by Jona Xhepa Joan Publishing Paperback 112 pages In the dream she sees herself turn into a bold type script, while the landscape around her is all in italics. With purpose, as moving through custard which is the dreaming way of movement, she digs a hole underneath the exhibition in the gallery, and begins to travel to find her dead husband. For some reason, the sensors of the dream have convinced her that he has been swallowed by a flower to be rightfully turned into his normal state, drying him into his apostate plant lithograph. Before identifying the flower, she passes through columns on the graveyards and stone circles, more italicized than they would be normally in real life, with parallel scratching on the side of each column, each cluster forming words from an ancient alphabet, vaguely corresponding to letters of the alphabet. Jona Xhepa writes about domesticity, myth and rural places. She holds a general unease about things.
