Evolution Ideas and untold tales dying On hundreds of sheets Of paper separate from One Another Some lost In train stations Supermarkets Trolleys Others lie Between random sheets In books buckets Cupboards old Games and wallets All waiting To be remembered by
It remembers Writing caring loving them Feeding them new words Every day Holding them gently And sees Unfinished Raw sentences Words Wasted pages
Maria Leonchikova
His eyes were still, as in waiting, surveying me like two impassive screens. His face, static, quiet as the 2am shadow I stared with the boldness of youth, carving his skin into my memory, the melting quality of it. I was sure that if he My mother introduced us and he exploded into a rendition of wicked witch, his wax face twitching with a sickening He smiled, and his eyes took on a candlelit quality, burning a little around the edges as he repeated my name, exhali Mischievous, I disappeared into an aisle. I could hear my mother’s not-so-urgent calling after me, her laughter chang fil Lychees blushed under my touch as they tickled my fingerprints. Hairy bowling balls teetered precariously above me, Long wires popping intermittently with longan light bulbs, tangled into an octopus heap. Stationed unthinkably nex Honey glistened from the little brown hats of the doddering mangoes, as if they had dropped themselves on the head to their chagrin. Without legs to run from me, without hands to slap me in the face. I smiled. And eyes, close, like two full moons gravitating my two little rocks to. “You want this,” he told me, as he dropped a yellow mesh sack into my hands; heavy and spiky and large. It leaped his candle wax frame bending back onto itself so violently that I thought he would fall apart; brittle appendages scat With liquid-flowing movement he picked up the sack and placed it back with its brothers, chose a newer sibling for Karen Mezentsef
puppetry of infomercials on snoring carcasses. did not move at that very moment he would stay there forever, calm, purposefully hollowing into me. tremor, divorced from the maniacal laughter echoing from him. -ng it like the cigarette smoke he wore as a shirt buttoned up to the neck. -ing melodious, and his. -ling my senses with a need to taste. sitting uncomfortably next to the defiance of youth - proud in suits of shining verdure armour. -t to the carefully packaged hypochondria of the nashi pears. in the night. I lowered myself towards their puffing, out-of-breath-red cheeks and inhaled their scent – out of my hands for freedom: a porcupine rolling its getaway along the linoleum. He laughed, -tering onto the floor. me, and this time I took the durian; its scent heavy in my incoming breath and heavy in my hands.
It has been years Since I last held her And I wonder What she feels Anger Sadness Guilt
Violoncello
I remember Her deep voice Used to sing me to sleep I used to hug her With my knees And hold her neck With my left hand
I stare at her back And weep She doesn’t see For she lies Inside a black case Near my bed
When I was growing Up She was Growing older too And I promised I would Hold her every day
I want to see her See if she still loves me See what has become Of her curvy body But I will never open I’d rather she rot Away In half And see that she can never be played again Maria Leonchikova
It is the morning after my 21st birthday party and I sit Contemplating eating an orange. And as I turn it over and over in my hands, I think about what it means to be this age What it means to write a list of people and then Invite them to be with you What it means to get dressed up in a new dress and new shoes And your mother's makeup What it means to panic quietly the day before When you realise that everyone will be looking What it means to let that go once people you love Start arriving And what it means to be this young I feel so young. But then turning the orange over and over in my hands I decide to not think about what it means. And to simply think about how the orange skin feels Against my skin So cool and fresh
Mix with a warm Calm air Warmth between our arms Our heads our hands It seeps from you From tunnels Pores in your hands Visiting me My hands Bouquets of red Roses breathe it all in
And cut.
And think How much there is To look forward to
Maddie Crofts
Maria Leonchikova
Signal Periodical
Volume Two
fruit (memory) Winter 2008
warm breath like the curlings of smoke. Hot cups of tea, soup and winter fruits cut open, as we huddled together constructing this book for you. Enjoy reading and unfolding it. Adelaide Reif, Alessandra Bergamin, Cecilia L.W. , Holly Eyles, Karen Mezentsef, Lena Molnar, Maddie Crofts, Maria Leonchikova City of Melbourne. An exploration into the tactility of printed matter and collaboration between young same time as learning how to make it, a publication engaged in process. Copyright remains with the contributors
ArtPlay for giving us a home to unfold all our papers out in (and then in again). An extra special thankyou is extended to the following people for mentoring as part of this project: Amy Spiers, Antonia Green, Holly Childs, Ilan Abrams, Lucas Maddock, Maara Serwylo and Sean M. Whelan. To download a digital version of Volume one, and to see more of the behind-the-scenes have a look at our website http://signalperiodical.blogspot.com
Ingredients: cutting board to cut paper and lino to make carvings (for printing and embossing), then we used the cutting mat to block print the unique image on the cover. Ah the inventive ways one can be resourceful in recycling, it is an exciting time we are living in. 450gsm brown recycled box board, Wash and draw, watercolour paper Tracing paper Cartridge paper Red waxy paper Transparencies Floor Linoleum Block printing ink Custom made rubber stamp Ink pads Printing press Rooibis tea for staining paper yellow Fruit (oranges, tamarillos, mandarins, persimmons, apples, pineapple) Bookbinding glue Body font: Garamond
press rubber stamp, and inking up fruit for the unique one off fruit prints. It was scored, folded (back and forth many times), and sewed together with an industrial sewing machine by the Signal Periodical team.