wet; it mingles with the deep-fried scent drifting off the Jollibee chicken and fries I’ve saved for later. Snip, snip—someone’s scissors keep a heartbeat beside me. On the page, I’ve written: i feel guilty while others suffer in quiet rooms. but grief and joy can live together after Lapu Lapu Day. Zine making, I’m learning, is a space where comfort and agitation coexist.
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