MASTERED by desire impulsive,
By a mighty inward urging,
I am ready now for singing,
Ready to begin the chanting
What we chant at the Word Addict is taking shape at last. Continuity in mutability is hard to achieve; continuity meaning aesthetic coherence, mutability signifying a change of focus every single issue. But we are consistent in our inconsistency; moreover, despite all our better intentions, an aim is emerging at last to guide this scatter-brained mag: the aim of examining urges.
Welcome to the world of The Word Addict, a ‘zine exploring its own crawl from the primordial ooze, the fingers reaching toward an unresponsive god.
Both the beginning—the initial tribal state (or “state of war”)—and the end—breaking down of post-tech, post-human society—are the topics of this issue. The time when the human element is suppressed, and the primal let out; or the other way around, depending on your (un)favourable view of this species. I don’t know why, but the word ‘visceral’ has been haunting my mind for quite some time now. And so, and on the suggestion of Vít Bohal, Primitivism became the focus of this issue.
The Word Addict was conceived to please aesthetically, and to disgust taste, provided these two goals aren’t mutually exclusive. And I believe that they are not. Considering my age and my condition, I do not plan to make a twit out of myself by discussing the purpose of art. Rather, gingerly, these paragraphs hope to contribute to the illumination of the ideas behind this project, applicable only here, in these leaves, at this particular moment in timespace.
Please be under-whelmed by the free continuation of “Jerry Disconnected”, “The Jelly Awakened”. Next, please feel free to roam through the textured realm of Kinga Tóth’s and Gergerly Normal’s poems. Vít Bohal’s rumination on Anarchy dwells after that—also featuring the first ever translation of Nick Lang’s most recent work into Czech—and then Rick Reuther follows with trying to get out of his head. Then read Angie & how she bangs the Babylonian drum, Fergus Doyle reminiscing over a trip into another realm, and a very short blood-bath of a story by Christina Schneekloth Sjøgaard.
We dig into the guts. We flay the flesh from the epidermis, burn through the dermis, and embrace the truly naked organ; it’s hideous, but it’s We and we say we love the human filth thus mined.