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Magazine

January
Endless eyes that the night has opened in us

Alba Mayol Curci

ɒɈɘloiV
when I meet her I can see, almost literally, how two rivers of energy flow from her eyes. One day she shows me her marks and tells me she’s moved to Mexico to study semiotics. This makes me feel good and I recall her asking me something too precise and embarrassing to be remembered in words, yet which was a place of inner meaning and had to do with loneliness. I’ve never read any of her work but she’s the first person to write something on my body. I’m not sure how I’ve ended up in this situation but it has to do with the desert. This is one of her places, this flat open space. I’m looking for ways of writing that can be learnt and taught at a school of the night. She takes you to the place; there are coordinates, numbers that will remain etched in our flesh.

iϱɿɘƧ
‘it has to be today, can you drive me to Mataró? I need a pink book that’s in a museum.’ I said this years ago and the book was titled Pink Freud. What fascinated me was a writing’s ability to generate not only impossible images, but states that border on the hurtful because of the game between life and death that they propose, understood as a tightrope between two cliffs in a dark jungle, for instance. All very  Scorpio. Lie designer, Bloodvelvet writer, what’s the difference, a thousand names for a production of chaos. Here we go with him/her to Cambrils, but it could have been a rock cavern with a blazing fire in any corner of your room.

ɘʇɒM
there’s a restraint, an internal pause, while almost everything around us is esoteric exaltation. We’re creating a collective oracle and she tells a story about an old woman in the jungle. Or I’ve dreamt it, because I can see the leaves, the fog and the earth while it rains, or so it seems. With a softness such as only the radical political can produce because it needs no didactic artifices or false social disruptions, with a velvety glove made of veins, she overcomes the Cartesian monolith with telekinetic elegance. Here I whisper here my voice is deep here it resounds here it’s an echo of many others, the little girls approach us and their language is cruel.

oblA
the first thing I learn isn’t what her face is like or how she talks, but some pen drawings that arouse my curiosity, in an almost excessive blue volume inversely proportional to the supposed fragility of the pen on paper. There’s a causal chain between images and words that I see in her studio printed in the format of notes for mobile phone, where I can write with impunity and playing ‘as if’. ‘I don’t know how someone can call themselves a poet …’. Nor do I. Sometimes artificial affinities are established between things, a bit like Goethe’s elective affinities but the other way around. Something lysergic yet strict, as precise as steel, as accurate as an accursed object.

This editorial task has been like a mirror and a mirage, like seeing oneself in the other as in a beautiful distortion, where both extremes begin to twirl together in a spectral spiral. Generate with θεουργία. I’ve plagiarised the title of this text from a verse by Novalis in Hymns to the Night, quite a cis/hetero poetry that pointed to a profanity of SF worlds avant la lettre. To try to know what vision writing may contain and what spaces can permeate the linguistic as a continuous transition between different organs of a body without limits

 

(Pictures: Tezcatlipoca obsidian mirror, Ana Silvia Serrano / Neutron Star Merger, NASA Goddard Space Flight Center/CI Lab)

This month's topic

Alba Mayol Curci is an artist and philologist. She investigates peripheral narratives in which emotional mechanisms can function as an activism.

Articles

30 January 2020

Endless eyes that the night has opened in us

03 October 2016

Junk Food Poetics

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