PEACHES N°1

THE SPACES WE INHABIT are transitory, vanishing beneath us through decay, gentrification, the rising cost of living, the eternal movement of people. The bar that all of your friends met at for cheap shots in 2010 is lost to highrise apartments, the share-house where you spent your student years exists only in the memories of those who passed through it. The internet offers a poor simulation of these physical spaces – spaces which you can inhabit, albeit temporarily, not just be superimposed upon – and in the pandemic the differences between them became acutely evident. FaceTime couldn’t compare to being with a friend, Zoom dances couldn’t compete with the sweat of a club, and I for one found no absurdity or connection with clients over OnlyFans, missing the humour and honesty of two strange bodies coming together.

I became sickened by screens, masturbation became mundane and I longed to feel  someone’s laughter as they shook beside me, not just hear it over a phone.

Digital will never replace physical existence, just as it will never replace the tactility of print. We need to be held by places that we can smell and touch and sense and miss, in the same way you hold this magazine now.

A peach is ephemeral, defined by the fact that there is such a tiny window in which it is at its succulent best. Perfect one day and overripe the next. Bruises condemning you for not enjoying it at its peak.

PEACHES attempts to preserve something as fleeting as the flush of a peach, recording moments in time, and pressing them in print. Turning the impermanent into something tangible and lasting.

A PIT TO CHIP YOUR TEETH UPON AND CONTEMPLATE AFTERWARDS. 

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