The Symptoms Issue | intro

Symptoms can be significant tools. My early symptoms were too antagonistic, my later symptoms were too structural, and my recent symptoms are too predictable so I feed them up everyday for they should finish their business and move forward, where neither I nor they will specify the work that needs to be done.

Τα συμπτώματα μπορεί να είναι σημαντικά εργαλεία. Τα πρώιμα συμπτώματά μου ήταν υπερβολικά ανταγωνιστικά, τα μεταγενέστερα συμπτώματά μου ήταν υπερβολικά διαρθρωτικά ενώ τα πρόσφατα συμπτώματά μου είναι υπερβολικά προβλέψιμα, οπότε τα τρέφω καθημερινά για να ολοκληρώσουν τη δουλειά τους και να προχωρήσουν, εκεί όπου ούτε εγώ ούτε εκείνα θα προσδιορίζουμε την εργασία που είναι να γίνει.


Here, symptoms are part of a “long poetic sequence examining the historical and medical treatment of sick female bodies” (Dorothy Lehane). Moreover, poems express a “need for there to be rhythm in chaos while reflecting my understanding of that same chaos in the world” (Dan Leiser). Language itself becomes symptom; “voices stripped from their bodies” (Georges Mizithras), a “putrid discourse” (Iulia Militaru).

Εδώ τα συμπτώματα είναι μέρος μιας « ποιητικής ακολουθίας μεγάλης έκτασης που ερευνά την ιστορική και ιατρική θεραπευτική αγωγή των άρρωστων γυναικείων σωμάτων» (Dorothy Lehane). Κι ακόμα, τα ποιήματα εκφράζουν την «ανάγκη να υπάρχει ρυθμός στο χάος ενώ αντανακλούν τη δική μου κατανόηση αυτού του χάους του κόσμου» (Dan Leiser). Η ίδια η γλώσσα γίνεται σύμπτωμα· «φωνές απογυμνωμένες από το σώμα τους» (Γιώργος Μιζήθρας), ένας «σάπιος λόγος» (Iulia Militaru).

What symptoms are, and are not. What is the literary symptoms’ form? A list (Antonis Katsouris).
What symptoms are, and are not. What is the female character’s symptoms form? A fairy-tale (Daisy Lafarge).

Τι είναι τα συμπτώματα και τι δεν είναι. Ποιά είναι η φόρμα των λογοτεχνικών συμπτωμάτων; Μια λίστα (Αντώνης Κατσούρης).
Τι είναι τα συμπτώματα και τι δεν είναι. Ποιά είναι η φόρμα των συμπτωμάτων ενός θηλυκού χαρακτήρα; Το παραμύθι (Daisy Lafarge).

There are more symptoms here ‑ consuming & consumed. Many thanks to Maria Andreou, Ed Garland, Clive Gresswell, Antonis Katsouris, Daisy Lafarge, Pal LaFountain, Dorothy Lehane, Dan Leiser, Iulia Militaru, Georgios Mizithras, and Yannis Sarigiannidis for their intriguing symptomatic works.

Υπάρχουν περισσότερα συμπτώματα εδώ, που αναλώνουν και αναλώνονται. Ευχαριστώ πολύ τους Μαρία Ανδρέου, Ed Garland, Clive Gresswell, Αντώνη Κατσούρη, Daisy Lafarge, Pal LaFountain, Dorothy Lehane, Dan Leiser, Iulia Militaru, Γιώργο Μυζήθρα και Γιάννη Σαρηγιαννίδη για τα συναρπαστικά συμπτωματικά έργα τους.

D.I.

Maria Andreou

(a service)
Me the host

Sometimes I think there is someone living in my eye,
so they see what I see,

and I think for what they see.

That is the only near logical explanation I have
for a singular image split into
two realities.

That I host,
and you visit.



(a sound poem)
measure/pleasure

erasure for pleasure

pleasure in erasure

erasure in pleasure
pleasure for erasure
measure the erasure
erasure in measure

erasure for pleasure
pleasure in erasure
erasure in pleasure
pleasure for erasure
measure the erasure

erasure in measure



Maria Andreou is a visual artist whose primary medium is language. Her research and work centres around the idea of how the art object can become the ground where praxis and poiesis intersect. When language does not manifest physically she still writes. http://www.mariaandreou.com http://www.twitter.com/demenagerie

Ed Garland

POST EQUILIBRIUM GLISSANDO SHITSTORMS

a guaranteed presence, a flattened wave of gloss flowing always over not all of the interior – scupper the fat chance of detecting the nice to detect – provide a useful phenomenon to aid meditation but – input being no predictor of output – habits, tendencies – a large yes, a useful thud – not for hereby officially everyone – conjunction with tonal abrasion therapy – less than 50% cotton – planet are these people – a chorus rubbed into the gums or grey area classics under the tongue – Logos, Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith – yearns, craves, on a threshold below which it never – Bang & Olufsen impossibility – inheritance, theft, and accidental acquisition – a parked whine, a stuck sting – the curve and thrust of lips – likelihood of irregular gobbling – emitting bright wire from the ears – renovated in poor taste – considerably more irksome – mist being visible silence the last thing he insisted – looped snarls as declarations of agreement – conjunction with sine clusters, low frequency phase-bathing, ambient tendrils or sludge curtains – persisting through every interaction and lack of interaction – supervision of a proper chief – lucid, but lacking acoustic wealth – more than 100 days, consult Mumdance


Ed Garland’s writing has appeared in Antic, The Found Poetry Review, and A Glimpse Of. He lives in Wales, and is studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University.

Clive Gresswell

Steve’s journey

at all this dysfunction — function
he trod (from) dislocation the strand
lolling on his tongue
a tantalizing
paragraph
(shorn)

he walked on
not (once) in harmony
projectiles on the periphery
a stolen moment
(from where the shards of grass)

moments melting in the weeds
(his eye glued to the door)
from where his footsteps came
his shadow (a patchwork)
caste into future domains

a spittle of language surrounded him
                                                 trapped him in the gauze
new housing developments splintered
into this vast & hostile swamp of nouns
the guard noticed in doggerel
the swift-release of adrenaline alsations
to silence seething pavements



Clive Gresswell is a 59-year-old London-based poet who comes out of the Writers Forum Workshop (New Series) based in Shoreditch and who did his innovative poetry MA at the University of Bedfordshire. He has been published in BlazeVOX, LondonGrip and Tears in The Fence and is due for publication on Dispatches and Adjacent Pineapple. Meanwhile he is trying to do more London readings and was recently a guest reader at the international Tears in The Fence Poetry Festival. His first collection, Jargon Busters, from which these poems come, was recently published by the innovative Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.

Antonis Katsouris

ALWAYS WELCOME*

– – there’s always some group-therapy for your literary symptom(s)

the aquarium of aphrodisiac aphorists
the minaret of manicured metaphorists
the nursery of nervous narrators
the parthenon of perfumed parodists
the clique of charismatic correspondents
the elysium of exhausted experimentalists
the arcadia of acrobatic acratics
the tea-party of timorous time wasters
the esplanade of eloquent essayists
the menagerie of myopic mythomaniacs
the brotherhood of barefoot bards
the pagoda of prosperous pessimists
the carousel of cacophonous critics
the hive of hilarious haiku-hackers
the maison of mesmerizing memoirists
the vacancy of vitriolic versifiers
the alcove of alienated appropriationists
the panorama of perilous poets
the exile of elusive elegists
the lifeguard of lilliputian laconics
the refuge of repressed realists
the quartet of quotable queers
the plaza of platonic plagiarists
the cabinet of colossal columnists
the glory-hole of gregarious ghost-writers
the circus of clandestine cynics
the unity of undefended utopianists
the eden of euphoric experts
the mass of miraculous mysticists
the diaspora of dilettantish diarists
the feather-bed of fairy-tale fetishists
the terminal of turbulent twitter-tricksters
the north of nocturnal nihilists
the labyrinth of laborious list-lovers


*after an idea of S.H. & D.L.



Antonis Katsouris is a parodist, and a list-lover. He lives in Athens.

Daisy Lafarge

Bedbug

One morning I woke up with bright pink bites. They stayed for what seemed like weeks without fading, in a blotchy archipelago from coccyx to hip bone. My lover took to counting them like a rosary, saying “bug, bug, bug, bug, bug”.

The bites appeared around the same time I met the pale girl.

The pale girl was also small, and I’d first found her tucked between the mattress and mattress slats of a giant bed. She had been decidedly put there, by the person whose bed it was, but neither of us knew when that had happened, or how long she’d been there. She wasn’t angry about it, and didn’t even seem to have noticed where she’d been. She spoke very quietly, like a door with a well-behaved hinge. Together we counted back to the last thing she remembered—feeding the cat two weeks ago. She’d been underneath the mattress for two whole weeks, but now seemed embarrassed to be out in the open air, taking up space. I quietly wondered how she’d managed inside: hadn’t she needed to piss? To shit, drink, eat? It seemed impolite to ask. It was as if her body had simply dropped out of itself, her functions suspended on pause.

By that point she was relieved, but a little on edge. The person whose bed it was was coming back soon. I didn’t know who they were exactly, but I knew the bed belonged to a tyrant.

If they came back and found us there, they’d put us both in the bed. Maybe for two weeks, maybe more.

I wasn’t so much scared of being put in the bed, as of becoming like Bug – taking it all so meekly.

Ah—didn’t I tell you her name? The pale girl’s name was Bug.


Speculative Nomenclature of the Female Subject

For some time, all the writing was false. Whenever I sat down to try, the syntax kinked stubbornly around the pronoun ‘she’ until the thing I was writing became a writing about her, whoever she was. A female subject.

They came in all manner of pomp and circumstance. Some injudicious divas, others gothic confidants or pseudo-Cistercian grandmothers. I never set out to write them, but they gaggled at the tip of the pen, and one of them would always manage to squeeze out. Before long, she’d have made the poem in her own likeness; we’d draft for six days, and on the seventh, publish.

I didn’t mind, really. It was kind of relieving to have the pressure taken off like that. And I liked the way they wrote poems for me—it did me a lot of favours, even though they were the ones with imagination, they liked to remind me. They had all the good ideas.

They did seem to want something from me, though. Their names got more and more presumptuous, and less and less like actual names. By the time I got to writing about the one called Silence, even I wasn’t fooled. What was the difference between Silence and silence, other than her tentative pronoun?

It was becoming risky. I didn’t know enough about speculative nomenclature to keep it up for long. For example, that morning I had written ‘despot’ instead of ‘depot’, and cracked a monstrosity into the quiet November morning.

I began to plot against Silence. The only thing I could think of was to replace her with an object, which I didn’t want to do. It’s like one of the subjects had told me: poems about objects are vulgar.

The solution came about by chance. A woman called Want had started to poke her way into my poem, and it would be hers in a matter of minutes if I didn’t do something quick. My sister was on the other side of the table, eating fun-sized marshmallows from the bag. I reached over and grabbed a pink one. Wrote W-A-N-T in spindly letters. It was difficult to do as the nib kept sinking in and snagging on the pink. Then I pulled it in two, and gave half to my sister. We gulped them down. She got W-A and I got N-T. It’s like the DNA bases, she said with her mouth full. A-T-C-G. Science taught us how to isolate.

And it did taste good, like Milk of Magnesia. We used to creep into the bathroom at night to steal sips from the bottle. And after: the soft metallic of our breath on the pillow.

My sister asked if the process was genomic. I noticed that at some point the poem had righted itself. There was a lamppost in it now, and some inclement weather. All seemed well. No, I replied. Not genomic, but psychodynamic. Ultimately, the subjects had been expressing a desire to attach or ‘dock’, and we (my sister and I) had helped them make a healthy transference to the gut, which was the nutritive seat of the soul.

She shrugged and reached for another marshmallow. It was marked—

S-I-S-T-E-R



Daisy Lafarge lives in Scotland. In 2017 she was awarded an Eric Gregory Award, and her first pamphlet ‘understudies for air’ was published by Sad Press.

Pal LaFountain

Shin Whistle




Pal LaFountain has recorded the sound of mice falling on his head in a hot tin shack. His cut of the cloud is callafountain.com.

Dorothy Lehane

Poems from Bettbehandlung [Bedrest]


when they talk of capacity what they are really discussing is how alive you are to the possibility of being dead | & not obsession | not being besieged by cyclical thoughts | make sure the audience beholds you | not your gown | reality is an alloy of perception & time hardening | what an annus mirabilis | to talk of capacity is to commit to obscurantism | such is la terroriste | one electrode is placed on each temple | or two electrodes on one temple | “capacity” as a unilateral or bilateral predicament | capacity as I’m in listening mode | capacity as in “nunhood” | capacity as imposter | very little haecciety | beware capacity | in all it’s troubled mythos


and so we live | and are always taking leave | always dilating | fivefold movements decomposing | overlook the manacles | pathological note-making | freedom versus coercion | we must apply a perturbing method | to break the spasm by means of the spasm | we must break their pride | be free of the doldrums | the doldrums lead to being chained | to a tree | or to marriage | that endocrine stressor | such difficulty with utterance | humours out of whack | only in certain lights is it bile related | in other lights there is the question of what to do with fantasies | & the bacterial stream | three humoral signs | see how they come | with insulin shock therapy | & with coma


since you are determined to make her a medicalised body | keep the limbic system in a state of shock | & though officially it does not seem to happen | it happens | very very body centred | I’m not fitting into the body war | teeth apart | we want our teeth gone | we want our beauty hectic | & who mourns those spaces | those sanctioned spaces | describe the people who created you | using two words | unemotional & blasé | my little sook-dancette | decumbiture | the glut force common in old old french | sunwise withershins so vulnerable like withershins | beware of the water | beware of other cities | horse-godmother help me | help with my hereness & nowness



Dorothy Lehane is the author of three poetry publications: Umwelt (Leafe Press, 2016), Ephemeris (Nine Arches Press, 2014) and Places of Articulation (dancing girl press, 2014). She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Kent.

Dan Leiser

A collective sort of one and another


Oh Brother

With a cane I have found myself able,
To give myself a home in the east.
However unwanted I was from both
My father and his.
It still hurts, the mark of a broken man apparent,
Confusing rocks and a salt of a certain kind.

Sliding slick on the road to
The bottoms of the hill
That feels something cold,
Frozen, even with
Tall trees,
Trees taller than I’ve ever seen

Scraping the sky in the forest.

When I walk by them I hear rumbling
Bats emerge in the daytime,

In the night time I fear leaving my
Small house I built upon a grave –
Thy own.

Now I lay me down to rest,
As the wicked find little time to do,
I feared once the grave I built will engulf me soon,
Now, I encourage it,
Maybe then the trees will become home.
Something I lost so long ago,

But hope falls on the wicked as night
Meets dusk
Meets dust.


Day and Night

()=Nothing or X*
() =\= x wen surrounded,adjacent,or next two symbols, punctuations Or (two) Spaces.*

Foor two under(night)stand,
nliten(,)& imbrace
theeh [Naight, don(‘) t] foerghet dhayh is(. ) but
1 ste(h)p
hear and/or
thair
D-hown ae
Whol.

Deitie of
Dhayh mhahe
Find – :me), hee, he; her oar

Butdress whe
Find!(you)!
On top,
Of him (me), he, hee oar (her )
Deitie o(a)f
Naight.

Oad(e) tew dhayh
Wile naight fites
Fewr such l’i’ttel
Chance o:a:f brehth
Shal w:ee:e cea
2ew theh rezureksian
O(a:f theh
?Son!

Hoo hat nought
Eggsist,
Wear4or
( without:
A fite
On top=of a whall
A deitie soh
Paishant sits.

Oade tewe thah
Faight.

Oh dhayh&naight.

*subject to change(sic):( ibid.)


Miss En Scene At 4124

The door is shut
The windows cracked sideways and
Horizontal.
The windows covered in half by yellow tinged (formerly)
White curtains,
The dog on his back on the floor on his mat
Pit bull,
Rottweiler next to him she grunts in the
Daylight sneaking in through the cracks and
Shimmers
On the glass on the table
Two dollar bills rolled up next to
Sugar(?)
Mommy can I have some sugar on my cereal?
Where’d you get cereal?
Next door.
Did you get milk?
The mother lays on her back,adjacent dog
Pitbull,
Noses in the sky
Legs open,
Get your kid outta here
Unph umph
Take some sugar and go next door
Thanks mommmmmmy
Umph umph
The tattoos crawling down his back,side merge with her body in brief intervals until
Umphhhh.
Where’s the bathroom in this place?
Leave the money on the table
Where’s the bathroom in this place?
Put the money down
The kid runs back in
I need more sugar
Where’s the bathroom damnit?
Put the money down
Mommmmy
Put the money down
Mom!!
Fuck it,
The kid falls down
The door screams open,
Fuck this.

The tattoo is covered by a black
Shirt
Badge and number,
Where’s my money!
Mom!

Radio crackled open,
We have a domestic disturbance
4124…
Cue: cut-
I’m on it.

Lets go,
Where?
Gotta take you in,
What?
No,

              Mom?

See The Horse Go

Is the necessity of living
Through the ah-abject-ah-abstract moments in
Our minds a picture in the fragmented thoughts(?).
That all encompasses
Through and through to the
Next day until next and last become intertwined
To the end of the Ohringinal picture show
– see!the Horse running –
Still frames in motion the
Twirling and running and running
And running through and through
Day to day
Andday
Untiluntil
We till the earth and troughs –
Become enclosures for it anddaythe
Fragmentedstills
Becomeone.

Show me the survivor ofbecomingone
Ill show you
Real life decided by deceived
Deceased parties of slumber
And familyfriends all gather today
For a lietobehold herewegoagain
Lift up your hearts and also your
Heads because there they go floating above
Fragmentedstill
Alive through the ethereal
Alive through the plague and karma and placated
Lives
Alive alive alive,
To be alive again.
Let us pray.


Witness A Break

If subconscious be you
Upon the words these here right
To rite to write what we have
In the whims of our words, thoughts
What world we live work lively love
In but
At what point do the words wash
Away
To the end of what we know and
At what
Point do we speak here,
Hear ere do ne’er well the
Words that mean nothing?
Biting the phrases we speak and now
Unto you I give
Nothing.
Thinkadilly upon a dais
lee to thwart the kingdom,
Four corners we sit
Upon the throne of
Of thinking of
Of the way in of
The way out of
Here.

”Tis nobler to run
Than stay and fight
If only you protect your
Back as
The foreign legions wont
To do.

Inconspicuously colloquially
We speak that…
Fuck it, we all need a
new start.

How far does one go
To find the depths of his soul?
The sing song rhythm that mesmerized
The mind,
Seems a touch too far
The end to slow
The life to long.

How far will you go to find the predispositions
Pre-post-supposing the
Dignity in it all?
When the depths only go as far as you learned
And yet so much further that you could have
reached if you
Tried one day
true.

So how far,
How far do we dig to find we
Lost what we never started
And when do we realize the end in all
All in all in fall in the lulls the troughs the
Valleys the end the love
The end the end all:
Be.



Dan Leiser is a poet and writer who is slowly amassing a back stock of poems and stories to sell to street vendors. He is currently working on a poetry series on life and a novel of death, disorder, and the circumstances of family. He recently published a Finnegans Wake inspired series of poetry in The Agenbite of Inwit. He lives in Pennsylvania.

Iulia Militaru

A Dance in Four Frames


The formation of the Ego is symbolized in dreams by a fortress or a stadium – an interior yard fenced, surrounded by swamps or garbage, dividing it in two opposing areas, where the subject struggles to reach the imposing and distant castle whose form (sometimes present in the same scenario) symbolizes the ID in a staggering way.

The sun and I in this house, where’s his silence? Dance in my floating above you, above them. I kill, he keeps on writing
sli
(yet
one
more
step
over
us two)
pping
How come you don’t get these pieces?
Laid together by words
Of your girl running in the shadow
On the whale’s edge, now here

The woman takes a bite of spring.
My father loves our silence,
Thought crushed in voices. Listen.
„I’m the sun of his son, the son of the son.”

(Who shall say I’m not, prin tot dansul ei,
the happy genius of my household?)

Sli
(a step
in dance
over
folio. You)
pping
destroy (yourselves) on this folio here. As soon as today, again. Then, our steps alone over the father.

*

Speech is a way of slipping in                        (subliminal)          information
Of helping those that don’t understand (subliminal)

Understand                    [what you want them (subliminal)
To understand].



Speech is a way of levelling things.

*

Against any personal communication.
Against any illusionary I.
Only the cold analysis of the images between us.

The existent is a sexuate body.
*
Frame 1

The surface (uneven, steep, and unwholesome) was inhabited by countless populations. The existent is a sexuate body!

Frame 2

Mars embracing Venus in a sleep of no return. They roll over; hatred for them ends up in a mating dream, with daddy penetrating his little girl’s vagina while she’s insatiably licking mom’s clitoris—a ménage à trois… the day is finally here, she can bite now, she can enjoy them, happily chewing her dad’s penis her mom’s vulva, sucking their blood out, stripping their skin off, exposing the inside to the world they’ve been hiding away from. She swallows them.

Frame 3

Naked women’s bodies. Merely gaunt          one after another              bones poking through the skin. The air close to blowing up with commandments. No one can grasp anything else. The only way of communication sounding rough to the ears of those waiting. Now and then a vagina would open up like a cactus blossom. Commotion bursting out of non-resistance. Swimming all of ’em swimming in a sea of bodies with no place to reach in mind. Where you headed? All a rustle, rustle of listless limbs. Words springing up faster and faster more and more. Not a trace of silence in the dead silence. Oftentimes the night wind buries everything in leaves.

Frame 4

Space as matter’s fundamental form of existence, inseparable from it, having the appearance of a contiguous whole with three dimensions and showcasing objects and processes in their ordered array can fill up. And it did fill up. Objects stifling all room round. They always come in successive waves, incessantly, carried by the southern wind. Countless. Roundish breasts, as full as a hilly orchard, smooth thighs, arms whiter than any recollection of snow, and… hopefully, lips, the mellow kind, a woman’s lips now close to ripeness. That is the fruit he savors, tasty, tender, breaking between his teeth:

Imaginary soliloquy attached to the frames:

bitch! whore cunt scum slut hooker floozy puta pantsy tootsie fluffy mouthy chippy coc(k)(h)otte broad dame madame doxy antsy-pantsy-farty-damsel hobo’s-bimbo ranch-wench cock-wrench tramp vamp hot-to-trot flirt tart fussy-hussy fancy hustler straight streetwalker car-men’s-putana boor’s-burana buena gris-gris grisette drab-to-grab no-jinx-minx pro pro-bono-masterbono pros-tit-hoot charge-a-lot-harlot tax-worker sweetheart-tart smart-head-job-artiste outskirts-skirt dirt

translated from the Romanian by MARGENTO



Iulia Militaru is a poet/ performer and so on, also the Editor in Chief of frACTalia Press and InterRe:ACT magazine. Her poetry collections: The Great Pipe Epic (2010), dramadoll (2012), The Seizure of the Beast. A Post-research (2016) and Atlas (auto)mat/on (auto)BIO/graphy/I© de câteva tipuri principale de discursuri (2017), are everything but poetry. She published poems and digital collages in MAINTENANT, A Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art (#9 #10 #11) and Plume (the June Issue 2017 #71). One can find more about her literary work here: https://iuliamilitaru.wordpress.com/

“These frames are part of my continued investigation into the process of self-representation and discourse analysis. A frame is a cadre, a border, a machine and a body, a structure – an internal structure, a skeleton. The resolution of a well-structured discourse inside a frame/ border becomes an image of an alienated body/ a putrefaction (the process of putrefying) which parasites the whiteness of a clean page or the meaning of a phrase. And a meaningless place is born. And silence speaks. Decomposition of a corpse is a continual process, it involves invisible microorganisms/ nonsensical meaningful words. All those microorganisms are reached using a subtraction technique – the unseen appears as a web of in-between relations – annihilation, destruction, and control of, possessing of something/somebody. In words. In a putrid discourse.”

Georgios Mizithras . ΓΙΩΡΓΟΣ ΜΙΖΗΘΡΑΣ

MIZI – Glossolalia (Γλωσσολαλιά)

“Glossolalia” is a live-piece following the radio-art ethos. Composed soundscapes of field
recordings and a 0-input mixer are crushed through the magnetic tape medium, enveloping the disused cassettes found in various thrift stores. Voices stripped from their bodies, debatable functionality of sounds and a lingering question; Should I get my pencil?

Το «Γλωσσολαλιά» είναι ένα ηχητικό έργο ηχογραφημένο σε πραγματικό χρόνο το οποίο
ακολουθεί το ραδιο-τέχνης ήθος. Τα τεχνητά ηχητικά τοπία των εγγραφών πεδίου και ενός μίκτη μηδενικής εισόδου συνθλίβονται μέσω της μαγνητικής ταινίας και περιβάλλουν κασέτες-ευρήματα, που βρίσκονται θαμμένες σε παλιατζίδικα. Φωνές απογυμνωμένες από το σώμα τους, αμφισβητήσιμη λειτουργικότητα των ήχων και μια επίμονη ερώτηση: Should I get my pencil?




Giorgos Mizithras | Αerial


Georgios Mizithras is a musician and sound artist. He is active as both a composer and a performer in a range of fields, including electroacoustic music, improvisation, sound art, and audiovisuals. His current interest lies in repurposing old media as devices of artistic expression. He has performed at the “Klingt Gut” Festival (Hamburg, 2017) “Visual March in Prespes” (Thessaloniki, 2014), “AGORA” (Athens, Biennale 2013), Alte Schmiede (Vienna, 2014) and at numerous venues in Greece. He is a graduate of composition at the Music Studies department of the Ionian University and has also studied at De Montfort University’s Music Technology and Innovation department (Leicester). He is currently doing he’s Master’s in Music Technology at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens.

Yannis Sarigiannidis

Remitting: the symptoms

(Amorous passion is a delirium; but such delirium is not alien, everyone speaks of it, it is henceforth tamed. What is enigmatic is the loss of delirium: one returns to … what?)

-Roland Barthes

(translated by Richard Howard)



[acute phase]


Ioannis SARIGIANNIDIS wings1
wings_1


Ioannis SARIGIANNIDIS wings2
wings_2


“I have photographs that used to be ours.”

-Luis Chaves


Ioannis SARIGIANNIDIS nowings1
nowings_1


Ioannis SARIGIANNIDIS nowings2
nowings_2


[chronic phase]

there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and I remember everything, even your ears.

-Dorothea Grossman


Ioannis SARIGIANNIDIS Τwo Εyes 1
twoeyes_1


Ioannis SARIGIANNIDIS Τwo Εyes 2
twoeyes_2


Ioannis SARIGIANNIDIS Τwo Εyes 3
twoeyes_3


Ioannis Sariyannidis Too Many Eyes
toomanyeyes



Yannis Sarigiannidis is a PhD student, investigating anxiety from a cognitive neuroscience perspective. His poems have been published in Greek and English literary magazines. He has translated poems by David Harsent, Sam Riviere and Ocean Vuong, introducing them to the Greek audience. He lives in London.


Ο Γιάννης Σαρηγιαννίδης ερευνά το άγχος με μεθόδους γνωστικής νευροεπιστήμης σε διδακτορικό επίπεδο. Ποιήματά του έχουν δημοσιευτεί σε ελληνικά και αγγλικά περιοδικά. Έχει μεταφράσει ποιήματα των David Harsent, Sam Riviere και Ocean Vuong, συστήνοντάς τους στο ελληνικό κοινό. Μένει στο Λονδίνο.

The Uncontrollable Issue

intro

Uncontrollable apparitions, texts, talks, feelings, incidents. Confront or embrace the uncontrollable, make uncontrollable detours, start addressing all (un)controllable things with wit.

See how the uncontrollable operates in the fascinating works of Emanuela Bianchi, Maria Damon, Alan Sondheim, Mez Breeze, Clive Gresswell, Jane Joritz-Nakagawa, Aadityakrishna Sathish, Olivia Cronk & Philip Sorenson, Matt Schumacher, Christine Stoddard, and Florence Sunnen.

Nemesis is a collaborative work by Emanuela Bianchi, Maria Damon, and Alan Sondheim: “Alan (whom I’ve known since about 1996 when I first encountered his writing online) and I have written several other collaborations. He had been reading about Nemesis’s origins as the goddess of retribution, and proposed that for our next project we write about her. I was all for it. Alan started us off by quoting sections of source material. I responded by elaborating in a more fanciful, lyrical way, and then Alan chopped up the writing by various means: deleting a vowel, subjecting the text to various computer commands, etc. We go back and forth. I mentioned the collaboration to Emanuela Bianchi, who sent me a paragraph she had recently written on the genesis of Nemesis, and Alan and I were so taken with it that we included it as our epigraph. Alan and I share a taste for texts that careen out of control and he has many excellent techniques for making that happen.”

A very bizarre 1987 pirating incident inspired Olivia Cronk & Philip Sorenson to write a “critical/lyric essay” about “faces, transmission, infection, interruption, abrasion, intrusion, translation, similes, meaning, television, inscription, mirrors as anti-allegory, time travel.”

Matt Schumacher’s prose poems/dreams of Thomas De Quincey “contain kennings, drug-world slang, archaic language from the 1800s, and neologisms.”

Furthermore this hybrid uncontrollable narrative includes (visual) poems, photos, digital fiction, things to cherish, and share. Many thanks to all contributors for their bold, unconventional works. Now enjoy.

Dimitra

Emanuela Bianchi, Maria Damon, Alan Sondheim

Nemesis

In the mythical genealogy of Hesiod’s Theogony maternal fecundity is primordial, and yet always remains marked by a certain obscurity. As Nicole Loraux observes, two mothers, Gaia and Night, are daughters of Chaos, the primordial cleft or gap. Night, “aware of nothing but division gave birth – without love – by fission only – to progeny encompassing everything negative in the Greek imagination.” The offspring of Gaia are all the gods, mostly born from a male and female parent, with their active, masculine rivalries, hatreds, and violences, exemplified by the castration of Ouranos by Kronos, and the eventual victory of Zeus over all. Night, on the other hand, will give birth to plural groups of feminine goddess (Hesperides, Fates, Keres, Nereides, Oceanides, Horae, Charites) as well as the well-known abstractions, such as Doom, Death, Age, Nemesis, and Strife. Further, “Strife bore painful Toil and Forgetfulness and Famine and tearful Sorrows, Fightings also, Battles, Murders, Manslaughters, Quarrels, Lying Words, Disputes, Lawlessness and Ruin, all of one nature, and Oath who most troubles men upon earth when anyone willfully swears a false oath.” This propensity for self-splitting is thus rendered an obscure and relentless rumble, an evil and awesomely powerful function, characteristic of a particularly feminine side of genos which masculine, paternal genos must take as its singular duty to subjugate.
Emanuela Bianchi, “Genos Between Nature and Power.”

less _a_.

and less an
incident, becuse of her feelings nemesis (o my private goddess of private emptiness), righteous hincident, bec use hve been h ve inst enemies –my enemies with their breath sweetened with the cloying toxicity of imagined sincerity) pst ted by, the resurgence Atheni st nd n g t outset Peloponnesin Wn W Wr. By brokenness fore and aft, left and right, high and low, by emptiness and brokenness in the starry night 
fifth century r. present, by cant of darkness, depth of kettlehole murk. We all imagine truth; none imagine truth looms.Femina factora, Nemesis weaves truth on her four swords. She constructs a loom of them, warps it and weaves from the lies told by the male gods; she turns their breath-lines into the thinnest thread and makes a gauze of truth. This gauze, when held against the sun, shows a rainbow.

less an incident, than the failure of truth.

The eyes of e, the I of is. The meting of what is owed. Pleased to mete you your measure of metre, of verse, of tears, to turn you into a vessel of wet salt grief. somewhere down there, CHITON is thinking, i’m glad i’m here, i’m glad i’m in the salt walk of the deep byte, maybe i’ll survive, i’ve done it for 10s of 1,000,000s of years, maybe 100s, i don’t want you anywhere near me, nemesis is your business, your impropriety, not mine. go away, i’m grazing rock.

N of negation, M of ocean, S of the deep bite. Corrosion of karmic tumble, over and over, in the salt waves, dashed against the wet sand with repeated vigor. Hurl, and hurl, splattered again. (here the chiton emerges, Cryptochitonstelleri,the giant western and fiery chiton, the platelets, almost trilobitic, monolobotic, holdfast against the splattering, against Nemesis Aura Auracular, Dear Maria, I will not close these parentheses!

Aura Auracular, the breath of speech, the gold of guile. She comes for you, blasting your face with the heat of her gaze.

Around her supple ample dimple body she wears a chiton woven of spun gold, which she bartered from the Fates in exchange for the souls of a few dozen lying men. Aura Auracular, Azure Abomination Nemesis stands upon two giant western fiery chitons, Gumboot and Meatloaf, as they graze the rocks for food. She is half submerged, half hovering above the sea in her motherly wrath. You can see her from a great distance in her billowing shimmering dimpling gold robe.

Nemesis, supreme in her negation of all supremacy, s deserved.[cittion needed] Ld come to me tion Lter, wh ter, w her laughter of whipped fawns and her smile of avenging radiance,
“to give wht is due”,[2] from Proto-Indo-Europet
Proto-Indo-Europe Proto-Indo-Europen nem- c rnessed rcing Grypes
obstinte enemy Aur cing . She, oh flowing liquid honey of melody, te d hd hrnessed r (Griffins)
newly spun robe, gold spun of molten honey, of melody, of stinging nettles, of thistle-down, ge;

to live under a shadow of pleasure. the avenging gun-toter. the slung noose of inevitability.slung lungs, where Chiton lives, now a name for this particular chiton, of which one forms all proper names:

the proper name of the is The.
The proper name of proper is Proper.
The proper name of nemesis is Nemesis.
The proper name of alan is Alan.
The proper name of of is Of.
for which we have Chiton to thank:
The proper name of chiton is Chiton.

She Who breaks the Aura, She Who divides; / ;

She who she who she who breathes at your neckhairs.
she who she who she who reaches for your belt,
she who she who she who undoes your sandal-laces,
she who she who she who trips you in the sand
she who she who she who carves her fate into your skin

then you lso hthe cestus, the following Colossus on his knees hustling clumsily after her, flogged m rri no
then you isolate the censorious overlords, pin them to their sharp words with their sharp tongues and your own sharp swords, all four of them, right through their heartless hearts
fer, for Aurto bl r, your deceitful sleep woods; your heart of Chiton;

Aura Auratic who breaks the digital bonds, creates Shadow,
She Who obscures;

deceitful in your abjection, but not so our divine Nemesis, she who walks on skulls to get to heaven, she who lifts up the abjected maids violated over and over by Zeus, Apollo, Ares.

Apollopes, Sears Ares; Aura Oracular’s Memesis, swollen and dim minds.
So he says, you’re saying that she’s saying that no one remembers their mind? No one, she replied through you. Mary and Todd said that’s where imagination comes from, from Lincoln’s logs and files, already hacked:

res Nemesis below blows your mind when you’re looking away from the horror: mend mesurement – constitution surement more than you can handle, and certainly more than you can imagine. 
H shdowy ttributes dowy digit l, this or with word, pregnant with word, but word and with shadow, pregnant with word and with shadow, casting her long lines across the city, the long lines raying out from her navel, where she stands at the center of the city, in the shadows of the word, her belly bulging, gives birth to Legion.

The Gatha of Legion:
The Improper Name of The is the.
the Improper Name of Gatha is gatha.
the Improper Name of of is of.
the Improper Name of Legion is legion.

Too hot, too hot, too hot panting in pluribus Onan, Nemesis sees your every doubled move in her many eyes, reflected in her poly-prismatic swords, so many of you, miniaturized, doing that shame thing, many times multiplied, doing that thing, she will give you your justice

will give you your Justice, just as Justice is legion, con-fined, among the nemeses of Nemesis, con-founded:

My name is Legion. I shall conquer Nemesis. I shall release Aura Auratic. No one can help being really terrific, AA comes with so many depth! To see her is to love her fantastic fast! She is so much good goodess!

good goddess tht Nemesis, vert whom,Nemesis? Wh ding wrns us by 
cubit-rule rns bridle neither do dre known (Retribution)
tribulations and tintinnabulations, raining on the city in the sight of Nemesis, trials for the worthy, the hypocrites and the major dons of the republic, their days are numbered and not so plentiful.
Discussion: ped fther Zeus, gseventh century: ther gve fter she
chnging, which only mentioned in Kyprich nging, Kypri, Kypri,
worshipped personified, seemingly different Personified rt
literture building does not ture temple ppe Attic
Why would a father rape his own daughter? why would he try to prevent her changing into a goddess, who brings retribution to all those wronged by harsh lust? Why would anyone do anything in these harsh times? Why, Improper chiton, is anyone capable, cap-able, in these yet harsher times?

Rhmnous 470s, chronology cult stmnous mnous sttue tue Pheidis
mni mde s, who expl de ins th plusibly usibly ttributed out The
rtilly role lly re identified p Helens mother ws entirely
forgotten over PersiHelens Persins, Persi ns, bse se context
story Helen [2], hs now politics politic politicl identity into
l Rh Rhmnous. bringing either mrricult ge mnous. Menelos [3].
Here joined severto Menel os severl other opposite side sever
se. here most implcc cble ble v
when is new politics of retribution going to rise in the east like our radiant Nemesis, our Name is Us, our Is Is Is of half-spoken aspiration?

Aswirl in a soup of incantatory words, we reach for a non-ground of non-being, hoping in non-hope for a survival of some small grain of embodiment. We fear we are drowning in crazed floods of language.
We say, precisely as follows, We See No Sign Of god, No Sign Of nemesis, all sign of Chiton, of which We Say:

chiton is the proper name of Chiton.
Chiton is the improper name of chiton.

NM, Nemesis-Memesis another meme. Memes are half-spoken, abject when they’re dressed. NM and AA love each other; AA says, “That’s sure more than a meme!” Right now it’s dark outside, furious storm, thunder coming. The gods are saying I’m right as rain! Men think they’re deities, AA, Abigail Aubergine knows otherwise, says deity men violence, the It/d. deity men violence. It/d [1.33.3] Of rble Peidi Nemesis. [1.33.7]
Neither nor ny ncient wings they Love. I ce ske cleke cle ke
clerness. Your protective wings of shadow and silk.
Greeks rness. will go onto describe pref he hy
represented being led Led originlly meNemesis origin ment
distributor fortune, resentment”
alchemized into clean steel-gold action.
From nt rd, In Greek trs tr
trgedies gedies fourth onw ppevenger some met ppers chiefly
physic venger metphysicppe physicl mythology, rs ys egg
discovered void bird form respected goddess, brought much sorrow
Boeotid BoeotiBoeoti BoudicaBoudiccaBoadicea furybody of
transcontinental colonization, subaltern rising to the elliptical top,
She of thegold lace and steel glides forward into the center of the fire, She calls on the dead to avenge the living. (The Greeks say, they’re in the EU, they’re tired of nasty family dramas chewing up everyone, women brutalized, there’s no excuse for that. The Greeks say, they know better, the drachma dolmas, doldrums dolorosa. The Greeks drag us into the 21st century. They say look at your usa, we have usG for many times now. Your usa has nasty family dramas.
No muses for you, usa! all art will ebb, all evil flood. Our Nemesis is beauty inverted. She’ll take your gold and good riddance!

AA, Azure Antigone, agrees. Devoid of scalars, improper Fractions, names. myths and ruptures repeat repulsive relatives’ recallings, rehearsed, reversed – reverance required, reality relinquished… immeasurable, infinite, incomparable, incommensurable, immoderate, immodest, immolating, impish…

Although too bore ffliction believed one should ever th”
(Theogony, 223, though perhps ps mort ls subject line). As
“Goddess Rhmnous”, wmnous”, mnous”, poet Mesomedes wrote hymn
honored pl rk-fced e”Nemesis, winged b ced erly times rly ncer
life, representtions resembled Aphrodite, sometimes berepresent
tions bers be epithet nme relepithet relted nmein, rel rticulrly
concerned mme mtters love. ning. myth tters sprung up ground? Myth mother on sprung ground, epithets hanging from her shoulders, mossy with froth, swaying as she trudges

All the numbers spell out a future that falls through a space in the cosmos.
All the letters gather together and ask please do not make such a mess.
chiton Calls Them Out, The Recounting Of Nemesis:

[Nemesis recounts rncient rce Typhoeus dTit ughter Phrygi. With
equns) [i.e. equl speed (the Unvoidsteivoidble) [Nemesis]
pursued Argive
venomous hymns to no avail. a tiny reticule opens to reveal a blinding light that devours all guilt. Aura Argive Absolved Absolutely Astonishing, All Animals And Androids Amazingly Absconding, Astounded! Adrble) stei let whip l[Nemesis] lter seduced Zeus], ter ck
snowbeten Tprep ten Turos red uros nother love flew nd] sid sves
id until ves ched [ Tit nes (T (Turus) urus) snowbe
an ice palace where evil is allowed to pretend it’s in ascendancy… snowbeaten paths attract all malfeasers… and Nemesis seals the door on them.

AA says Hello. And ZZZZ of the Four-Sworded Loom says Goodbye!! Goodbye!! Goodbye!! Goodbye!!

chiton

slung lungs.

goodbye.

Emanuela Bianchi is a philosopher and assistant professor of comparative literature at New York University, who works at the intersection of Ancient Greek philosophy and literature, feminist/queer theory, and contemporary continental philosophy. She is the author of The Feminine Symptom: Aleatory Matter in the Aristotelian Cosmos (Fordham, 2014), co-editor (with Sara Brill and Brooke Holmes) of Antiquities Beyond Humanism (Oxford, forthcoming 2018), and has written numerous articles in journals including Hypatia, The Yearbook of Comparative Literature, Graduate Faculty Philosophy Journal, Philosophy Today, Epochê, and Angelaki. She is currently at work on a manuscript provisionally entitled “Emergence and Concealment: Nature, Hegemony, Kinship.”

Maria Damon teaches poetry and poetics at the Pratt Institute of Art. She is the author of two books of poetry scholarship; co-author (with mIEKAL aND, Alan Sondheim, Adeena Karasick, and Jukka-Pekka Kervinen) of several books of poetry; co-editor (with Ira Livingston) of Poetry and Cultural Studies: A Reader; and author of two cross-stitch visual poetry chapbooks, Meshwards and XXX.

Alan Sondheim is a Providence-based new media artist, musician, writer, and performer concerned with issues of virtuality, and the stake that the real world has in the virtual. He’s busy writing codework and theory at the moment, along with some new cds, shows, and videos on the way. His work can be accessed here: http://www.alansondheim.org/

Mez Breeze

Our Cupidity Coda

Please click here to watch: Our Cupidity Coda

Description: The meat of the project is a set of poetic texts interspersed with 360 illustrative stills. The work is deliberately designed to partially echo the conventions from early film-making days (including no audio), making a viewer focus on text inserts, which are contrasted with having to move (turn in the 360 VR space) and view the 360 tableaus (a reflection of the theme underlying the work) to engage fully with the 360 illustration sections.

Our Cupidity Coda is designed for viewing on any mobile phone and is designed for (initial) quick sharp consumption, then repeat plays for those with which it resonates. It’s designed for viewing as a 360 video through a URL on most mobile devices and/or desktops/tablets VR headsets (recommended is viewing through a Vive setup via a 360 viewer such as Virtual Desktop or the latest version of the Mozilla Firefox browser). Our Cupidity Coda was built from a desire to encourage repeat viewing, to play through the experience several times in order to unstitch the poetic denseness of the minimal text, and to absorb and process the 360 visuals. It’s a slow-burn work for those that click with it.

Mez Breeze’s award-winning creations have helped shape digital fiction for over two decades. “#PRISOM”, her anti-surveillance game created with Andy Campbell and produced for The 2013 International Symposium on Mixed and Augmented Reality , is “…the digital equivalent of Orwell’s 1984” (according to James O’Sullivan). Mez is a Coproducer, Creative Director and Lead Interactive Writer of the “Inanimate Alice: Perpetual Nomads” Virtual Reality/Novel Series, co-creator of All the Delicate Duplicates, Advisor to The Mixed Augmented Reality Art Research Organisation, and is currently developing a comprehensive career archive with Duke University.

Clive Gresswell

 
Film by Greta Zabulyte
 


Clive Gresswell is a 59-year-old London-based poet who comes out of the Writers Forum Workshop (New Series) based in Shoreditch and who did his innovative poetry MA at the University of Bedfordshire. He has been published in BlazeVOX, LondonGrip and Tears in The Fence and is due for publication on Dispatches and Adjacent Pineapple. Meanwhile he is trying to do more London readings and was recently a guest reader at the international Tears in The Fence Poetry Festival. His first collection, Jargon Busters, from which these poems come, was recently published by the innovative Knives, Forks and Spoons Press.

 

Jane Joritz-Nakagawa

plan b audio five

a portmanteau of crimes
committed on the bodies of
laborers.  too confused
to properly track their prey. my
face leaves.  because it’s high
and the sky is crowded. because
paulownia.  my arm is scarred
and sticks out against the
dark. because i am the
background.  because soon
animals will be eaten.  the
laborers did not revolt.  their
bodies were not revolting.   i
don’t like either side.  contradictory
fashion for laborers, for
animals. my face is willing.
a room filled yet empty.  the
background is financial.  a
broken sky is evidence. of winter,
of paulownia.  the identity of
nets catching invisible prey.  the
stupor of it, of revolts in broken
winter, where belabored bodies are the
background of solitude and
happenstance.  the illusion of
logic may heal the mind but
today the ramparts are possessed
by feeling and panoramic huts. each
breath savored for its effort.   every
awkward step.   for the sake of.
discussion.  dissolving into
beams of frenzied impossible
yearning.  through wickets
of doldrum and bureaucratic
spoils.   seaweed-like.
in small pieces.

plan b audio six

liquid determination
a disappearing door
the gardener enters
to tend to the fields of my crotch
decaying quivering
raking the leaves
creating odd potholes for driverless cars
in an era of exits

plan b audio seven

greying sky
what forces the mountains
to hide behind the clouds

above the planet
in the mind
a river of blue veins

a deep snow
falling elsewhere
how naked i’ve become

why does death
seep from my pores
cleaning the air of its stupor

near a pond
a body on a road
as if replaced

suffocated by sight
the “e” is silent
so must i be

my chewed vagina
a vanishing self
former namesake

fallen tree
looking diseased
pains me thoroughly

cutting through memory
broken water
sounding dead

long range missile
alternative truth
scrap metal

a gloomy oak tree
pinned to a wall
vast solitude

something like a person
a lucid cave
humble in its theater

free flowing doldrums
a drum of pink water
dull on my skin

a stationary wind
stepping beyond
a horizon of objects

bees atop flowers
perfumes in springtime
my greedy vulva

folded yukata
blue and white on tatami
large holes in the shoji

dead science of understanding
forming a sinkhole
sliver of grief

full of enemy corpses
on a street
aligned with nothing

another valley
without land
of the rocky spur

beyond the garden
row of visitors
smell of death

beard and tuxedo
on the television set
teeth like a dinosaur

entering the hospital
X-ray on a screen
shop of horrors

man with a hacking cough
it must be cancer
private thought

patient attached to a machine
her pallid face
thin and scared

rustling of uniforms
a beeper goes off
the sound of dying

heavy rain
plum blossoms on concrete
bar code on my wrist

too much whiskey
a face resembling
a crumpled sheet

lavender gloves on a table
pink curtain
embraces a dirty window

small intestine of trees
looks out over a great
expanse of burnt skin

each beginning an ending
marching orders
false embrace

ulnar nerve
knife through the heart
life of language

old fable
long gone
my empty uterus

in a world of mistranslation
reporting every blunder
the eldest maiko leaves home at sunset

to all appearances a human being
tossed aside
in eerie pennsylvania

plan b audio two

Impossible collapsing dialogues evict
My shadow, iconic falsity.  Optical
favors for driven
geese.  To shred
armor for fun,
reason the house
into cherubic slumber falling
over rotting apple trees.  Processes
in nature:  to dream
every disaster into sludge,
to translate movement into
taxes.  Vanishing
paragraphs traverse faster than
mire.  You’re a winner every
time.  Stopping to shatter
sleep into stuttering.  A breath
missed.  Next
door the moon melts
into ash splayed over oceans.  Backwash
implements mark the time when reaching
was my only failure.  I’d tolerate
other art forms if
they didn’t disable my back.  Future
hospital bills fit into two line
stanzas.  But the care
wasted on random smell won’t wash
in next year’s electoral
debate.  Murmuring my
favorite secret programs
are several special enemies
of state.  To recover one’s
proper place.  Substitute
influences vie for golden
landings.  My line
endings and spacings mash
potatoes.  Frivolous
collaborations resonate in
coincidental indiscretions and safety
determinations.  On fiery imaginary
planets.  Touching my hair
where it turns to mesh.  An
endless graphite spiral.  My
limbs against a widening
white tree.  A flag is stinky
proof of something.  Anxiety
is destiny on every
rooftop guarded by the
sickness police.  Surrounded
by a strange country.  Or found
in.  Pleats
of a bright room.

#4  

why not swoon if lavender mood         golf caddy ever-bending fellow acne daffodil riot mirrored casing subdural brake         linen moss untrimmed profile albino idea leaning of       strapped to depths of my nest                     mute soliloquy


Jane Joritz-Nakagawa‘s ninth book of poetry, <<terrain grammar>>, is forthcoming with theenk Books as is an anthology she edited titled women : poetry : migration [an anthology].

Aadityakrishna Sathish

Hong Kong is a city, like many others, where buildings reign over people. Life is predictable to the extent that some rich man is always going to have food on his plate (to be more precise, 8 small plates that would cost the same as what we pay for rent every month). You might get a promotion the year after—but hey—you might not. You might end up working the same job for 8 years without a raise.

Everyday life at the level of the economy is predictable. Like in many other places, the wolves of Wall Street (or we would say here, Central District) have swallowed the excitement whole. Then, what is left, is what some would call the “remainder life” or in other words, the weekend. Eating together as a family is a rare instance; it’s either too much of a bother to eat together as the table is too small to accommodate the four of us, or we are not present at the same time (my father proudly says he is on the clock 24/7). Then, the aspects of our lives that become unpredictable, uncontrollable, are precisely those moments that subtend work, office, paychecks, promotions: they are the building blocks of life as we know it.

Family time is radical.

There is no weekly Sunday dinner, and as such, every dinner together becomes relevant. A silence dwells here that allows for the unknown to erupt; we see a moment of familiar unfamiliarity; the teleology that work life promises becomes undone because of the danger of such moment—the danger of not-knowing, of being a family—of being together. What I have said so far illustrates the theme in the photos of my family members.

The photo that connects what I have said so far with the building material is titled “God.” The buildings that propel, consume and consume to propel the dreams of MNCs, the wolves of wall street, the CEOs, have their building blocks as well. There is “rubbish” and “waste” that is often forgotten about; these are often an “eyesore” for those that live in the neighborhood, but they are precisely where moments of the uncontrollable dwell. Here lies the question of life and death, as workers inhabit unsafe conditions to exponentially multiply the income of those that are to occupy the buildings after construction. I wanted to capture those moments of danger, excess, and suffocation.

These are pictures from a series that I call “Market Stories.” They offer a different version of Hong Kong, one that is located in the bustling, loud wet markets. These stories breach into the story that the cityscape tells. The pictures offer an uncontrollable narrative, a different one. A narrative that breaks into the alienated nature of lives of Hong Kong-ers. Alienated from one another. Alienated from ourselves.


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Aadityakrishna Sathish is a student at College of the Atlantic, Bar Harbor, ME. He is pursuing a B.A. in Human Ecology. He is from Hong Kong and India. His studies lie in the intersection of post-colonial studies, feminist theory, anthropology, philosophy, and performance. He addresses some of the question they pose through photography.

Olivia Cronk & Philip Sorenson

“All of the Meanwhiles”: Signal Intrusion, Time Travel, Abrasion, Rupture.


          Broadcast signal intrusions are rare. Only three have ever occurred in the United States. The first was in Florida. An HBO broadcast of The Falcon and the Snowman was intruded upon by a consumer complaint. Subscriptions, Captain Midnight announced, were too expensive: “Showtime/ Movie Channel Beware!” The second and third happened in 1987, two separate broadcast signal intrusions within hours, same town. The news on Chicago’s WGN. Then, WTTW’s Sunday night broadcast of Doctor Who. They have the quality of a threat, the paroxysms of a global crisis: capitalism’s death drive producing etchings of its own ruinous-ness. They appear disjointed, allusive, stupid, and eruptive. A kind of release, like gas or treasure, the old tie that binds entrails, hell, and gold. Or, pulled from the evening air, and wedged into a prior schedule. But not like commercials are. Commercials are always expected. But advertisements and intrusions share the quality of a superimposition. Here’s a starship; now we’re talking peanut butter. Intrusions are more like graffiti, a means to reassert presence and expression. “We” re-inscribe the signal to show that “we” “own” the signal. Or, does the interruption become “that text” that Barthes says “we write in our head when we look up”? A distraction from the text and a nullification of the text’s authority? Is a signal intrusion a brief moment where textual authority and hierarchies are subverted? Paroxysm, an unplanned knock, superimposition, re-inscription, nullification, and translation: they wear a mask of Max Headroom and translate a thing in transition, attempting, we think, to remake Max’s anti-capitalist “disguise” into its actual content; they intrude on a text, too, that is transitional: eras and planets, and faces that change even as the characters and situations remain. Dr. Who rewrites Holmes and Watson, which is itself a rewriting of Poe’s Dupin: a pile up of texts and allusions. Interruption and anachronism: time travel.

Max Headroom 1987 broadcast signal intrusion incident. This still is drawn from the Sunday night intrusion upon WTTW’s broadcast of Doctor Who.

          The pirating incident is a form of/ a text for modeling time travel in that it interrupts via pause, like the half-alien/ half-human Evie Ethel Garland from the syndicated television program Out of this World: a text from childhood, a thing that holds our attention, in part, because of its amazing enactment of fantasy. Evie touches her fingers together and time stops around her. This allows her to physically alter her space beneath others’ notice. She’s an agent inside the text who can interrupt the flow of time, but she can still act inside of the new time created by the interruption: the Max Headroom mask talks to the viewer from an impossible time (a space inside of stopped time)—isn’t this part of the terror generated by the event, too? And how unsettling would it be, in the paused moment, to not know where or how this document for insertion was created (did the pirates make a video—say, two weeks before—to simply lay down in the television-space they opened up? Or were viewers imagining themselves to be seeing something created live, as in: the pirates are directly transmitting the talking-mask for all the “newspaper . . . nerds”; they are doing this in our time?). The thrilling and upsetting delivery to our living rooms is of course still achieved, whether they do it in another time (pre-made video) or alongside of us (we were in our homes while they were in their storage space; we/ they were there all along).
          Spaces, viewpoints, and texts seem to insert or obtrude. In fact, looking up from the text is a rupture, a leakage of the private into public. But it’s not displeasing, nor necessarily penetrative. It can be touching. Barthes argues for textually received pleasure through “abrasion”: “the abrasions [we] impose upon the fine surface” of a text provide us with pleasure. But who is acting upon what here? If the pirates are doing the abrasion, they are asking us to join in. The medium simply demands it. Part of the interruption is defiance of expectation. We are in an intimate/ private exchange with the Dr. Who episode; we are alone or gathered round, but it is most commonly a domestic space. Then “Max Headroom” (a familiar head made unfamiliar, made uncanny?) comes in and violates the space. The pirates have abraded episode, and in doing so have delivered to us the (new) pleasure of a defiled surface. And because in our watching we are collaborators, we too are committing the abrasion. What pleasure is greater than this? We are—especially if we were originally viewers who thought the text to be “live”—inside of their theatrical, paused time. The abrasion is upon our living rooms; we’re in the show! The abrasion bridges, then, the BBC, the dying empire’s psychedelic time traveler TV show, the Chicago network and studio that airs it, the mask’s storage space, and our own lives: all of these spaces begin to touch. We are all folded into a private act (note that contemporary news coverage of the event labeled the spanking device a “marital aid”) leaked public or a public act leaked private; we’re bound by the abrasion, we’re linked in dead surveillance, we’re eyes on the abrasion that is emitted and that gathers us in its scarring force.



          Intrusions, and overwritten texts, are far more a feature of everyday experience than they were in 1987. Though, that period’s anxieties surrounding media’s negative dis-/ interruptive effects pervade its art. For example, we see dis-/ interruption re-imagined by Max Headroom’s fictional “blipverts.” Blipverts are thirty-second advertisements that have been condensed to three seconds, so viewer-consumers don’t notice them. There’s no intrusion. Viewers desire to have no “break” from programming. Of course, this innovation just disappears the field upon which the program has been set. The real foundation is the commercial; the viewer-consumer is placed into relation with that field: a brand. By making the advertisement invisible, the consumer has nothing to resist, is not confronted with the product. The loop becomes too small to see. The consumer has no “time to switch channels.” The blipverts in Max Headroom: 20 Minutes into the Future, though, are lethal. They cause some to explode, but only the most perpetual viewers: “The only people who are that inactive are pensioners, the sick, or the unemployed,” states one executive at Network 23, a dystopian transnational typical to the era’s cinema (e.g. Omni Consumer Products from RoboCop or Weyland-Yutani from Alien).
      However, near the program’s end, we see Blank Reg, the cyberpunk proprietor of Big Time TV, an underground network, watching as the truth of blipverts is revealed. Just before the network’s chief executive and chief scientist are forced to confess their crimes on live TV, Blank Reg switches channels. “What a load of bollocks,” he hisses before switching over to a broadcast of Max Headroom reciting his stale jokes. Even without the commercial “break,” the viewer has lost interest.

          Of course, the Internet is cacophonous. Signal intrusions like the interruption in 1987 now occur daily. They are tonally similar, similar in their alignment with absurdity, similar in their reliance on mimesis, similar in their anti-corporate (?) tendencies. They occur, though, not on one scale—the scale of broadcast television—but on an amorphous global/ micro scale. They gestate, or creep outward, or they explode and they make themselves always available for further reproductions, alterations, abrasions, superimpositions, translations, and intrusions. Think of the recent assassination in Ankara. Shocking images are disseminated across the Internet. They are immediately altered. Violence is turned into a set of “iconic” images, which are, in turn, immediately and at a small, though global, scale rendered into memes. You can comically manipulate the assassination with text, though typically with allusion: image-as-non-sequitur. Put Archer’s head on the assassin’s body. Put Freddy Mercury’s head on the assassin’s body. Put Left Shark’s head on, and on with endless fictional and nonfictional faces as masks. The absurd replaceable head as superimposition, as translation, as paroxysm, as sign for the broadcast signal intrusion.
And now the “program” is hand-held. The body carries the screen. When the pirate broke into the Sunday night show, he arrived in the home. The defacement/ abrasion-chain was made upon the screen-within-the-domestic-space (admittedly an often individualized arena, but one in which multiple persons can be/ are often assumed to be present). Now, though, an intrusion upon/ into/ revealed by a screen can often be assumed to be individual—the intrusion comes into/ onto your hand. It’s a Cronenberg movie. It’s the dystopia. It’s a chip placed into your skin without your consent. It’s the CIA watching you through your TV. It’s not that all.

          And what of the head as a tool for social control: biometrics, knowing, and individualization-aggregation for the reconstitution of people as information? Data. Closed borders. Ratings. The face becomes a site for inference, representation, and systemic control: who may enter, who may not, knowing each from each. Our real heads are real cages, as artist Zach Blas shows us in his Face Cages. Or as he demonstrates through Facial Weaponization Communiqué:
      Facial Weaponization Suite protests against biometric facial recognition–and the inequalities
      these technologies propagate–by making “collective masks” . . . from the aggregated facial data
      of participants, resulting in amorphous masks that cannot be detected as human faces by
      biometric facial recognition technologies.
Here, Blas obscures the specific face by transforming it into an aggregate face that resists the force of capture by using the very tools of capture. The face-as-floating-head constructed by state power and commercialization is undermined by more floating heads: full of glitches, opaque, unreadable, collective, and “faceless.” In other words, “We propose to make the face our weapon. . . . A face is like being armed.”
          What of Max, in the pilot, the series, and as an ad-man, who is pure thought, an image of a person’s brain remade as a glitchy identity, dodging away from the uncanny? He’s the promise of a robot: disembodied, geographic, virtual, data-composed, and “disruptive.” He’s an inaccurate image of a currently lived reality: Max is data, as we are the data that stick to our bodies and replace us. “I’m talking ratings,” furiously declares one Network 23 executive. Another replies, “And I’m talking people.” But of course, the first quickly retorts, they’re the “same thing.”



          Interruption and intrusion are different from disruption. To interrupt is to break between, to shoulder into an ongoing system, not to refabricate it (though remaking does happen); interruption shuts it down. Intrusion is a thrusting into; it’s linked to distraction, which is a pulling apart. Intrusion relates to invasion and usurpation. The 1987 intrusion is totally superimposed, like Deleuzian philosophical time (“all of the meanwhiles are superimposed on one another”); it’s spasmodic, and it translates a text that is itself already hopelessly transliterated. Most importantly, the masked and headless intruders got away with it, just like a mirror, which also always seems to “get away with it.”
          The signal intrusion is not merely inter-/ im- in nature; it is also a translation. Watching TV is a kind of reading. The signal intrusion is a translation. Watching a signal intrusion is a different kind of reading. We agree with conceptual writer and artist Tan Lin: “TV watching is not idle time. People philosophize [while] watching TV; the more TV people watch, the more philosophizing they do.” Lin says that channel surfing is a way to meditate. What does it mean, though, when the image shifts against your will, without your lucid pointing of your remote control (here is something, though, about the media in the hand) at your screen? But let’s repeat the sequence/ the circuit: reading, translation, signal intrusion, translation. What the translators “get away with” has to do with their headlessness/ facelessness in the act.
          In a discussion of Hannah Arendt’s The Life of the Mind, excerpted/ anthologized in Currently and Emotion (a text openly seeking instigation of disruption), poet Lisa Robertson writes of “the invisible place of reading” as examined by Arendt. “The activity of thinking is an unanswerable one.” & “Reading resists being seen.” Robertson makes what she says is an “unproblematic segue from thinking to reading because the two activities are . . . folded into one another.” The signal intrusion is a translation. Watching TV is a kind of reading/ thinking. In a discussion of Caroline Bergvall’s work (further on in Currently), poet Laura Goldstein writes that translation is “a constant act of the performance of reading, writing, and displaying language”; the unseen activities of reading and thinking are made seen. The signal intrusion translates Dr. Who. In that act, it makes visible its own thinking. And because of the nature of the medium and the fact of the abrasion, we’re asked, too, to serve as translators, but our co-translators are faceless. And, so, we’re left holding the bag, so to speak. The rupture seems, in a deeply terrifying way to us, to expose the viewer: as if someone installed cameras in your bedroom, your bathroom, or god forbid, right in front of your lifeless face, as you watch/ read the TV.
          A young woman interviewed in the news coverage of the event remarks, “I thought it would be just a slight mess up, but that, that in the middle of the tape, I’m going to have to tape over it.” She was making a record of her reading the TV, a kind of log. This taping of programs, especially in the old VHS mode, might be understood as a translating act, too; it certainly makes seen her viewing of the program. And then, for her, the intrusion spoils the record. The thing is marred, and she will be relegating the act again to the unseen when she erases via “taping over,” though we can assume a kind of buzzing palimpsest remains somewhere.



          Over and again, cinematic science fictions from this era, such as Max Headroom, project bleak futures: ultra violence, virtuality, crassness, and the decay of the commons: “We could go porno. Early.” However, these fictions are meant to 1. suggest a possible future and 2. offer a critique of current trends, in order to 3. resist or correct the social decay. Because they project dystopia forward while suggesting the contemporary root, these texts are “about” anxiety, which, Freud suggests, is just remade guilt. What do these creators and audience feel guilty about? The white authorities must know/ forget/ deny what they’ve done. They don’t want to talk about it. And here is a now/ future where snuff is on your satellite (Videodrome). And here is a future where a person is data, corporations function as governments, and the world drowns in blood (Robocop, etc., etc.). What does it mean that murders are now available on social media? That these images are soon saved and disseminated via YouTube? Has the future come to pass? No. The future was always here in the distant past of right now. The intruders’ broadcast, though, does not project forward. They are not showing “things to come.” They represent the now and the always has been. The intruders show us bad jokes, ridiculous sex, consumerism, spasm, threat. They aren’t selling anything. They’re the screen looking away from the screen. These aren’t satirists; this is anti-allegory. Anne Boyer: “Fed a pabulum of the very bad and told it is the only food, it is no wonder so many people fearfully covet the apocalypse.” The pirates offer, just as any apocalypse-text does, an escape hatch. But unlike, say, the more composed “pleasures” of Art Bell’s throaty voice over the radio or a think-piece on how children will no longer know what snow days are, this text simply arrives with its eyes on us and our eyes on it: it comments on surveillance without evaluation. It hoaxes. It cajoles. It provokes. Its emergence foretells the end. It comments on empire even as it is birthed by such.
          The broadcast signal intrusion is, at least in part, an intersection of multiple imaginaries. Think of what is being interrupted. While this is “public” broadcasting, a space that is ostensibly aligned with the common good against the degradation of public life, the ways in which such spaces are ultimately aligned with larger state and corporate forces need no real explanation here. The intruded upon episode of Dr. Who, “Horror at Fang Rock,” is a story of phobic invasion, modeled—another interleaf—on Lovecraft’s multiply derivative teratological representation of reactionary anxiety in “The Colour Out of Space.” Media and genres slide around, foamy and disassociated. It’s difficult not to imagine these different texts (intrusion and thing being intruded on) in conversation with each other, even though they are on different, yet colliding, platforms. It’s hard to find solid ground, to know the time. We see the start of the twentieth century as represented by 1977: i.e. the height of Imperial England just a month before Never Mind Bollocks, further disturbed by the narrative’s much broader lens, which includes cosmic time, anachronism, and allusion. Doctor Who is from the distant past as well as the distant future. But the sets and effects, the technology and usage, everything is of its period: it’s a mish-mosh. And here is a flat surface, a fortuneteller’s head in a carnival box, the mechanical hand passing to you the appropriately non-specific information.


Olivia Cronk is the author of Skin Horse (Action Books, 2012) and Louise and Louise and Louise (The Lettered Streets Press, 2016), and co-editor of The Journal Petra.

Philip Sorenson is the author of Of Embodies (Rescue Press, 2012) and Solar Trauma (Rescue Press, forthcoming), and co-editor of The Journal Petra.

Matt Schumacher


LOST IN THE DEQUINCEYEAN DREAM CITY

Amidst amethyst mists silvered with slivers of moon, our astute wanderer of districts of dubious repute parades us down alleyways where we’ll be waylaid. To back rooms whose labyrinthine hookahs billow so copiously with smoke you can hear chambered within them chimneysweeps’ echoing shouts for help. De Quinceyeans under the influence, pleasantly or torturously indisposed, breathe smoke, thick as clothes, smoke both market and theatre. Swipe an opiumpipe. Suckle the world of its inhalations like irresistible tentacles. Play and be played by the night, its night-blooming bassoon improvising the derangements of the mind. Please proceed past the province of complete pipe dream, whose abandoned buildings house the machinery of dreaming. Chase after fledgling hallucinations in the hatcheries of far-fetched reveries. Brave avenues where the multitudes of evil spirits who follow De Quincey flee his disfigured guardian angel.


REVERIE OF DE QUINCEY RELIEVING POLICE FROM THEIR DUTIES OVER A FIELD OF PAPAVER SOMNIFERIUM AT A RECENT DRUG BUST

I guess you’re here for the opium, blurts the suspect. A farmhouse spills delicate, paper-thin crimson from a dead end road in the foothills. Yet come and see De Quincey, small and shimmering man/hologram, shoo away authorities with a small spectral hand, arresting the scene, bruising dusk blue like Psilocybe Cubensis in lieu of his innumerable absences. See the police extinguished like last rays of vanishing daylight. Eavesdrop on the most notorious opium-eater in literary history left there to supervise 500 million dollars worth of opium poppies growing hidden behind honeylocusts. What can he do, what will he do, with the vast span of all of this contraban? O, the expression on his face—what a wild coalsecence, a concession stand of delight, wonder, and fright—it is priceless! There’s no sphinx speaking here of the burden of the incommunicable. As if a homeless drifter inherited a shapeshifting estate from a complete stranger. For the first time, the English Opium-eater glides the palatial stairs, trods their hidden grandeur, and rising on their spiral, fingers careful not to disturb the zebra swallowtail butterflies resting on their handrails, lets these banisters lead him through vast rooms the hue of cumulus adrift in cerulean heights, meadowsized antechambers which are truly scarlet blooms…



DE QUINCEYEAN SCENES POISON THE AMERICAN DREAM

De Quincey must play many roles in opium’s postmodern one-man show. Unlike a politician, he speaks firsthand to addicts on the street. Everyone I know is on heroin–he quotes an Ohioan, an addicted mother of three. A third of the U.S.—someone you know—gets destroyed daily on opiods, states his resulting article. And you really must see the English opium-eater as shakyhanded teen, codeine fiend with slurred speech beseeching drug dealers on the streets because he resembles your own child, at least what he’d look like were he homeless and missing. De Quincey as a paramedic injecting narcan into an 11-year-old girl who overdosed. De Quincey as a mule for an Ashtabula county pill mill. As an activist carrying a sign which says: NO MORE DRUG WAR! 36 billion a year and a pandemic! As a policeman paid off by the Taliban, protecting an Afghani opium field with an AK-47. De Quincey as a marketer for a drug campaign, making bank, coyly downplaying addiction in favor of relief from chronic pain. As a judge with no training at all in pharmaceuticals or recovery, prescribing Vivitrol. As an Insys executive who forsakes last stage cancer patients to rake in billions, laughing with another executive in a restroom, while the punchline echoes: fentanyl sells! De Quincey driving a hearse carrying away the bodies of the young from what once were their homes. As a bystander wondering what the fuck is wrong with this country this makes absolutely no sense. Thinking someone sure kicked the living shit out of that white picket fence.



DE QUINCEY DIED BEFORE THE MODERN WAR ON DRUGS

Opium! dread agent of unimaginable pleasure and pain! I had heard of it as I had of manna or of Ambrosia, but no further: how unmeaning a sound was it at that time! what solemn chords does it now strike upon my heart! what heart-quaking vibrations of sad and happy remembrances!
–De Quincey, Confessions

De Quincey died in 1859. He never had his front door smithereened by a SWAT team. Never was tased or pepper-sprayed. Never was sentenced like a young black male facing an all-white jury, locked up for life in Oklahoma for trafficking three ounces of crack cocaine. Never watched the white judge recite his sentence, or heard the state really say, We could arrest their leaders. raid their homes, break up their meetings, and vilify them night after night on the evening news. Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did. De Quincey wasn’t sickened by prison’s fetid, stale air, the click of locking metal doors. The silence when a penitentiary replaces nights filled with stars. Despite his Orientalist nightmares, he was no scapegoat in Saydnaya. He never fled edicts to kill every drug addict. He never had to meet Philippine vigilantes. Men dismembering and indiscriminately killing children. The state’s greatest hope would be to execute the Opium-Eater without trial, pin on him an incriminating sign advertising his use or sale of drugs, and leave him for all to see, dying in the street. A bloodstained example of what not to be.



A CHRISTMAS WITH THOMAS DE QUINCEY

On a hot July day, De Quincey, high on bath salts, breaks in and decorates a random family home for Christmas. The police break in, too, and find fault, arresting the pale, emaciated poet just when he’s placing the star atop the tree. He’s frisked, booked, and charged with B and E. But wait, the police say… Look at these Christmas lights, this tinsel and these snowglobes! Let no one say this Mr. De Quincey lacks style! Somewhere that damned dandy, Lord Byron, somersaults in his grave, wishing he could be this extravagant, this wild. Then the police become wooden mannequins. They’re merely props that drop through a trapdoor. And Santa Claus—I mean the real Santa Claus—replaces them, ambling in, taking De Quincey’s hand. So saileth away De Quincey in the famed sleigh, into a summer night that drinks the reindeer trail, the galaxy of blinking lights that accompany the siren.



Matt Schumacher, managing editor of the New Fabulist journal, Phantom Drift, lives in Portland, Oregon. His recent poetry collections include Ghost Town Odes and a chapbook of fantastical drinking songs, favorite maritime drinking songs of the miraculous alcoholics.

Christine Stoddard





Christine Stoddard is a writer, artist, and founding Quail Bell Magazine editor. Her work has appeared in the Queens Museum, the Condé Nast Building, the New York Transit Museum, and beyond.

Florence Sunnen




Florence Sunnen is a collagist and short story writer from Luxembourg City. She spent five years as a postgraduate at the University of Warwick, where she recently completed an MFA project. Her work draws from her multilingual upbringing, and searches for a middle ground between creative writing and philosophy. Currently, her favourite poet is Claudine Toutoungi. Florence’s work has appeared in Datableed and The Learned Pig. She lives in Coventry, UK.

THE MUTABILITY ISSUE

ago Mutability Issue

intro

Night by night, I find myself a little more or a little less mutable.
Now now. Pause. The outside melts on the inside.
A poem based on movements and migrations of people across borders.
Trajectories, diseases, and dance language.
The rain ciphers. Rituals morph.
Bodies might become nebulae or verses, and notes.

You will find all these mutations, their moments, phases, imprints, sensations, and nuances to the brilliant works of Louisa Doloksa, David Felix, Amy McCauley, John Morgan, Maria Petrides, Lauren Samblanet, Erica Schreiner, Shakeema Smalls, and Jenny Wu. Many thanks for making this fascinating issue on Mutability.

Enjoy!

Dimitra Ioannou

LOUISA DOLOKSA

On Superpowers and Beautiful Women

Question: If you could have any superpower, what would you choose?

Answer: I wish I could transform myself into a beautiful woman. I would like to know what it feels like to walk through life with the certainty of beauty, the certainty of womanhood. I would then live a year of my life as a beautiful woman. I would shine bright, seduce and destroy and I would be loved, because I would be a beautiful woman. After a year, I would return to myself, and only think about having been a beautiful woman from time to time. The thing I am, the comfort I take in its excess and lack, is not worth sacrificing, for the sake of a beautiful woman. Still, I wonder, what life would be like for a year as a beautiful woman.

Answer: If I could have two superpowers, I would turn back time and relive select incidents, or even my whole life as a beautiful woman. Take careful notes. Before I turned back time and relived my life as a beautiful woman, I would have taken careful notes too. I suppose , I would turn back time, relive my life, take careful notes up until my decision to relive my life as a beautiful woman, then turn back time and relive my life as a beautiful woman, all the while taking notes. Would I still take notes as a beautiful woman? Do beautiful women take meticulous notes, do they have the time, do they have the strength, the patience for meticulous notes in the midst of the world’s constant demand for their beauty?

Answer: If I could have three superpowers, I would turn back time and relive my whole life as a beautiful woman who could ward off people’s desire with one hand, spin it with the other, and take notes with the other. Then I would compare notes. I would then like to meet someone who also has superpowers. Someone with the ability to transform me into a rather small, invisible nebula. I would enjoy spending eternity, eternally combusting amidst the charred pages of my notes, visible only to myself and through reflection, but capable of sound, particularly of meaningful whispers. I would whisper my observations to others who like I once was, would not be a beautiful woman. I would take every step to assure them that they are not going crazy before I told them my observations. I would introduce them to the right people. I would soon have company, maybe even lovers. We would all compare notes. If we had fingers, they would have been sooty, from exchanging each other’s charred, meticulous notes. If we had bodies, they would have been sooty, from rolling around, and biting, and scratching and licking and sucking and pulling and lightly caressing each other, on a bed of our compared, charred, meticulous notes. That we had once lived our lives as beautiful women, will matter much less than that we have lived our lives not as beautiful women.

Thank you for your questions.



Louisa Doloksa is a bowel artist, poetess and performative fattie. She enjoys talking about her empathy related bowel issues, her emotions, and the political experience of fat femininities.

DAVID FELIX

Phylum




Bell rung




Ampersand





David Felix is an English visual poet who lives in Denmark. For fifty years or so his writing has taken on a variety of forms, in collage, three dimensions, in galleries, festival performances and video and in over thirty publications worldwide, both print and online. Born into a family of artists, magicians and tailors he still maintains a professional working relationship with a life model, the materializing lady and a fitting assistant.