VANITAS : a journal of poetry, writings by artists, criticism, and essays. During its decade of intervention in the public realm, VANITAS came out quasi-annually, serving as a forum for international voices with an emphasis on coming to grips with current world situations. Each issue contained writings by artists whose primary modes were non-literary and featured the work of a visual artist. [www.vanitasmagazine.net]
For the seventh and final issue of VANITAS, we examine the idea of The Self. The work featured in issue 7 tests just how far the self can be stretched, partially as an exercise in self-expression, partially in search of what used to be called experience. Self, not so much in personae as in faces, in the sense the Mods used the term — referring to someone with style, perhaps within a culture of style, but an individual expression of that culture, or perhaps someone who can seemingly invent her own style, just standing there.
This issue features new work by Bruce Andrews, Mary Jo Bang, Anselm Berrigan, Steve Dickison, Danielle Dutton, Tonya Foster, John Godfrey, Robert Hunter, Paolo Javier, Ann Lauterbach, Kimberly Lyons, Dan Machlin, Gerard Malanga, Judith Malina, Filip Marinovich, Harry Matthews, Michael McClure, Anna Moschovakis, Stephen Motika, Jennifer Moxley, Michael Palmer, Aram Saroyan, Lewis Warsh, and many more. Featuring artwork by Diana Michener, Carol Szymanski, Gerard Malanga, Rudy Burckhardt, and Vivien Bittencourt.
11 comments:
'it’s fine to wake up and hug your knees
my knees' yes it is a fine thing to do, but not to have 'a cigarette in bed'(did your Mother never tell you, you should NOT smoke in bed Thomas!)
'the feeling of paws on my knees
petals and wings
little hair
why have you gone' That is such a beauty of a sentiment.
SarahA,
I believe this cigarette in bad was being smoked somewhere beneath the crescent turning of the river in London in the middle of a previous century. The paws and wings seem a bit mysterious to me now, the little hair perhaps only slightly less so. Life is such a curious thing. I do wish my mother had warned me.
I see my father walking in a garden.
He dressed his robes in flocking fleece.
his rib from a man.
I see my father walking in a garden.
He dressed his robes in flocking fleece.
his rib from a man.
and what of the rain
whose hair of sunshine
remain in the light. the sincere
affection whose reckoning this
not
numberd among days
is our grace, is just inheritance
as a bird
SarahA,
Did I say "this cigarette in bad"? Why is it the things we mean to say are never known to us until they leap into our words?
John Andrew Bowie,
Infinite gifts we are unable to behold.
Now this is spooky. I was just saying much the same thing to someone earlier this morning. Yesterday I sent them an email saying something like 'I am reading you write' instead of what I should of said 'I am reading you right' *sigh* and I thought it was just me that did stuff like so, but *dance* you do too! Ha! So does this mean you are as crazy/mad as me Thomas?
SarahA,
It is a terrible disease we share, or perhaps I'd better call it an involuntary habit, of saying what we mean even when we do not think we are doing so.
For example I am unable to stop myself from saying that to be as crazy as you are would be an honour whereas to be as crazy as I am would not. (Of course I don't mean that, I mean I do mean that.)
Ha! You loon. You know what though Thomas, I never actually saw 'a cigarette in bad' but 'a cigarette in bed' Now what does that mean? That I only read what I want to read? Like the old man /lady with selective hearing!
SarahA,
Let us call it elective infinity.
(...of course I meant to say "infirmity"...)
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