Abstract
This poem shows the experiences of collective writing.
The game has started game with time nervousness keyboard clicks pop-up messages distribution of tasks coffee—Depakene—aspirin—cigarette—coffee—herbs—junk food during meetings even more coffee even more text sandwich with Deleuze, water with Guattari, Haraway for indigestion nausea nervousness accounting for who has or hasn’t done what The game is on reading not to get to know but to use it senses-attempts to read the thoughts of the reviewer -where to squeeze it, where to use it Fragments of obligatory readings joined with a cheap glue from a nearby kiosk they blur the content they blur the experience everything matches everything matching nothing, at the same time getting lost in translations Polish—English English—Polish getting lost between words and between ourselves who says what to whom and for what And what did we want? Does anyone remember? Do we still understand each other? -foreign words: negative disintegration I don’t know . . . it doesn’t matter . . . I like it the most . . . what does he—the Reviewer—want to do with our text . . . maybe we should write that we don’t think so . . . that it is not this . . . what is it then? . . . I have read and I don’t know . . . what about Matsumi? . . . here is a thread, here it is . . . it’s better not to mention it, it opens up new threads, I don’t know anymore . . . maybe its simply about this word, just because in English it’s not the same as in Polish . . . yeah . . . we’ll take a break because I have a headache . . . I think we’ll have to meet again . . . I would like to end this thread at least . . . first a break . . . phone—broken connection. . . cut put together split I don’t recognize anyone Faces blurred with text Melting ink An erroneous collective Torn shouts, words, sighs, whispers, silence isolation narratives closed in office cubicles teamwork on the project what kind of game is this? I had a dream I dreamed of science free of power coffee—coffee—coffee—coffee minute—minute—minute—minute text—text—text—text cigarette—coffee words without a world desire no longer to tell but to respond our previous co-writings as specters they haunt as something that is gone in a mini-factory of writing without joy they wander and fade friendship it’s just a concept now division of work from to accounting for overtime co-workers not co-writers no. . . new problems—shhh . . . maybe they will not notice new glances—no, no, they will open up space for new comments in a strange gaze and in a foreign word we are the executor of foreign desires first round “The polishing will start,” says someone more experienced. cutting, splitting, chopping stapling the text—stranger and stranger-not mine—not ours a waste written somewhere under the words Bloodshot eyes trembling hands on the keyboard shortness of breath game sucking the joy of creation of co-being resistance has become adaptation we write in order to publish just before sending is it good what? The text is silent -related to foreign words
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.