Moth Atlas Vol. 2
Field guide to the moths that land on the studio window. Hand-set titles, sprayed halftones.
home / zine library
Two hundred and fourteen titles on open shelves, ninety of them cataloged below. Most are tradable: bring a zine we do not have and it buys you shelf credit at a generous exchange rate. The card files at the counter hold the rest, plus our full run of embarrassing early trades.
Field guide to the moths that land on the studio window. Hand-set titles, sprayed halftones.
Eight artists, one drum each. Every copy's registration is a little different. That is the point.
Comics from the 2am shift at a diner that may not exist. Printed on reclaimed cover stock.
Poems about water the author has never seen, arranged by imaginary tide height.
Diagrams of machines that were never built, annotated by an engineer who plays along completely.
Track notes from a stairwell DJ set series, printed in gold that only shows at an angle.
Folk songs for specific vegetables, plus actual seeds stapled into the back pocket.
A photo essay of the six bridges you cross leaving this city, in two inks and one grudge.
Drawings of everything around the thing. The thing itself is always white paper.
A year of one building's rent history as bar charts. Distributed free at the counter.
A treatise on overprint that is secretly a breakup zine. Heavy paper, heavier subtext.
Botanical drawings of every weed growing in the lot behind the studio. Annotated sourly.
Swim logs, folklore, and one ongoing argument about a loon, four years running.
Surf comics from someone who lives four hundred miles from the nearest swell.
Kids' firefly census data, hand-tallied, printed by us for free every June.
A photo descent into the Grainger parking garage, floor by floor, beautifully and pointlessly.
Linocuts of flowers that only open after dark, printed in violet and metallic gold.
A color-theory zine that opens with the worst sentence in publishing and earns it back.
Interviews with AM radio hosts about the exact sound of their dead air.
Financial advice for artists, in chart form, mostly wrong, very funny.
Risograph studies of orbital diagrams for atoms the artist invented. Chemistry-adjacent art.
The year the community garden's peonies bloomed all at once, told by nine growers.
Program notes for paired screenings, written like love letters between the two films.
A hybrid: half essay on sleep, half insomnia zine you are meant to read out of order.
History of the grain elevator we work inside, self-published by the historical society.
Sheet music for songs that cannot exist, notated correctly. Musicians are furious and delighted.
Kids' notes from a summer counting buoys. One buoy gets a name and a full spread.
A zine about decomposition that is somehow uplifting. Temperature charts included.
Essays on the lines we draw on maps and the ones they draw back on us.
Dispatches from fire lookouts across the country, printed in scarlet, naturally.
Two novellas printed on facing pages, designed to be read in either order.
A single long poem about ferries, printed to look like a ferry ticket.
Drawings of every stairwell in city hall, some of which officially do not exist.
Watercolor studies converted to two inks, annotated by a botanist who lets herself have fun.
An oral history of the lost art of the copy shop. Printed partly on actual copies.
A noise map of one neighborhood, measured by residents with borrowed meters.
A math comic about rings, fields, and one very confused mathematician's love life.
Houseplant portraits with the dignity usually reserved for racehorses.
Photos of the four arches of the Route 6 overpass, printed like a religious text.
A data zine counting every neighborhood fireworks show, sadly, with charts.
A comic about two sisters, two motorcycles, and one shared helmet, unexplained.
Short fiction by open-water swimmers, proofread at 6 am, it shows in the best way.
A comic descent through a fictional subway system that runs on rumor.
Garden failures of one suburban block, told with honesty and a decent soil chart.
The follow-up to Static: AM radio listeners respond, at length, in handwriting.
The sequel to Fiscal Hill, somehow worse advice, somehow better jokes.
More invented atoms. The physics department has stopped returning our calls.
Third in the night-flower series, printed with real restraint and zero gold (we ran out).
Field guide to every working pinball machine in the city, with repair notes.
A wordless comic about a lighthouse keeper's last week. Devastating, gorgeous.
Program notes from the summer repertory series, plus one apology to the projectionist.
The insomnia zine gets a sequel, which is fitting, because sleep is still elusive.
The descent continues: floors 8 through 12 of the Grainger garage, plus a surprise basement.
More songs for vegetables. This volume includes a ballad for an ungrateful squash.
More drawings around the thing. This time the thing is a person, and it hits different.
Year two of the building's rent history. The bars go up. Obviously.
The breakup zine gets a reconciliation arc. The overprint metaphor holds.
More parking lot weeds, including a dandelion the artist has clearly fallen for.
The loon argument resolves. Nobody is happy. It is perfect.
More surf comics, still landlocked, still completely convincing.
Poems that scan. Each line length matches a real barcode. The checkout at the co-op reads them as soap.
A winter of radiator complaints, charted. The building lost. The zine won.
A comic about practicing cello alone that is secretly about the drummer who left.
Essays on ferries, borders, and the particular patience of waiting rooms.
History of the garden district in nine lots and one eminent-domain fight.
A month of sky reports from a city too bright to see the sky. Sad, hopeful, gold.
The Tide Tables author returns with a second thesis, even less defensible, even better.
The diner artist's botanical turn: houseplants at 3am, drawn with real tenderness.
The mathematician gets a date. The rings get a wedding subplot. Peer review pending.
The autumn issue. Nine artists, one drum each, a school bus yellow we special-ordered.
The copy shop oral history continues: toner, gestures, and one exorcism (disputed).
Trilogy complete. The advice has not improved. The margins have opinions now.
The invented atoms have invented feelings. The physics department still says nothing.
A split zine made with a Minneapolis swim club. The loons are compared. It escalates.
More imaginary tides, this time with a foldout chart that is genuinely useful for nothing.
Sequel to the stairwells. The fire escapes have better angles and worse lawyers.
Four new machines installed since volume one. The repair notes get emotional.
The gold is back. Abelès promised restraint. Abelès lied, gorgeously.
The thing this time is the reader. We are not sure how they did it.
Volume three goes freshwater. Landlocked no longer, still mostly at a pool.
More scannable poems. The co-op asked us to stop. We declined politely.
Year three. The bars go up. The union bought us a thank-you lunch, so, worth it.
Program notes from a two-city screening series, printed in both cities' inks.
The ferry poem returns with a return ticket. Printed to look like both halves of a round trip.
More lots, more history, one more eminent-domain fight resolved (mostly).
The sky report continues. This year the city dimmed one street and everyone saw one star.
The third thesis arrives. The series has a theme song now, played on a stairwell.
More houseplants at 3am. The monstera gets a two-page spread and a name.
Trilogy complete. The wedding happens. The math holds. Nobody is more surprised than us.
The winter issue, printed in blue and a white we special-ordered. Nine artists again.
nothing on the shelf under that filter · try another ink
Showing 90 of 214. The full catalog lives on the shelf and in the card files; ask at the counter and Dev will find anything in under a minute, a party trick he denies practicing.
Shelf talk
D. Washburn wrote a treatise on overprint that is also, structurally and emotionally, a breakup letter. Volume one argues that two inks make a third color nobody chose, "the relationship that exists only in the overlap." Volume two, printed three years later, is the reconciliation. The overprint metaphor holds all the way through, which is either brilliant or unbearable and we have had this argument at the counter eleven times.
Printed on heavy cotton rag because Washburn insisted, and it cost them a month of drum hours on the payment plan. The registration drifts wider between volume one and volume two. We think that is the point too.
Every spring the Providence Seed Co-op writes folk songs for specific vegetables and we print them with actual seeds stapled into a back pocket. Volume one's tomato song is genuinely moving. Volume two includes a ballad for an ungrateful squash that we legally cannot describe without laughing.
These are the zines we print for free, every year, as the library's way of being a library and not just a shop. The seeds are real. The squash's behavior is documented.
A. Wu spent a year interviewing AM radio hosts about the exact sound of their dead air. The first volume is forty pages of people taking silence extremely seriously, printed in pink and blue because Wu said the book should "sound like interference." The follow-up is the listeners' side: handwritten responses, printed at 90% scale so the handwriting reads at real size.
It is the library's most-recommended pair. Ask for shelf H-4 and the cards next to it; Dev has annotated the card file with a arrow labeled "read in this order or don't bother."
J. Olvera's comics from the 2am shift at a diner that may not exist. The eaters are regulars. The cook has not blinked since 2019. The coffee is always the wrong temperature for what is happening in the panel, and Olvera insists this is deliberate.
Printed on reclaimed cover stock from a job that canceled, which is why every copy's trim is slightly different. We told Olvera this. Olvera said "good, the diner is like that too." It is in the library's top three checkouts by trade-credit volume and it has never once been in a shop window.
Recent arrivals
Every title below came in through the trade window or a friend's backpack. Browse slow, the good ones hide between the genres.
Twelve months of high tides for one Newport beach, each one annotated with what the water brought in. Edition of 90, two of them misnumbered on purpose.
Three hundred screenshots of one family chat, printed with the typos intact and the names changed badly. Edition of 150.
A short book about the objects we lend and never see again, dedicated to every Bic that never came home. Edition of 120.
The evening crow commute, revisited from a different rooftop after the first lookout got a new landlord. Edition of 65.
Now forty-one vinegars, the egg replaced by a control potato after complaints from egg loyalists. Edition of 100.
Eight more pages the farmhouse demanded, including the story of the barn cat the first book skipped. Edition of 40.
A companion record-list zine for the 24-hour businesses book, sequenced for the 3am shift. Edition of 85.
Follow-up to The Quiet Type: this time the spaces inside letters get the whole essay. Edition of 95.
The original drawings reprinted with margin notes explaining what each night's dinner was. Edition of 90.
The second mile. The staples get weirder. A flyer for a lost parakeet from 2019 is finally identified. Edition of 90.
The dentist retired; the number went to a bowling alley; the voicemails got better. Edition of 150.
The defense rests: six more prints arguing that the color is underrated. Edition of 95.
It still works. Someone taped a note to it that says 'still works.' The note is reproduced at full size. Edition of 75.
The rent discount ended, the recipe exchange did not. Nine new dishes, one of them just a good way to cut onions. Edition of 130.
Collected broadsides from three winters of weather-tested poems, printed exactly as they faded. Edition of 160.
Year fourteen of English: new chapter on idioms involving weather, which remain unbeatable. Edition of 80.
The reply sections to the original feed archive, printed verbatim, sorted by how late they were posted. Edition of 110.
Final entry: the lead showed up. What that felt like. Printed with one extra ink nobody asked for. Edition of 75.
The neighbor has been replaced by a fence, and the sunchokes survived it. Updated zone notes. Edition of 100.
Eleven more engineers, this time about the four minutes after doors, which is louder in every sense. Edition of 80.
Back by demand, with two moths that were mislabeled the first time and one new 3am visitor. Edition of 55.
Fish tank census, chair armrest taxonomy, and a four-page essay on the magazine_year problem. Edition of 80.
The hallway study continues into the wing built in 1961, which has opinions of its own. Edition of 70.
The sequel nobody requested: crate law, crate theft, and one very patient dairy lawyer. Edition of 130.
The dreams' daytime answers, printed on the cream stock the originals refused. Edition of 35.
Same building, 2am flashlights, the washers photographed mid-cycle by headlamp. Edition of 60.
The ride home took 41 lifts and is tabulated with the same love as the way out. Edition of 40.
Who answers now: the block's network mapped again after two houses sold and one grandmother refused to. Edition of 55.
Twelve moire compositions printed at poster size, each one fighting the viewer's glasses. Edition of 90.
Twelve of the forty came back after clocking out for good. The hands look the same. The portraits do not. Edition of 70.
Three promised elevators arrived. They are marked with a stamp we designed for exactly this. Edition of 45.
The twenty cooperative minutes, chased through a different season with different clouds. Edition of 60.
March versus December again, one year later, with a pie chart of regrets. Edition of 110.
Six more records that sold fewer copies than the band has members, one of which is now famous. Edition of 85.
The alphabet finishes: xylophone key, yacht winch, and the zipper we all deserved better from. Edition of 90.
The survey extended to people who sleep at noon professionally, meaning bakers and one disc jockey. Edition of 120.
The winter that had no snow days, recorded anyway, in ink the color of sleet. Edition of 90.
New material on revolving doors, which change the mathematics of courtesy entirely. Edition of 130.
Access granted to two rooftop coops, photographed with the owners' blessing and their aesthetic advice. Edition of 70.
Pigments pulled from objects the owners finally agreed to give up. One was a bicycle. It is fine. Edition of 65.
New footnotes on the discovery that 60% of dreams were, in fact, about email. Edition of 90.
The route ends at a depot that has no business being as beautiful as it is. Essay printed to match. Edition of 60.
The A7 at the Route 1 rest stop was fixed in August. We drove down to verify. We ate the verification. Edition of 150.
Four drawings made during the October nor'easter, one from inside a car with permission. Edition of 60.
The alternator survived. The colander section got its own chapter, as it should. Edition of 75.
Revised with an actual safety chapter, demanded by everyone who read the first one. Edition of 140.
Mud flaps got their own section, as promised, and a foreword by a long-haul poet. Edition of 170.
Awning angle measurements from four new stores, plus the exact blue finally identified. It is Riso Blue. Of course it is. Edition of 95.
Fourteen apartments become twenty-two; the odds column gets its own legend. Edition of 110.
The pile has opinions. The roommates have fewer. A heat map of the heap closes the book. Edition of 120.
Twelve accounts become thirteen when the insurance adjuster's report surfaces. It does not help. Edition of 35.
The machine finally died in March. Its final transmission is reproduced, and it was about bread. Edition of 70.
Six interns return as managers. The scores settle differently now. Edition of 100.
Reprinted with a thirteenth month, because the crack by the laundromat kept growing. Edition of 200.
For shelters where the bus is always late. Four poems, each sized to a 40-minute wait. Edition of 160.
The venue taxonomy expands to its emotional extreme and finds the ceremony aisle. Edition of 90.
Two laundromat owners and a statistician respond. The dryer remains unconvicted. Edition of 130.
Letterforms that do their best work when everyone stares: warning labels, bail notices, one beautifully angry parking sign. Edition of 95.
Audio transcriptions of the moth porch, which is mostly silence and one excellent moth. Edition of 55.
The diner survived. The coffee rings in the new edition are reproduced from the original pages, which survived better. Edition of 65.
Trade it in for credit, or sell it on consignment. We take anything honestly made, including ours we regret.