Johanna Kozma: Everything Is Erotic Therefore Everything Is Exhausting
Everything Is Erotic Therefore Everything Is Exhausting is an encyclopedia that attempts to catalog everything erotic in this world. It is composed continuously in participatory performances, and will never be complete. Begun in 2010, the text was originally 100 entries, handwritten one entry per page, by the artist. During performances, participants are invited to take away pages. In return, they must offer their own entries by speaking them to the artist, who serves as scribe and devoted keeper of the text. The entries they have chosen are given to them to keep and carry into the world.
The following text comprises the complete encyclopedia to date, as it’s been written by the artist and participants.
The act of, the sound of, spanking.
After something exhausting.
All of your lover at once.
Ankles, when they peek out.
Ants on cake.
Any kind of slow dripping, like water from a faucet and honey from a spoon.
Anything wrapped in plastic wrap, and then unwrapping it.
The appearance of blood on something clean.
The arch of a slender foot.
The arms of fit lean black men.
Arriving too early and having to wait.
Bananas, eating them in public.
Being inside a car while it’s in the carwash, with the windows slightly open.
Being persuaded or convinced of something that at first you feel nervous about.
Being read to.
Being spit on.
Being whispered to in the dark.
Bicycle seats and how they hurt.
Birthmarks and scars.
A bit of shit on the dick.
Biting someone’s ear, while holding their head with both your hands.
Blankets worn as clothes, or as the only thing to use in a cold room.
Blood stains, grass stains.
The blowhole of whales, dolphins, porpoises, when it contracts and spits.
Blowing on the asshole.
Breathing into a paper bag, and sometimes into a plastic one.
Brown teeth, chipped teeth, yellowed teeth with cracks, crooked craggy teeth, teeth capped in gold, especially in a young mouth.
Bruises; making them on someone.
Certain words and how they’re said.
Clean people with messy rooms.
The clear slime of oysters and the smell of their brine.
The color of tahini.
The core of the earth.
Corners of mouth-like things; also, specifically, the corners of a woman’s mouth.
The cracking of a raw egg, especially trying holding the chalaza of a raw egg with your fingers, your teeth.
The creak of old couches.
Cream poured into coffee.
Crushing a bug between your fingers, either tiny ants that feel like dust, or beetles that crack like nuts.
The dark of the movie theatre before the movie starts.
The darkening of cloth as a liquid moves through it (and how this goes slowly).
Deli meat cases.
Dents in sticks of butter, made by thumbs and fingers.
Dirty feet in a clean bed.
Discerning the shape of bones under skin.
Dissolving brown sugar crystals in coffee or tea, and how they don’t ever completely dissolve.
Doors that stick, having to pull them open.
Eating cherries with someone.
A face rubbed in dirt.
The fact that most dust is dead skin.
The feeling of raw burn when water or smoke goes up your nose and into your head.
Feeling the fuzz of lamb’s ear leaves, using the thumb and forefinger.
Feeling the person sitting next to you take a deep breath.
The few seconds of numbness before the pain when you’ve slammed your finger in the door.
Finding something in the sheets.
A finger in a belly button.
Fish guts — especially the slender, see-through bones and the thin slime of the entrails, and especially when everything is silver and pink and dark dirty red.
A fish hook through a flap of skin.
Flakes of skin from the scalp, and the tiny holes in them for hair follicles.
The foam around the mouth of an animal with rabies.
The gap in the front teeth, because we imagine that liquid can spurt through.
Getting earwax under your fingernails.
Getting the oil of chiles seeped into your fingers, then forgetting this and rubbing your eyes.
Glassware with an emerald tint and a nice heavy base and a thinner lip.
The globes of grapefruit torn from their pith.
A good mouth, as in: his mouth was good at sucking me up, her mouth did a good job at swallowing all of me.
Grapes without their skins.
The grit of gray flaking roof shingles.
The grooves in oak bark.
The hair below a man’s belly button; happy trails.
Hair follicles on anything, humans, animals, plants.
Half-sleeping on a hot day.
Hangnails, tugging at them.
Hard little round things like seed pods, cysts under the skin, stones, glass beads, peppercorns with crinkled skins, infected ducts, etc.
Having to stir in the oil that’s separated from most kinds of nut butter.
How a mattress gets stained.
How a papercut slices the skin so truly and demurely, like a child who’s accidentally knocked over a glass vase.
How saliva smells when it’s dried.
How sand gets everywhere, inside everything.
How the needle of the record player fits into the ridges of the LP (and the oily black of the LP itself).
How the seeds in baba ganoush don’t hurt to eat.
Ingrown hairs, how they’re curled under the skin, enwombed in there.
The inner elbow.
Jellyfish, the way they move.
Kissing in the wind.
Leaning in to say something in someone’s ear.
Licking a hand-rolled cigarette to close it up.
Licking the rim of the ear, the nook of the armpit, and the cleft where the legs touch the ass.
Lips, on humans and objects.
Listening to a lover poop when she thinks I can’t hear her.
Listening to stories about past lovers.
Lizard skin, the kind that pricks.
A loose tooth.
A lot of snails moving over each other at once.
Making someone scream.
Making yourself ready for it.
Many tiny fish.
The marks left by tight underwear.
Menstrual blood, especially when it’s gotten on a man’s hands or face.
The minute or two after getting stung by a bee — the way the pain throbs and you can feel it push the venom from the sting to your heart.
Moistening the folded edge of paper so that it becomes damp and soft and may be more easily torn.
Most trips to the cinema.
Mud; mud in hair.
Not giving it to them when it’s all they want.
Olives, eating them with pits, the spitting out of the pit into the palm.
An open mouth that’s bleeding, particularly on a boy.
Opening your mouth as wide as it will go, for someone else.
A pack of flying birds that all turn at once.
Paint that’s flaked off doorjams, how it snaps when it’s walked on and the way this feels through the soles of shoes.
Parallel parking in one shot.
Pawing the belly of a cat, that abandon they show you.
Peaches, especially their pits.
The peeling off of a hard-cooked egg’s shell, especially if some of the white gets nicked, getting smooshed under your nails and making the egg look bitten.
The place where something used to be.
Plugging in a plug.
Poking the yolk of a fried egg, with a piece of bread or an asparagus spear or a fork.
Popping a zit.
Pulling hair out of a hairbrush.
Pulling a lollipop out of someone’s mouth, putting it back in; sharing a lollipop.
Pushing one’s thumb to the jugular and feeling the bumping pulse.
Putting the duvet cover onto the duvet, and how you have to use your whole body to do this.
Putting your hand into a chicken while you’re gutting it, and pulling everything out.
Putting a pin through something skin-like.
Reading in bed in the middle of the day with my clothes off, or at least partly off.
Right before you hit the ground.
The rivulet where the edge of the nostril folds into the face.
The rogue solitary hairs (thick and coarse and black) on bellies, breasts, the tops of feet, and the backs of shoulders.
The roots of a plant growing in a glass jar.
Rubbing two things together.
Scales, or the skin of fish and snakes.
A screwdriver working a screw.
The scuzz of bathwater that collects around the drain.
Seeing part of someone’s tattoo and realizing that, to see the whole thing, you’d have to see them naked.
Semen on concrete and how it came to fall there.
The shape of a relaxed hand.
Sharing an orange with multiple people.
Sharpening a knife.
Shifting the stick shift.
The skin of almonds, trying to peel it off.
The skin on fruit.
Sitting too close to someone before you’re both ready for that.
The slight bend that some hard columnar things get, like the bones of ribcages, the legs of some wooden chairs, erect cocks, certain flatware and some doorhandles.
Slipping your fingers into a handle.
A small point of light that throbs.
The smell of burning hair.
The smell of a man’s hat gets when he wears it a lot.
The smell of a salty blanket, that’s salty because it was slept in by a sweating man, either with his clothes on or his clothes off, so it was his dirt and grime against it, and the blanket must be thick wool, very scratchy, with bits of crusty stains and gunk in its fur.
The smell of a towel that’s been used everyday but not washed for a week.
The snapping of a hairtie, and how it gets thready near the metal clamp before it finally gives.
Snipping roses off their stems.
Socks that have been sweated through, or have been poked through at their heels.
Softly knocking on a door.
The sound of a banging window.
The sound of an electric drill when it’s gone on for so long that it starts to throb.
The sound of a woman crying.
Splitting open a clam: you’ve got to fit the knife inside the slit and twist.
Spreading avocado or cold peanut butter on delicate bread, and how it rips the bread to shreds.
Squeezing your lover’s blackheads while lying in bed.
The squirming abdomens of bees when they eat.
The stain from any kind of berry.
The stains left by semen on things that can’t be washed.
Steam coming off a lake at dusk or someone’s head in the snow.
Sticking your finger in knuckle by knuckle.
Stray hairs on the floor.
A string of spit between a mouth and someone else’s body.
A swollen, purple eye.
The tails of rats.
Taking the wax off cheese.
Tapping the tongue on the perineum.
The taste of snot, especially when it comes from crying and falls unintentionally into a mouth.
The tentacles of sea plants when they move in the water.
Terrariums, especially when they begin to grow fungus up the glass.
That shadows follow you.
That ticks burrow, even without their bodies.
Thinly sliced meat.
The threads of saliva that form inside a quickly opened mouth.
A tongue run slowly over teeth.
Trying to hear a very faint sound.
Turning clothes, especially dresses, right side out.
The underside of the tongue, and how we hardly ever see it.
An unmade bed, that’s stayed unmade for days.
Unwavering eye contact.
Using your teeth.
Very dark hair.
Waiting a long time, especially for something you really want..
Watching a meteor shower from the back of a pickup truck, parked in the woods.
Watching someone, when they don’t know you’re watching them, or when their face twitches strangely and you know they are about to cry, maybe before they know it.
The water the mozzarella lives in.
The way certain things sound when they hit your skull and your ears are plugged, like water from the shower or someone’s fingernails on your scalp.
The way maggots move in a wound.
The wedge between the fingers.
What comes out when you clean under the fingernails (smell it).
When a curtain or hanging sheet is caught in the wind and pushed gently in and out an open window.
When a dog swallows another dog’s head.
When a finger tugs hard at a mouth so that the lower lip feels a bit torn.
When a man squeezes his eyes shut in cumming.
When a voice cracks.
When my lover wipes my nose for me, or sticks a finger into the corner of my eye to get out the gunk.
When the drywall finally yields to a nail that’s being hammered in.
Where the edges of a dried animal pelt curl.
Where wood has been burnt and so turned black.
Wood splinters and flakes of paint and small thin sharp things underneath fingernails.
Your lover’s smell, especially smelling something that’s just like it, but not them, years after you last smelled it on their body.
Johanna Kozma (f.d. Reed) är konstnär. Hon bor och verkar i Los Angeles. Se mer på johannareed.net
Etiketter:engelska, Johanna Kozma