A Thing Like You and Me is a multi-authored Narrative in Progress which evolves every month with new instalments by artists, poets, writers, and activists. December 2015’s narrative features works by Jessica Borusky, Louise Anne Buchler, Sarah Crewe, Charlotte Geater, j/j hastain, D.I., Navine G. Khan-Dossos, Lila Matsumoto, Sophie Mayer, Shelagh Rowan-Legg, Nana Sachini, Erica Schreiner, Sandra Simonds, and Liliana Vasques. A Thing Like You and Me is edited by Sarah Crewe and Dimitra Ioannou. The contributors explore the guidelines for A Thing Like You and Me which are largely based on Hito Steyerl’s homonymous essay. You can read them here. 



by Sarah Crewe

be your own legend the oldest grandchild’s room spelt RAVEN corvus in the debris of the third rising does not feature in of time and the city flick will make her own contradiction in the f being so feminist in the lick being so john jacques burnel the rehabilitated punk as kickboxer the rehabilitated kickboxer as poet you married it tales of a working class diaspora we are not a dirty word                                                                                                                  outdated archaic how to reconstruct how to objectify yrself how to avoid being case study #74 subject: flick is not eliza fucking doolittle forever on the edge of fetishisation scouse bird problems this is not brookside prole bird problems flick at the temple of electric meter crouched metal princess flick v a chevron an army of one tassled skirts on conscription trim trail a lifetime of scissor kicks flick vicious       violent violent is the landscape                                                 ripped safety pinned tights the wedding pictures                               both bloodline brides domestic servants modern day saint veronicas                                                      paulene                                                                                                                                                       lisa                                                                                                                                                   louisa                                                                                                                                                        '86 notre dame blue brass bottom lip outward oui je le crois yes i believe          she is immaculate                                                                                                                                            she is virgin flick verges on the lapsed                  the lonely they all did girls in felt tip          will not see the 21st century will not recognise maisonette craters moon unit car parks flick checks for rebuild each and every time



by D.I.




by Charlotte Geater

what rises / if i was a son
i’d want to be second

nil by hand-to-hand / a sore mouth

that’s what all the men did / bony knees

at night a small brush is that a knife

before they drained out of blood & money
a dulcimer and crooked notes, time stops
for a tuned string and did elizabeth dye her hair

with her own piss? who plays their game

second sons don’t know death

three white eyelashes hidden on a pillow

i will not pretend to be clever enough for you

smooth legs until we ran out of wax strips
a burnt finger pushed under my tongue

i don’t owe you a rhyme / when they said

you’re not like the other girls

if the second son doesn’t die in swaddling
not to bite his own mouth

in yards the spiroscope / just joking you are
the second son to live

boys play with their knives

a pain in my chest when i breathe
down to my lungs / cold water a gasp

curled over my tongue, a little bit of sky

cerise mouths / if we wanted what you have
is it god’s words or money you copy

coughs once you hit the key change

i do not know if my heart is red

and forty years in / just straw and the red

the grey sets in from the deepest point
a bedpan / there is not enough inside us

no woman is, in herself, enough

the nettle soup / rust in the root
if you look for a curse

a spell in the misspellings

the first son who dies before his father
watches your films about witches

a chest without a lock

second daughter in dirty shoes

when the first son dies the second son becomes him
a son is the nicest bedroom

a spilled pot / the cabbage was too blue
to taste naturally

a natural curl to the lips, hair

second sons are not down to pack mud
over blunted sticks

an ulcer between my mouth and teeth

your fingers too dull to pull into a plait
in the dark afternoons, without a candle

i am glad that i couldn’t read

what you had written / all of the smoke

one of the hems a rotten

it is not that hard to spell a name
so that you can understand what it means

a cold marsh spread across dawn

keep using the name until one of them sticks

the hush over boiled potatoes
a slip with the knife down one raw that was not meant to split

if we played the game with the cup-and-ball /

let me start i will be

the cauliflower buds
under my skin / the ditch / rain

my heart rate too high to let me
hold my breath underneath

pull your hair into fishtails

a different accent after all of that

the way my laugh could never curdle
cut in two no gaps between —

i will not be any son


A Crystal Clear Analysis of the Situation
Scanned Body and Objects

by Nana Sachini



I Saw Her Know

by Lila Matsumoto


Follow the everyday without privileging adoresome buildings. Humble and banal objects are ciphers in whose gridded pink lens correspondences speak in fugues. You can know them in their lean, in which the rituals of dayspring are constructed. In this view, a thing is a cemetery where significance is buried (we are reminded that cemeteries are more lively than archives, since they at least have flowers). Objects aren’t apathetic, they’re strange machines which become an idea that makes the work.


Wherever there are hands, on peace-splayed cloth or on two blue bands holding strong, holding side-snake. Attenuated fingers follow skirt’s striation, raiding the leaf-shaped hem. Or raiding for the purposes of urn and drum. Grasping the backs of chairs and scrolls of music, clenching a hat or a bent croquet mallet. Guiding a child’s feet in a basin, pinching a sponge, unable to tame a wild and unkempt brood. Gesturing an invitation to be merry, gripping a forked stick to lift hay down. Or as entreaty, pointing to heel in lean supplication. A soft troika of pen, coin, and jug.


Plique-à-jour, letting in sunlight. I stood there every day for four months, knowing there was a high failure rate. I had temporary backup, but fired most of them, and the others were chased away by acid rain. In the glass is an icon blinking for action. There is a ripple sometimes, a surface tension. I think it’s being used by a king, in a luxury house, and he’s keen for it not to be disturbed or copied. This example looks quite rare, extremely fragile, like the eight pinnacle points on the crown of some eleventh-century saint.


Royal Void

by Jessica Borusky

Jessica Jessica, Royal Void. Performance for camera.  Photo credits: Wolfgang Bucher, Lauren Schrader, and Anthony Vannicola; edits by Tim Amundson.
Jessica Borusky, Royal Void. Performance for camera.
Photo credits: Wolfgang Bucher, Lauren Schrader, and Anthony Vannicola; edits by Tim Amundson.




by Liliana Vasques


Objects is a digital poem. It creates random combinations with the 27 names of the Portuguese women killed by their spouses in 2015. The code is based on Silly Poet by Abe Prazos.

You can watch it here: http://www.openprocessing.org/sketch/244543/embed/?width=500&height=400&border=true


Bomb (part one)

by Louise Anne Buchler

Preset. Dim amber light. A series of objects strewn over the stage – the position is less important than the object itself. The objects are as follows: A typewriter loaded with a single sheet of paper, upon which the lyrics for Bjork’s ‘ Army of Me’ have been typed, An old cassette tape recorder, A pair of white stiletto heels, A collection of books: Darwin’s theory of Evolution, poetry by Anna Akhmatova, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Ingrid Jonker, Encyclopedias, Medical books opened on pages showing diagrams of Human anatomy, A side table with a vase filled with red roses and rubber dildos in a variety of sizes and colours, bursting forth, overflowing in their abundance, A breast pump, A blow-up doll, Bottles of prescription medication – anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, reflux medicine. A few tubes of KY Jelly, crumpled tissues, empty wine glasses, an array of feather boas and sequined hats, empty champagne bottles, streamers – the aftermath of a party, black plastic bags filled with trash and piled in a heap, sprawled over them, a woman, mid to late thirties, in a wedding dress – a meringue of a gown it is so voluminous, she is engulfed by layers of tulle petticoat, her face at first concealed by the rubbish upon which she is sprawled, balloons, a half eaten cake, birthday candles, An old telephone, A Bible, a neon pink Buddha, an ashtray overflowing with old cigarette butts, A broom, A pair of stockings, a home pregnancy test.

Cross fade from Preset to full light with blue gel: Bright, cold, clinical.

A man in a soldier’s uniform enters DSR – the woman/meringue stirs at the sound of his footsteps, she leans up on her elbows, squinting at the bright light. She surveys the damage before shifting focus to the soldier who stands watching her in silence. She gives him the once over from her position amidst the rubbish. A beat.


Oh fuck


Of Nothing

Shelagh Rowan-Legg



Sophie Mayer

1. Source1 OB- (preposition)      (i) in the direction of, towards, against, in the way of, in front of, in view of, on             account of (of uncertain origin)      (ii) Against, in opposition, often merely implying the injurious or objectionable             character of an action      (iii) Upon or over; down upon, down      (iv) Completely OBJECT (adjective) Presented to the sight or senses, interposed, tangible; (also) exposed or open to injury, understanding, etc. 2. Sorcery A un-me2 me: an u u mean me a nu ma, neu! man eu Mean U. amenu amen u! un-mea nu âme u an me 3. (Re)Source “I start small. I start with one sign. Instead of going to language class, I decide at my peril to engage with an associative reading of the sign. Soon, I become convinced that the thorn is a root sticking up from the ground of language.” Caroline Bergvall, “Noping” https://www.canopycanopycanopy.com/contents/noping Fuck being a noun, subject or object; fuck adjectival. Be verb. To the: to exist in specificity and in relation. To the: to be exposed or open to injury, understanding, etc. because existing. 1927: Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse There are no pronouns, personal or impersonal. There is no universal grammar. infinitive: to the imperative: The! present participle: thing Th-ing: present participle, gerundive. The art of thing, the gift of thing. Thing when you’re winning.

2‘Je est un autre’ Baudelaire



by Erica Schreiner


Priest/ess | I

by j/j hastain

I did not have a voice of my own for so long. While I sang, which gave the capacity to touch what I would describe as cosmic truth, that fact made me a conduit, a vessel for streaming spirit. While streaming spirit feels very good to me somatically, it is still not exactly my voice.

In merging my writing with song it has become possible for me to feel truth as one register (mine and spirits’) whereby I tap into truth, and can tell my truths all at once. This is a relief of a major, long-lived dysphoria. This is the voice as trans organ able to travel anywhere, to touch everywhere. My voice is the trans organ.

Embodied voice is a way to offer to sacred sites: a way to make love to them; ceremonially, you want the experience of your offer to please them. Embodying an everlasting phonics—where voices of self meet singing voice: frenetic and flow, not semantic. More can be said in a shorter amount of time if image and tongues are the primers. Feel what fills the center as the sound is made around it; feel the sound squeeze the image until something non-sensical, something synesthesiac, something like a tongue flopping and floating in ecstasy, emerges.

You diverge, not to simply retort or resort on the level of base reaction; you diverge to divulge.


Anti-Muse I

by Navine G. Khan-Dossos

Navine G. Khan-Dossos Anti-Muse I, gouache on paper, 56cm x 76cm, 2015.
Navine G. Khan-Dossos Anti-Muse I, gouache on paper, 56cm x 76cm, 2015.



The Future of Nostalgia

by Sandra Simonds

I like your blue dress, Molly. And I hear you’re good at cutting hair. And I hear you’re extraordinarily generous. You make good things for the good people you love. I like your blue dress, Molly. It reminds me of my old body, the one destroyed by my doppelganger. I try so hard, Molly. It must be April or May now. I try so hard. I haven’t seen anyone for months. I have not left my house for months, Molly, and I have reason to believe it is a beautiful spring. and that the weather is weathery! Will you tell me if that’s true, Molly? I can’t see anything. I’m trapped in a box. I’m trapped in a blue box of water. It’s a kind of box in another box in the box of watery spring. I hear there are roaring flowers. I hear they bloom and roar in the blue wind, Molly. I hear they do. I hear that there’s something special going on out there but I can’t tell, Molly. Not from here. I have not left the house, Molly. I don’t have much time left either, Molly. I hear so much. I want to know. Will you tell me if that’s true, Molly? About the roaring flowers? I want new things, Molly. Just like the spring. I want to forget everything, Molly. Just like the ringing spring. I’m so sorry, Molly. I hear the bells often, Molly. I hear them roar and sing. Molly, I didn’t mean to Molly. Molly I didn’t Molly. Molly? I mean Molly. I want a new Molly, Molly. Molly I’m so sorry for Molly. I didn’t mean to Molly. Don’t you understand how much I Molly, Molly? Envoi: Little girl, no matter how much you tear out your hair, you will never get back what you want.