aglimpseof 13 . THE JOURNAL OF MULTIPLE I’S

FROM “THE JOURNAL OF MULTIPLE I’S” TO “THE WILD GROWTH INTO ITSELF.”

MARCH-JUNE 2013

aglimpseof 13’s primary source text is the Journal of Multiple I’s , a collage text made of poems, tweets, articles and journals by poets, writers and sound artists, and also some artworks by visual artists and performers. In order of appearance (starting from wed_09) they are: Antonin Artaud, Julia Cohen, Eve Couturier, Julia Chiang, Kathy Acker, Gertrude Stein, Nicole Brossard, xTx, Susan Sontag, David Jhave Johnston, Luna Miguel, Amy Gerstler, Claire Fontaine, Akasegawa Genpei, Derek Mong, Hiromi Itō, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Ashley Obscura. Please click SOURCES for detailed information about each entry of the Journal. There are some disparate phrases too.

SOURCE TEXT I: The Journal Of Multiple I’s edited by Dimitra Ioannou

CONTENTS:

· the poem Multiplicity by Matina L. Stamatakis is linked to the words “The journal of multiple I’s.”

· the artwork TEXTiLE by Matina L. Stamatakis is linked to the words “The journal of multiple I’s.”

· the digital drawing What? by Michalis Zacharias is linked to the words “private 
rituals.”

· the artwork Contemplation by Amalia Vekri is linked to the words “blueberry,” “owls,” and “time.”

· the artwork Taking Ariel For Granted by Nana Sachini is linked to the words “I prefer my graves to be metaphorical.”

· the artwork Reader Without Book by Asako Masunouchi is linked to the words “Reader without book.”

· the prose poem People Staring at Menus by Amanda Ackerman is linked to the words “sterilization, “seawater,” “people are well disciplined from.”

· the photo The Way Out by Aris Michalopoulos is linked to the words “The way out.”

· the prose poem In Pursuit of a Bird by Yoko Danno is linked to the words “owls,” “brain.”

· the prose poem fri-01 by Sophie Mayer is linked to the words “Why I despise my self so in my dreams? I fear I have never used my body. (My dreams tell me…).”

· the prose poem See What It’s Like In The Morning by Ed Garland is linked to the words “I devoured a bird,” “there is no ‘me’ to speak of.”

· the photograph The Ocean Neither Rises nor Falls by Panayiotis Lamprou is linked to the words “the οcean neither rises nor falls.”

· the drawing and text Leviathan by Victoria Deliyianni is linked to the word “flesh.”

· the artwork Dimitris Ioannou by Dimitris Ioannou is linked to the words “The rainbow in the brain.”

SOURCE TEXT II: The poem “Multiplicity” by Matina L. Stamatakis.

CONTENT:

· the photograph To Do With Wild Growth Into Itself by Brett Skarbakka is linked to the words “To do with wild growth into itself.”

THE JOURNAL OF MULTIPLE I’ S

fri_04 

private rituals
quasi-diaphanous

wed_09 

All things touch me only insofar as they affect my flesh, insofar as they coincide with it, and only at that point where they arouse my flesh, not beyond.

The pie in my face, still blueberry
I think.

thu_17

I prefer my graves to be metaphorical.

fri_18

I saw

a menu with plat du jour suggestions of banalities: memory loss, stutter on selected words, sentence minced so fine it has neither beginning nor end, punctuation of digitized effects, random phenomena, it isn’t whom or what I think I see, reference points slipping away, anonymous role, de-indentification, de-territorialization, or try it with this spelling: “sterilization,” arm pull-ups without a gym bar, mono-color blue flat screen without signal, bodies crawling along a rail, to live happy, let’s live hidden, virtual line, mythomania in the world of references, slipping lies, two hands saying: I’m coming, wait, don’t move, I’ll be right back, reader without a book, flat voices, no sequential chronology, entryways and multiple exits included.

mon_21

Julia Chiang, The Way Out, 2012. Eric Firestone Gallery.
Julia Chiang, The Way Out, 2012. Eric Firestone Gallery.

wed_23

I want to return to my birth.
There is no such thing.
I want to return to my birth.
.a birthday was added..

fri_25

It’s late. Imagine imagination like a mother tongue that has just had its first orgasm.
Unnerving, isn’t it?

Owls screech in my throat.

tue_29

Yesterday I Cut Myself With Blood and Watched It Leave My Body and All I Could Do Is Agree

Let go.
Let go.
Let.
Really go.

fri_01

Why do I despise myself so in my dreams?
I fear I have never used my body. (My dreams tell me…)

tue_05

i try to live my life as if anyone cld read my inbox, steal my phone, hack my server, read my bookmarks, have my job & maybe take my life.

wed_06 

Dream

I dreamt that I caught
flying sparrows.

Pressed
their little round bellies
with an index finger.

Scratched
their gray legs
to clean off the sand.

I devoured a bird
on its last song.

On its last attempt
to fly,

it caressed my stomach.

sat_09

I’m a festival of cells.

sun_10

Claire Fontaine, Gather In Multiple Groups, 2011. Metro Pictures.
Claire Fontaine, Gather In Multiple Groups, 2011. Metro Pictures.

sun_17

In the depths of night
So as not to be suspected by anyone
With a scalpel, one by one
Under the swimming beach’s shower
Careful not to do them any harm
I cut off the cells of my body.
My consciousness evaporated bit by bit
And the ocean expressionlessly welcomes in
The little seawater that runs off.
Even with me added to the ocean
The ocean neither rises nor falls.
And I am in there, but
There is no ‘me’ to speak of.
I wonder if you understand.
I am in there, but
There is no ‘me’ to speak of.

But I was just a bit mistaken.

The error of
A too proper
Illiterate virgin.
With too careful preparation
I chose night
And so my becoming seawater and joining with the ocean
Was suspected by no one.
Humans are well disciplined from the time of birth,
Are busy growing up, so
Only while swimming in the sea, is there an ocean.
I mistook the other’s flesh.

Flesh prefers the ocean to humans.

thu_21

SOMA

The Somatosensory Cortex.

The sound of teeth rubbing together: “nerves.”

sat_23

I began to discover the names of things, that is not discover the names but discover the things the things to see the things to look at and in doing so I had of course to name them not to give them new names but to see that I could find out how to know that they were there by their names or by replacing their names. And how was I to do so. They had their names and naturally I called them by the names they had and in doing so having begun looking at them I called them by their names with passion and that made poetry.

sun_24

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Mot Caché, 1978.

tue_26

I would like to quietly make love to the sun. Trade in all thought for luminosity. Dip my tired little self into void at the center of time.

kisses like bullets, soap-flavored kisses, kisses from lips that feel like wet calf’s- brains.

on the clit of the galactic pussy.

The rainbow in the brain.

Color-breathing.

MULTIPLICITY

by Matina L. Stamatakis

To do with wild growth into itself:

them or all of them or just the rest of its bits

─ never waver into the abyss of dandelion yellow

or some grandiose landscape mosaic.

A small square, or rhombus, completely incomplete.

As duration,

moving space across one’s belly. From aliases,

no promise to keep the miles between

one I or the other ─            we have swelled in forever,

are variable

in our depths.

WORDS-LINKS: THE JOURNAL OF MULTIPLE I’ S

TO DO WITH WILD GROWTH INTO ITSELF . ΑΦΟΡΑ ΤΗΝ ΑΓΡΙΑ ΑΝΑΠΤΥΞΗ ΜΕΣΑ ΤΗΣ

by Brett Skarbakka

BrettSkarbakkaTo do with wild growth into itself

WORDS-LINKS: TO DO WITH WILD GROWTH INTO ITSELF
ΛΕΞΕΙΣ-ΣΥΝΔΕΣΜΟΙ: ΑΦΟΡΑ ΤΗΝ ΑΓΡΙΑ ΑΝΑΠΤΥΞΗ ΜΕΣΑ ΤΗΣ

ΝΟΤΕ

TEXTiLE

by Matina L. Stamatakis

MatinaLStamatakisTEXTiLE

ΛEΞEIΣ-ΣYNΔEΣMOI: TO HMEPOΛOΓIO TΩN ΠOΛΛAΠΛΩN EΓΩ
WORDS-LINKS: THE JOURNAL OF MULTIPLIE I’S

WHAT?

του Mιχάλη Zαχαρία / by Michalis Zacharias

MZahariasWhat

Λέξεις-σύνδεσμοι: ΙΔΙΩΤΙΚΕΣ ΤΕΛΕΤΟΥΡΓΙΕΣ
Words-links: PRIVATE RITUALS

CONTEMPLATION

της Aμαλίας Bεκρή / by Amalia Vekri

AmaliaVekriContemplation

ΛEΞEIΣ-ΣYNΔEΣMOI: BATOMOYPO, KOYKOYBAΓIEΣ, XPONOΣ

WORDS-LINKS: BLUEBERRY, OWLS, TIME

TAKING ARIEL FOR GRANTED

της Νάνας Σαχίνη / by Nana Sachini

NanaSachiniGraves

λέξεις-σύνδεσμοι: ΠΡΟΤΙΜΩ ΟΙ ΤΑΦΟΙ ΜΟΥ ΝΑ ΕΙΝΑΙ ΜΕΤΑΦΟΡΙΚΟΙ.

words-links: I PREFER MY GRAVES TO BE METAPHORICAL.

RAISON D’ ÊTRE

by Asako Masunouchi

AMasunouchiRAISON DETRE

ΛΕΞΕΙΣ-ΣΥΝΔΕΣΜΟΙ: ΑΝΑΓΝΩΣΤΗΣ ΧΩΡΙΣ ΒΙΒΛΙΟ

WORDS-LINKS: READER WITHOUT BOOK

THE WAY OUT

του Άρη Μιχαλόπουλου . by Aris Michalopoulos

AMichalopoulosWayOut

λέξεις-σύνδεσμοι: THE WAY OUT

words-links: THE WAY OUT

IN PURSUIT OF A BIRD

by Yoko Danno

I am in my brain,
You are in your brain.
You are in my brain,
I am in your brain.

I feel that time flies faster than ever. Because I digest food more slowly lately? Or am I already traveling around another sun, or another moon? I hope the orbit of my thoughts can be traced more precisely and the geography in my brain explored more in detail. Ethereal fragments of consciousness, along with earthbound urges, should be eventually put together into a meaningful whole. Is there a mastermind behind all of this mysterious integrating process?

I sent a letter to my friend with a wrong address. I didn’t know he had moved. Someone told me he has gone in search of a bird. Where?

In pursuit of the swan, he arrived at the land of Harima by way of Ki, then crossing Inaba he came to Taniha and to Tajima. He followed the bird east-ward to the land of Chika-tsu-Aumi, crossed Mino, chased it through Wohari, past Shinano, and finally in the land of Koshi spread a net at a river mouth…*

The man in the topic was instructed that if he found the bird, the child—an emperor’s son who was unable to speak—would be able to speak. But is it possible, at the present time, to wander over the Japan Island of the 8th century? Let alone to find the bird? I’m told ‘past’ is a mirage, ‘future’ a phantom, and ‘now’ becomes ‘past’ from instant to instant—a flower never stays the same. But then what is the present time exactly? If there’s no ‘now,’ we live only in ‘past’? If so, no wonder he has gone looking for the bird into ‘past’…by the way, I sprained my neck while I was asleep last night.

Ki lies in the Ki Peninsular facing the Pacific Ocean. I once visited there on a school excursion when I was a child. Harima, far down south of Inaba, is the birthplace of my grandmother. Carried in a palanquin, crossing mountains, she married into a sake-brewing family in Taniha, my ancestors’ place. In Aumi is Lake Biwa, home to multiple birds. In Mino cormorants are nurtured to fish for humans. In Wohari I lived with my family for two years. Koshi is present-day Hokuriku, northwesterly coastal area. On my way to Shinano on a sightseeing trip I looked out over the raging Japan Sea through a train window. What has he been doing all the while? Where on earth has he flown to?—the one to whom I sent a letter, I mean.

My letter must be carried around in a postman’s bag in search of his whereabouts. I hope it won’t be abandoned in a box of ‘undelivered mail’ at a post office, since I forgot to write my return address on the envelope. My fatal fault. Once lost, a letter will never be delivered. I may not know whether he has actually caught the bird or not, although I desperately wish to know.

I have recently lost my voice, caused not by a laryngeal cancer, but from hypertension—I need to perform magic in front of old people in a nursing home. Most of the audience is suffering from dementia, but I am warned they are strangely quick-eyed in seeing through tricks. It is rumored they are trained nightly by particular owls to see through the darkness. If only I could regain my voice, I might distract their attention by my mumbo jumbo.

I wonder, however, if we should always expect replies to our letters. Emily Dickinson wisely stored in her small casket the letters to her ‘Master,’ which has kept the world in perpetual suspense and contemplation. Thinking I might perhaps have forgotten to mail my letter, I rummaged all drawers of my desk and cabinet—in vain. There’s no doubt that I posted it—the letter is in my brain.

*Excerpt from “Kojiki” (trans. by Danno), the oldest collection of songs and stories concerning the founding of Japan and the beginnings of Japanese culture, compiled in the 8th century.

fri_01

by Sophie Mayer

(On waking from a dream of [Hannibal Lecter] my father)

*

When the cops ask me what had been stolen, I say: “Everything.”

Dining room table, chairs, sofa, armchair, coffee table, TV.

(Spine, hips, kneecaps, liver, kidney, eyes).

Boneless, I ragdoll to the floor. Her head wedged in a tight corner, too-heavy pumpkinhead. Fridge. Washing machine. Beds. Wardrobe. Books.

(Skull)

(Belly)

(Breasts)

(Ribs)

(Lungs)

I can’t breathe. I tell the cops, “I can’t breathe.” They took my lungsspineentrails.

Kitchen (skin) table. Storage (blood) heaters. Kettle.

Heart.

*

Why do I despise myself so in my dreams?

*

(dead. time. memory)

*

The house is like a doll’s house, cut in half for show. Anyone could reach in and touch. It’s a cavity, like in the game Operations, its organs (bright, plasticky) scattered after some implacable sacrifice. And it’s wired. Tiny shocks run through her as she touches carpet that has forgotten it’s carpet. Carpet with its stuffing knocked out of it. Her fingers rest in the chair-leg hollows and feel at home. Feel useful, like a filling. Feel familiar: she knows her own hollows. Shocks anyone who touches them. Drop the organs back in (plop, plop) with a buzz and a sting. It’s inside out, pecked at by ravens down to clean bones.

*

(I fear I have never used my body, or notes on reading Judith Herman, Trauma & Recovery)

*

She can breathe but breath is tears, is torn from her cavity in blue waves that set the hairs on her arms alight.

(Arms return.)

She presses her face into her forearms until

(eyes return)

her eyeballs spring back beneath their lids.

She is a pressure system, tectonic plates, something huge and roaring.

(Lungs return.)

Roaring into silence, roaring silently, don’t scare the neighbours. Rawing her hot face

(blood returns).

She drags her toes

(feet return)

on the fitted carpet, kicking up sparks, presses her elbows into her ribs until the glass globe shatters and she’s inside, she’s up to her elbows

(organs return)

in hot guts and stuffing. She’s ten little piggies. She’s

(bladder returns)

running wee-wee-wee all the way home.

She’s jubilant, she’s a Christmas tree festooned with innards and eyeballs, with sanded white patellas and vertebrae, a biology textbook cut-up and coloured in by a sugar-crazy five year old. She’s this red blood cell and that neuron. Really, she’s that tiny in the doll’s house of her blood. Really. She’d stay here forever.

*

(A/wake)

A shipwrecked cathedral of spars and sunlight, a few not only leafless, a cabin returning its timbers to forest, a greenhouse where the glass has turned to back to sand, an exhalation from a cave where there is nothing but prehistoric bones.

And

gone.

WORDS-LINKS: FRI_01
WHY I DESPISE MYSELF SO IN MY DREAMS?
I FEAR I HAVE NEVER USED MY BODY. (MY DREAMS TELL ME…)

SEE WHAT IT’S LIKE IN THE MORNING

by Ed Garland

Water is perfect and toast isn’t too bad and I actually quite like being hungry. I read that somewhere: “I actually quite like being hungry”. A food writer wrote it one Sunday or I was hallucinating. I’ve been saying it to all the parts of myself to see if any of them will take it up as a mantra.

More than I want to eat I want an email to arrive with a hoped-for response to a long-ago request. Doesn’t matter which one of the plenty it is. My hopes rest on everything. They’re large, there’s nowhere else they could go. After the water there’s coffee if I’m lucky, which I am, so there is. The unlucky me would disagree, but I’m not listening and wouldn’t listen and haven’t got where I am today by listening, it gives you tinnitus. My stomach shrugs like it’s not my friend. If I could only change one thing about my life, I probably wouldn’t bother. One year, I thought I was becoming something.

WORDS-LINKS: I devoured a bird / There is no “me” to speak of

PEOPLE STARING AT MENUS

by Amanda Ackerman

Oh my dear ones: the snow in the underwater city.  The snow, formed from seawater, the way it fell on the coral beds.  We shoveled the water.  You should have seen it because I cannot describe it.  Even if I were to tell you the story it would not matter because we live when all stories compete with each other for dominance and attention.   We live when all jobs are as tedious and repetitious as all other jobs despite differences in earnings and position.  They lured us out of the underwater city with promises of food and work.  Powerful incentives.  I did not want to leave but you are in trouble if you cannot function in the present day even if you are asked to give up too much.  Blood.  Culture.  Genealogy.  Beliefs.  Snow made of seawater falling on a “shifting mosaic” of corals and sea plants.  In the underwater city we played instruments resembling harps and clapper sticks.  I promised I would not describe this.  Now I am very conscious of myself as a person and see myself as that principally. We began to divide our time between land and sea.  We stopped using our bodies the way they were meant.   The sea beds were erupting crags the plumes of see-through jellyfish: no I promised I wouldn’t.  There is always the story of how we came to reside in this particular place.  Of course we split.  It was like scraping cells out of one’s own body.  It became impossible to get to the beach to fish.  After a day of regulated repetitive work we would order takeout and go down to the river to eat it.  I did not mind being hungry.   Actually I kind of liked it.  Feuding, trespassing, poaching, warring.  There were new settlements.   I never divorced her: she simply disappeared.  We wouldn’t have qualified for a divorce anyways with these new laws.  To justify a divorce a woman needed to be barren or an adulterer and a man had to be abusive or fail to support his family.   I became a craftsman.  I joined a guild.  Nature is cruel.  We can’t be too romantic about nature.  But I did believe there was a moral order to the universe.  If there are two conflicting stories – you have to find the balance between them.  Better to survive in the world.  Better to survive even in these new emerging economies.  Better to learn how to speak the language so we can tell you.  I became a food writer.  I liked to preview a menu in advance.  I didn’t like surprises.  We lived in a time when we could look anything up.  Just the other day I needed to know what “samphire” is [it’s a salty tasting garnish usually growing along the British coast].  This is a story that has multiplied thousands of times over the past century.  More billowing proclamations.  The sun went down – and on this particular evening I decided to walk home from work instead take the rail.  Had I become ugly?  Had it been too long since anyone told me I wasn’t?  Was that it for me?

WORDS-LINKS: STERILIZATION,

HUMANS ARE WELL DISCIPLINED FROM,

SEAWATER

Ο ΩΚΕΑΝΟΣ ΟΥΤΕ ΥΨΩΝΕΤΑΙ, ΟΥΤΕ ΥΠΟΧΩΡΕΙ . THE OCEAN NEITHER RISES NOR FALLS

του Παναγιώτη Λάμπρου  .  by Panayiotis Lamprou

PLAMPROU THE OCEAN NEITHER RISES NOR FALLS

ΛΕΞΕΙΣ-ΣΥΝΔΕΣΜΟΙ: Ο ΩΚΕΑΝΟΣ ΟΥΤΕ ΥΨΩΝΕΤΑΙ, ΟΥΤΕ ΥΠΟΧΩΡΕΙ

WORDS-LINKS: THE OCEAN NEITHER RISES NOR FALLS

LEVIATHAN

by Victoria Deliyianni

VDeliyianniLeviathan

Leviathan

You are a ruthless bitch. You are a child.

I am not a child! Well, maybe I am both a child and a woman at the same time…
And whatever else I ephemerally wish, claiming the carefree and calm moments of everyday life.
A Whale, a Snake, a Crocodile, a Dragon, a Biblical Dinosaur.
God created me to frolic in the sea.

Lies… God originally produced two of us. A male and a female.
Fearless and unbeatable Creatures, unrivaled in grace, form and motion.
Fearing that the multiplication of our breed would threaten His creation He destroyed one of us.

Me? He granted me immortality to soothe the pain for the loss of my partner.
What helps immortality, If it isn’t protection from the misery of the routine?
The last three hours of the day, God comes and plays with me, probably from misplaced guilt, until the Judgment Day.
Then Archangel Gabriel will finally redeem me, by killing me.
My flesh will feed all righteous believers… (though doomed, in my opinion) and my shining, scaly skin will become their shelter.

I was however created as selfish, hedonistic and opportunistic…
Eventually, will I ever pull through?

My charms cannot be missed. But to wash, to nourish and subsist myself to remain beautiful and unique for you fatigues me.
Male gazes still flatter me but I cannot bear them any more.
For you I will never be enough, never so radiant, ever so perfect.
Neither for me too?

Please, open your eyes to look inside the hundred eyes of mine.
Twinkling within like the rays of dawn.
Cause I might be something else now, and now… now again.
And you. And me. And us.

I desire to remain a child.
I long to grow into a granny.

Can you tame me, make a pet of me, put me on a leash for your priceless daughters?
I am not the intestinal sewer pipe you thought.
I don’t turn violent to “protect” us.

You are my selfless sweetheart.

Once now we have become three.
Do you want to make an agreement, the two of us – for you?
Would you like to enslave me for life?

Markos Vamvakaris, Bitch…

DIMITRIS IOANNOU

by Dimitris Ioannou

DIoannouRainbowMindEN

WORDS-LINKS: THE RAINBOW IN THE BRAIN