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. THE SYMPTOMS ISSUE

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.