CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS - ECTOPLASMS
Ectoplasm refers to a vomit-like substance produced by mediums during seances, supposedly as a manifestation of otherworldly spirits. For this performance salon and accompanying zine, we would like to use the phenomenon of ectoplasm as a way of thinking about the creation of the abject, what for Julia Kristeva constitutes that which has been discharged from the body, rendered excrement. How does the body function as a sight of transactions, of exits and entrances? In what ways is the abject haunted? What ghosts are coming out of you?
GIVE US UR BLOOD UR TEARS UR PUKE.
If you would like to perform in the salon, please email firstname.lastname@example.org a few sentences outlining what you would like to do by the 11th of April, 2014. Performances should be 5-15 minutes long, though we may also consider durational performances.
For the accompanying zine, we are looking for text and images—anything that can be printed—that engage the above themes. Please email zine submissions to email@example.com by the 18th of April 2014.
HAG # 4 is now available on our bigcartel
a collaborative zine by Rachel Sipser, Nica Rabinowitz, Jasmin Risk and Clara Lipfert
b&w, quarter size
folds open to a black and white poster featuring a drawing by Rachel Sipser
:3 :3 :3 :3
The best part of my reading on Tuesday was when I couldn’t decide if I should use the mic or not and finally I halfheartedly decided not to because that seemed less scary but then I stranger said, gently, “could you speak into the mic” and I like it when people gently make decisions for me. The second best part was when I ran out of chapbooks and I started having people write their mailing addresses in my notebook, making them promise to send me something in return.
I will be reading poems and maybe doing other things at 8:30 pm at Bureau of General Services—Queer Division tomorrow, which is currently located at Cage in the Lower East Side. 83A Hester Street. You should come and bring me gifts of tribute.
Last night on the train on my way to the Poetry Project to see Felix Bernstein read, when the doors opened at Montrose Ave I saw on the platform an ad for Ionesco’s The Killer at Theatre for a New Audience and wrote THE KILLER on my hand to remind myself to buy tickets and also in hopes that someone, later that night, would make a cute joke about how I’d labelled myself THE KILLER. No one did and instead I listened to Felix read poems about fathers and feasting and after, outside, my friend bummed a cigarette from a man who, when he said my name in surprise, I realized had once snorted coke of my tits. On another occasion, I’d vowed to kill him in a fit of romantic jealousy. Back inside, the source of our woefully lopsided rivalry asked me if I remembered promising to kill this man and I said yes and she said “isn’t it better for everyone that you didn’t?”
I just looked down at my hand and when I got home my roommate was seeing a friend out the door and I forced both of them to sit down and listen to me read "Stanzas, Sexes, Seductions" which is my favorite poem in the world.
"I suppose I ought to embark on some work or other, now that I am learning to see. I am twenty-eight, and next to nothing has happened in my life. To recapitulate: I have written a study of Carpaccio, which is poor; a play titled Marriage, which deploys ambiguities in the attempt to prove a truthless point; and verses. Ah, but verses are so paltry an achievement if they are written early in life. One should wait, and gather meaning and sweetness a whole life long, a long life if possible, and then, at the very end, one might perhaps be able to write ten good lines."
Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
o let me be histrionic and rilke for tonight, at least
lazy late night thoughts on Chris Kraus’ Summer of Hate
Mostly I’m thinking about three winters ago when I read Crime and Punishment and the feeling of reading set-in-summer books in the winter, set-in-summer books where there’s this ambiguous, law-enforced shame that stews in the heat. None of it can hide in the burning sunlight and that’s such a weird warmth to cling to.
About halfway through the book, the narrator remarks that she’s had trouble telling people what’s happening to her, about the things she’s doing: “there’s no way to talk about them, she hasn’t yet arranged them into a narrative.” And that’s everything, isn’t in? This stipulation to give an account of yourself.
So, I recently lost my fake id and need a new one. Are you over 21, with an F on your id, bearing any slight resemblance to me? Would you be willing to “lose” your id for me and get a duplicate? I would pay you $50 bucks to do so.
Send me an ask if interested.
Alternatively, suggest places in New York where I can buy a fake id.
THIS OFFER STILL STANDS
you don’t have to live in new york
I will pay you via any method you want