aglimpseof 07 . WHAT HAPPENED?

FROM “POISON” TO “CAKE”

FEBRUARY-MARCH 2011

SOURCE TEXT I: What Happened, A Play by Gertrude Stein.

CONTENTS:

• The sound piece Poison by Irini Karayannopoulou is linked to the word “poison”

• The sound piece Silence Is Very Expensive by Irini Karayannopoulou is linked to the word “silence”

• The photo 9,5-11m. by D.Ι. (Dimitra Ioannou) is linked to the word “length”

• The prose text Cake After Cake After Cake by Antonis Katsouris is linked to the word “cake”

• The visual poem Origins by John Morgan is linked to the words “graciousness,” “bath.” | published on February 8, 2015.

SOURCE TEXT II: by Antonis Katsouris

CONTENT:

• The acronym poem Desire by D. I. (Dimitra Ioannou) is linked to the word “desire”

A play, what is a play, a play is a text which denies itself the role of the play. It reads like fiction, conventional characters are missing, and there is no plot. A play about what happened, according to Gertrude Stein, is a play about “the essence of what happened.” In Lectures In America, Stein explains:
“And so all of a sudden I began to write plays. I remember very well the first one I wrote. I called it, What Happened, A Play, it is in Geography and Plays as are all the plays I wrote at that time. … I had just come home from a pleasant dinner party and I realized then as anybody can know that something is always happening. Something is always happening, anybody knows a quantity of stories of people’s lives that are always happening, there are always plenty for the newspapers and there are always plenty in private life. Everybody knows so many stories and what is the use of telling another story. …  So naturally what I wanted to do in my play was what everybody did not always know or always tell. By everybody I do of course include myself but always I do of course include myself. And so I wrote, What Happened, A Play.”aglimpseof 07 republishes What Happened, A Play from the book Geography and Plays (1922).

What Happened, A Play by Gertrude Stein

ACT I

(One.)
Loud and no cataract. Not any nuisance is depressing.

(Five.)
A single sum four and five together and one, not any sun a clear signal and an exchange.
Silence is in blessing and chasing and coincidences being ripe. A simple melancholy clearly precious and on the surface and surrounded and mixed strangely. A vegetable window and clearly most clearly an exchange in parts and complete.
A tiger a rapt and surrounded overcoat securely arranged with spots old enough to be thought useful and witty quite witty in a secret and in a blinding flurry.
Length what is length when silence is so windowful. What is the use of a sore if there is no joint and no toady and no tag and not even an eraser. What is the commonest exchange between more laughing and most. Carelessness is carelessness and a cake well a cake is a powder, it is very likely to be powder, it is very likely to be much worse.
A shutter and only shutter and Christmas, quite Christmas, an only shutter and a target a whole color in every centre and shooting real shooting and what can hear, that can hear that which makes such an establishment provided with what is provisionary.

(Two.)
Urgent action is not in graciousness it is not in clocks it is not in water wheels. It is the same so essentially, it is a worry a real worry.
A silence a whole waste of a desert spoon, a whole waste of any little shaving, a whole waste altogether open.

(Two.)
Paralysis why is paralysis a syllable why is it not more lively.
A special sense a very special sense is ludicrous.

(Three.)
Suggesting a sage brush with a turkey and also something abominable is not the only pain there is in so much provoking. There is even more.
To begin a lecture is a strange way of taking dirty apple blossoms and is there more use in water, certainly there is if there is going to be fishing, enough water would make desert and even prunes, it would make nothing throw any shade because after all is there not more practical humor in a series of photographs and also in a treacherous sculpture.
Any hurry any little hurry has so much subsistence, it has and choosing, it has.

ACT II

(Three.)
Four and nobody wounded, five and nobody flourishing, six and nobody talkative, eight and nobody sensible.
One and a left hand lift that is so heavy that there is no way of pronouncing perfectly.
A point of accuracy, a point of a strange stove, a point that is so sober that the reason left is all the chance of swelling.

(The same three.)
A wide oak a wide enough oak, a very wide cake, a lightning cooky, a single wide open and exchanged box filled with the same little sac that shines.
The best the only better and more left footed stranger.
The very kindness there is in all lemons oranges apples pears and potatoes.

(The same three.)
A same frame a sadder portal, a singular gate and a bracketed mischance.
A rich market where there is no memory of more moon than there is everywhere and yet where strangely there is apparel and a whole set.
A connection, a clam cup connection, a survey, a ticket and a return to laying over.

ACT III

(Two.)
A cut, a cut is not a slice, what is the occasion for representing a cut and a slice. What is the occasion for all that.
A cut is a slice, a cut is the same slice. The reason that a cut is a slice is that if there is no hurry any time is just as useful.

(Four.)
A cut and a slice is there any question when a cut and a slice are just the same.
A cut and a slice has no particular exchange it has such a strange exception to all that which is different.
A cut and only slice, only a cut and only a slice, the remains of a taste may remain and tasting is accurate.
A cut and an occasion, a slice and a substitute a single hurry and a circumstance that shows that, all this is so reasonable when every thing is clear.

(One)
All alone with the best reception, all alone with more than the best reception, all alone with a paragraph and something that is worth something, worth almost anything, worth the best example there is of a little occasional archbishop. This which is so clean is precious little when there is no bath water. A long time a very long time there is no use in an obstacle that is original and has a source.

ACT IV

(Four and four more)
A birthday, what is a birthday, a birthday is a speech, it is a second time when there is tobacco, it is only one time when there is poison. It is more than one time when the occasion which shows an occasional sharp separation is unanimous.
A blanket, what is a blanket, a blanket is so speedy that heat much heat is hotter and cooler, very much cooler almost more nearly cooler than at any other time often.
A blame what is a blame, a blame is what arises and cautions each one to be calm and an ocean and a masterpiece.
A clever saucer, what is a clever saucer, a clever saucer is very likely practiced and even has toes, it has tiny things to shake and really if it were not for a delicate blue color would there be any reason for every one to differ.
The objection and the perfect central table, the sorrow in borrowing and the hurry in a nervous feeling, the question is it really a plague, is it really an oleander, is it really saffron in color, the surmountable appetite which shows inclination to be warmer, the safety in a match and the safety in a little piece of splinter, the real reason why cocoa is cheaper, the same use for bread as for any breathing that is softer, the lecture and the surrounding large white soft unequal and spread out sale of more and still less is no better, all this makes one regard in a season, one hat in a curtain that in rising higher, one landing and many many more, and many more many more many many more.

ACT V

(Two.)
A regret a single regret makes a door way. What is a door way, a door way is a photograph.
What is a photograph a photograph is a sight and a sight is always a sight of something. Very likely there is a photograph that gives color if there is then there is that color that does not change any more than it did when there was much more use for photography.

ΔΗΛΗΤΗΡΙΟ . POISON

της Ειρήνης Καραγιαννοπούλου . by Irini Karayannopoulou


λέξη-σύνδεσμος: δηλητήριο
word-link: poison

Η ΣΙΩΠΗ ΕΙΝΑΙ ΠΟΛΥ ΑΚΡΙΒΗ . SILENCE IS VERY EXPENSIVE

της Ειρήνης Καραγιαννοπούλου . by Irini Karayannopoulou


λέξη-σύνδεσμος: σιωπή

word-link: silence

9,5 -11 μ. . 9,5 -11 m.

της Δ. Ι. . by D. I.


λέξη-σύνδεσμος: μήκος
word-link: length

CAKE AFTER CAKE AFTER CAKE

Crumbs, studies and pastiches.

by Antonis Katsouris

Little by little the smell
of Kate’s burning cake
spreads in the fresh country air.*

It took me almost an hour to burn 30 songs onto a CD for M., but I just can’t leave her without music. She likes to listen to these lost songs from the sixties in the kitchen when she bakes cakes for her small patisserie. And sometimes she borrows their titles to give the strangest names to her cakes … Riki Tiki Cake, Blueberry Blue Cake, Color Your Daytime Cake, Mellow Yellow Cake, 10.000 Sunsets Cake, Misty Mirage Cake… My favorite one, full of psychedelic calories and dangerously fattening, is the Fat Angel Cake. She bakes it every Monday and Thursday.**

A spring picnic. What a marvellous idea! The day is perfect. What shall we take with us? All the good things. The small portable ice box with two bottles of white chilean wine. The basket with the chicken sandwiches, the carrot pie, the cake that I’ve just baked and the hot tea thermos. Paper plates, forks and knives, and lots of napkins too. But we can’t go on a picnic without a tablecloth and a car. Do you have a car?

My older sister wears her checked dress; for dad.
My older sister lets her hair to grow long; for dad.
My older sister prunes the garden roses; for dad.
My older sister knits a grey cardigan; for dad.
My older sister returns home early every Saturday night; for dad.
My older sister makes her super Sunday cake; for dad.

(a folk tale)

In the small village I come from, on the first week of May all the girls who reach marrying age have to pass the test of a secret recipe. They bake the groom’s cake and if it doesn’t rise, then it is taken as incontrovertible proof that the girl who baked it is not a virgin anymore -and then what groom would ask her to be his bride? This May I’m not a virgin anymore, but I am an apprentice witch. And my cake will rise of course, as it will rise every May; though this is not important to me. After all, a serious witch never gets married. And if she truly wishes so, she can have all the males of the village. And if she truly wishes so she can have all the children of the village.

I found the table as we’d left it the night before. With the wine bottles, the glasses, the dishes with crumbs from T.’s cake, the flowers that A. had brought (white and yellow carnations), the eyeglasses that P. probably forgot, and next to them my fortune cookie from the chinese take-out. At last night’s cookie game we decided to read them aloud by adding the phrase “in bed” at the end. Ι won easily -a suspiciously subversive “fortune” for a rare monogamous male like me … “Now is the time to try something new” – “in bed”. Everybody laughed knowingly except me and T.. I smiled at him and kissed him. I’ll try it with you, I whispered.**

Like a pebble
Kate’s cocoa cake is sinking
in the transparent water of the swimming pool.*

If Emily Dickinson was a cake, she would be a lemon cake.
If Susan Sontag was a cake, she would be an almond cake.
If Marguerite Yourcenar was a cake, she would be an Academy cake.
If Jacqueline Susan was a cake, she would be a Vanity cake.
If Virginia Woolf was a cake, she would be Kate’s cocoa cake.
If Joan Didion was a cake, she would be a cake with no sugar.
If Ann Sexton was a cake, she would be a cake-with-no-mercy.
If Katherine Mansfield was a cake, she would be a ginger cake.
If Sappho was a cake, she would be a pergamont cake.
If Gertrude Stein was a cake, she would be a cake-well-is-a-cake.

May I offer you some cake?

It was a rainy Tuesday when this rather cute and harmless incident happened. I felt sorry -perhaps too much so- for the drenched postman and I invited him for a quick hot tea which I served on the round table at the entrance hall along with some cake that I bought yesterday from M.. I asked the young courier not to call me “sir”, and as we were making small-talk about the news of the neighborhood, the domestic “accident” happened. A small piece of cake fell on his trousers and I instinctively kneeled to clean it with a napkin. And, without wanting to, I touched lightly his own “cake” – although, thinking back, it might have been just my imagination. I thought that he was turned on but maybe it was just my idea, although he definitely blushed and looked at me with eyes full of embarrassment. We ended our chat as if nothing happened, we started for the door, I reminded him not to call me “sir”, and I told him that there is cake every Tuesday and Friday. It was not raining anymore and I hurried to the phone to call M. and tell her the news about the success of her cake and that from today on I am the second member of the postman’s fan club. The first member is M. as it goes for almost all the fan clubs we have already created; ten or maybe more, one for every unknown young attractive man of our uneasily quiet suburb.**

Make somebody happy today-bake a cake!
A chocolate cake for the man in your life.
Or a white cake with peppermint frosting for “the girls” coming for bridge.
Make a sponge cake for Grandma, as lovely-light as the kind she used to bake.
Bake a cake-have a party.
Bake a cake to take to a party.
Bake a cake just because you feel good today.***

Kate fails for the sixth time
to bake a simple cake
and decides to change her small oven.*

I’ve made up my mind. The older I get the more I hate winter. I consider it my enemy and a very serious threat to my activities and moods, and I’m not ruling out at all the possibility of going into hibernation at a more advanced age. And today the winter that seemed to have forgotten us returned uninvited threatening us with frost and snow. My reaction was predictable; I subjected T. to my hypothermic hysteria. I strictly forbade him to bake his seasonal cakes again. The ones he usually stuffs with dried fruits and nuts so as to remind him of his childhood in that hyperborean land where he was born.
Not even one?, he asks.
I don’t need any of your forest products to be your little bear, I answered him and returned to bed.**

If you have already failed in all of your efforts to arouse the erotic and sexual desire of a new person you’re attracted to, or to rekindle the spark of a fading passion, then don’t get disappointed too fast… You have one last chance to succeed by following the magic recipe below – under its spell that person will be truly unprotected and vulnerable.

Choose a Friday night and start!
First make a poppy seed cake in a round pan. Bake it and let it cool.
In the centre of the cake’s circle light a purple candle and let it burn for nine minutes offering its flame to god Pluto.
Now write down in a pink sheet of paper the name of the person, the number 22  and the symbols for sun, moon, bird and wind.
Burn the paper in the candle flame.
Take its ashes, the candle and the cake and bury them in the east side of a park or a garden.
Repeat the spell for three weeks at the same time and day with devotion, faith and patience.

With a Chios kerchief over her hair
Kate is trying again and again
to make a proper mastic cake *

* From the 33 Haikus for Kate, 2011.
** From A.N.’s Diaries, 2001-2010.
*** From Betty Crocker’s Cookbook, 1950.

A COINCIDENCE … ISN’T IT A COINCIDENCE?

by D. I.

Doubting perpetually
Everything becomes enormously unstable. Do I have to look at you while I’m talking? Avoid eye contact. I am only imagining; using the mouth and both hands. Love
Supreme to you. There’s something I haven’t told you.
I desire you frantically.
Reliably. Enormously. Does anyone overhear me? I won’t ask this murmuring to stop again. Εven if it stays a remarkably private
Episode.

origins

by John Morgan

aglimpseof 07 John Morgan Origins

words-links: graciousness, bath