The 2022 edition of Peripheries, the HDS & CSWR literary and arts journal, is out now! As always, it includes some of the best contemporary poets and artists, alongside the work of our brilliant HDS students. Issue five is the most experimental issue yet: it explores sound through inaudible media with a folio of musical events, including text scores and whimsical instructions that readers may wish to perform in a group or in their imaginations.
Peripheries is a non-profit literary and arts journal established in 2017 that publishes artistic work that is, broadly understood, "peripheral"; work that explores the interstices between discourses, traditions, languages, forms, and genres. In this spirit, along with publishing poetry, visual art, and short stories, our scope is expansive, including translations, interviews, creative nonfiction, reviews, aphorisms, recipes, instructions, and manifestos. In this video HDS celebrates the launch of the 2022 edition of Peripheries. This celebration previewed this fifth edition with a lineup of international contributors, who read, performed, and presented their artworks. This event took place on November 30, 2022
Learn more: https://www.peripheriesjournal.com/
Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ADU6IZnhuc
Full transcript:
[MUSIC PLAYING]
SPEAKER 1: Harvard Divinity School.
SPEAKER 2: Release Party for Peripheries Journal of Word and Image Number 5, November 30, 2022.
SHERAH BLOOR: Hey, hello, welcome to the launch of the fifth 2022 edition of Peripheries and also the fifth anniversary of our literary and arts journal. I'm sorry we're starting a little bit late but welcome. So I have the journal here. It just got delivered to me 10 minutes ago, and it's beautiful. I want to thank every single member of our editorial board, all of our contributors, all the artists and writers who filled the pages.
And, of course, the Center for the Study of World Religions and Harvard Divinity School, which houses us and supports us, makes everything possible. I especially want to thank our editorial manager, Harry Hall, who keeps us on track all year, and our designer, Jake Deluca, who labored to produce this beautiful book. So you can purchase a copy through the Grolier Poetry Book Shop and support that institution.
Harry, maybe you'll put the Grolier URL in the chat for everyone. And you can also download a free digital copy of the journal from our website. Harry, maybe you want to put that URL in as well. I'd suggest downloading a copy now to read along tonight, which serves as a sneak peek of the journal, and when you download it, you'll notice that this year we changed our subtitle.
It says a journal of word, image, and sound. So we added sound. You might know that each year, we include a special guest edited folio, and this year's folio is pieces which compose or perform or conduct what we've called musical events. And I want to thank profusely our sound editors, Rebecca Lane, Zooming in from Berlin, and Martine Thomas for carefully and generously curating the special folio.
I just want to say a few things about the journal. It begins with pieces that we unearthed from the John Ashbery archive, and I want to thank the John Ashbery estate for permission to publish. We include five poems from an incomplete manuscript which explores the poet's relationship to classical music. Becca actually discovered that Ashbery's partner, David Kermani, kept a list of what music Ashbery listened to when he was composing.
So out of 200 boxes in Ashbery archive, we stumbled upon these lists, and we include some in the journal, along with a mysterious envelope, which I think that one should look at. And the folio of musical events is spread throughout the journal. It includes text scores and performance directions and really explores this interplay between the sonic, the visual, and the linguistic. And we thought about sound throughout.
So you'll see that in the digital copy of the journal, it includes audio and links to video. Just look for the little play symbol in the table of contents. So you can hear some of our favorite poets read their poems, including Martha Collins and Chen Chen. So I hope you'll enjoy leafing or scrolling through the edition tonight, while we listen and watch another audio visual complement, tonight's launch.
I've gathered together some of the contributors. Some will be coming a bit later to give you a small taste of what the journal includes and the breadth of the material. I'm not going to introduce each speaker. If you don't know them already, you will soon. But I will say that we'll be hearing some poems. We'll be seeing some art. We'll be watching a video and thinking about performance.
We're going to start with GC Waldrep. And this is our most experimental edition of periphery thus far. And I'm so proud that we are supporting this new experiment of established poets like GC. So GC has given us excerpts from a new cycle called Kingdom which draws on the philosophical theology of George Rapp, the founder of a 19th-century American Utopian community. So, GC, would you like to share your screen and give us a taste of the Kingdom.
GC WALDREP: Thank you, Sherah, so much. It's such a pleasure to be able to read and listen and view work with my fellow panelists tonight. This is a journal that I have known about and admired for a long time. The two poems that Harry and Sherah have published in this issue come from a longer sequence of mine that's inspired by the Harmony Society, which was one of 19th-century America's more successful communes.
If you know something about Oneida, you know something about the Shakers. This was a German version of that and very close touch with the Shakers, led by a man named George Rapp, who emigrated in the 1790s with his followers from Germany. They lived in Pennsylvania, and then they lived in Indiana. And then that didn't work, and they moved back to Pennsylvania.
They were an odd group in the German pietist tradition. This is a photograph-- actually a postcard of the hedge labyrinth that they built in New Harmony, Indiana. Every one of their communities had to have a hedge labyrinth, and you can deduce what you would about their theology or their philosophy from that. And every community also had right here in the middle, you see what looks like a farm outbuilding.
This was called a grotto to them, and it was also part of the symbolic landscape that they constructed everywhere they had a community. It was supposed to look like a rough farm building on the outside. Inside, it has the classical finish and actually is partly gilt in gold leaf. And again, you can deduce what you like from their philosophy or theology. So two poems in this issue, and I'm going to just read one of them to leave time for other people.
This is a poem that's inspired, in part, by some of George Rapp's writings, and also by the little grotto, the little outbuilding you saw. George Rapp was obsessed with alchemy. Also, as some of his predecessors were, he just thought if we could figure out that alchemy was somehow real, maybe literally, maybe figuratively, and maybe spiritually, something new and different would happen. We're still waiting to figure out whether that's true. This is George Rapp on the fall of man.
"Abut ejectments. All pretty bridges, please. Seize pavements. Let us bandage softly. The fig leaves now opening like a chamois cloth. Teeth deceive us. Lie with your back to the lake. We'd have wept an island then, early and late, our lovers fallen. Suffer an idea about suffering to suffer. Or to govern are two distinct things that merge often.
The gnomon has strong hands to hold what? Lazarus, I suspect. Lazarus and his days, full stop. Count by 3s or 5s, by 2s or 6s. Which is nightlier? Arc of shelter, parts of a circle, chord and sustain, soot, pew, loaf, radius of frost, we discover not time but pain.
Perhaps conceive a thin restraint astride the lilies and their musk, as repetition demonstrates surely a wound. In the little house, a wind dwelt, a coarser linen. I viewed exhibits, yes, all hidden projects. Speak then of opulence. In solitude, map one nation, two nations, three nations, a field, and in that field, what some call witness.
Bathe it. Bind its wounds. They are not our wounds, but they make the same small noises. Perhaps every wound does. I will ask about this. Silver nails will do to saint a dream. I assure you, we shall speak again." Thank you.
SHERAH BLOOR: That was so exquisite and perfect. I'm not supposed to speak, I know. But it was just the perfect one to begin with. Thank you, GC. That was so beautifully read as well. Stephanie, will you show us some art? Stephanie Pierce.
STEPHANIE PIERCE: Yes, I would love to. Let me figure out the share if I can. Is it clear out there? OK. Thank you for having me. So I'm a painter, and I make paintings that are about time and light and perception and how things change over the course of time. And the paintings take place over really long durations of time, many months, up to a year.
And I find that within that extended period of things changing in the world and time passing and my perception of the things changing, something really interesting and strange can happen in the paintings, which starts to verge on something that's hallucinatory and takes the everyday out of being mundane and becomes something that could point to something else. I'm really interested in and challenged by certain subject matter that on one hand, may seem like a non-subject, and on the other hand, feel like more recently dealing more with things that might be seen as overly sentimental. So this painting is titled, Moonrise. And it's one of the first paintings that I did when I moved to New York City six years ago.
I spent a lot of time in these paintings trying to locate what the subject is. I don't always when I start the paintings. So in this painting, I eventually started noting the sun, the movement of the sun and the moon in that space, and trying to grasp that, which was really difficult. And my paintings are very rooted in the places that they're made.
So I had come from the Ozark Mountains previous to living in New York. I am not from there, but I was living there for almost nine years. So my work had taken on this relationship to light and the movement of light through a space and how light can relate to time. So that continued as I started painting living in New York.
And these are some details of that painting. And you can see, if you look closely at the paintings, they look almost like shattered fragments. And you start to see through the layers. And it's almost-- in one sense, it feels really tangible, and in another sense, it feels really intangible and fleeting. And I spent a lot of time trying to balance that sense of time and the sense of something I don't know and something that I haven't experienced to really capture that in the paintings through process.
This is another piece that was-- is in the journal, the current issue. This one's titled, "i, cloud." And in this one, I was specifically thinking about, can I make a painting about something very sentimental, like a soul song? And I was thinking about Otis Redding. And I have listened to Otis Redding and thought about his music very deeply since I was probably 20 years old.
And I'm from Memphis, where some of his records were recorded and where he lived. So it all feels connected as a part of just a long relationship to something in my life. And at the same time, I'm thinking about other things related to the history of painting and conversations in that world, so thinking about the role of light in an Annunciation painting, but in this case not being about the birth of a Messiah of some kind, and also making other small references to things in the paintings.
And there's an Otis Redding song that's a traditional, that the chorus says, "You don't miss your water till the well runs dry." So at the bottom part of this painting, you can see a pitcher of water and Otis Redding. And they're all embedded. The conversations happening within the symbolism is all embedded within the work. This is a detail.
And then also other conversations throughout the history of painting, it's always in my mind. Whether it's in the forefront or not, it's always there, so thinking about the history of self-portraiture or the history of vanitas as well as Annunciation paintings. And in the past several years, I've become very influenced by this tapestry at The Met Cloisters that's titled, The Hunt of the Unicorn.
And I'm really intrigued with the complexity of the composition, how interwoven all of the forms are and the ornate quality of the foliage. And it started to really influence my work. And when things like that happen, it's not intentional. It's something that just happens because I am drinking it in, and I'm absorbing it, and it's coming out later.
So this is another piece. It is a detail of a larger painting titled, Where the Tongue Can't Follow. And this is the piece that detail comes from. And this is another detail from that painting. So my relationship to landscape changed a lot when I moved to New York City. Prior to this, the world was full of the natural world and mountains and woods. And here, it's very different.
And I started to bring all of that into the studio and started to really look through that natural world to the landscape outside, the urban landscape. And this is another piece that's in the journal titled, Went Down Like Shadows. This one, there's a shift in my location. It's the third place I've lived in New York City and a place that I've felt most grounded and rooted in since I've moved here. And you can see it in the body of work that this comes from.
But I started to really then track the movement of the sun and the moon in the paintings and also to include things in my immediate surroundings, like the cats, which became really prominent. And I feel like when I made these paintings, I just-- I go very deeply inside of them. And I stay with them for, I don't know, up to a year. This one was up to a year.
And it's a way of marking time, and it's a way of documenting experience. And I guess I could end on I feel like my work really comes out of something that I read in a book by Gaston Bachelard, from The Poetics of Space. And it's very simple, but I relate to it in my work strongly.
It says, "When a dreamer can reconstruct the world from an object that he transforms magically through his care of it, we become convinced that everything in the life of a poet is germinal." When I read that, I don't know, almost 20 years ago, a little less than that, it just really resonated with me how much-- the pursuit of making meaning out of everyday experience and how that can relate to pain.
SHERAH BLOOR: Thank you so much, Stephanie. I didn't-- I wasn't aware of all the connections to music and poetry. So that, yeah, so beautiful as well. Thank you. Rebecca, Beck, would you play a video for us?
REBECCA LANE: Hi, I'm just going to share the score first because I thought it would be good to see how-- the decisions that we made and why. OK, yes, share. This is working? OK. So this is a score by Ryoko Akama, who is a Japanese British composer and artist who lives in the UK. And she wrote this piece for myself and a vocalist called Stina Janssen in 2020.
Because of COVID, we couldn't perform it live, so we made a video for it, a video piece. And the score, as you can see, is-- it's called A List, and it literally is a list of descriptions of what to do. So example, the first one, "a long note as continuously as you can hold;" the second, "make a short melody and repeat; a short note every 10 to 20 seconds; improvise; be mischievous; a long note in harmony to what you're hearing; be polite; pause; two at a time; 1 to another; back and forth, only once; noise; at ease; leave."
And then at the bottom, she states, "Perform in an unusual place, but not too far. Predetermine the duration. A List is performed either in order or randomly." So at the time, I was living-- I was in Berlin. And Stina was in Norway in her father's cabin in the forest. So the choices of places was, I guess, limited due to COVID.
But I guess where Stina was was already an unusual place to hold a performance. And I chose to do mine in an abandoned nursing home that was around the corner, that every day I would take my dog to to run around in. And it turned out that the building was actually open. Some people had been squatting it in the past. And my next-door neighbor made a video of me in the hall where they would all eat. And I'll just share that now.
[VIDEO PLAYBACK]
[CHIME]
[LONG NOTE]
[CHIME]
[SHORT NOTE]
[CHIME]
[MELODY NOTES]
[CHIME]
[CHIME]
[CHIME]
[LONG NOTES]
[QUICK VOCALIZATION]
[PERCUSSIVE RATTLE]
[KNOCKING SOUND]
[CRASHING SOUND]
[VOCALIZATIONS]
[HIGH-PITCHED SOUNDS]
[VOCALIZATIONS]
[LONG NOTES]
[HIGH-PITCHED SOUND]
[LONG WAVERING SOUND]
[CHIMING NOTES]
[END PLAYBACK]
Hi, sorry. It stopped.
SHERAH BLOOR: The video was-- well, the visuals paused, and it started getting--
REBECCA LANE: Oh. Interesting. OK, so should I just leave it there, then? Yes.
SHERAH BLOOR: I mean, I think we got a real sense of it. I think that is in the journal, like the full video-- I'll mention that--
REBECCA LANE: Yeah, right.
SHERAH BLOOR: --of the score, so, good.
REBECCA LANE: Yeah, cool. Just one thing I wanted to say was that-- that I forgot to mention-- was that Stina and I only specified the time for it. So we actually had no idea what the other was doing. And then the editor put them together, so, yeah, it was random in that respect. Yeah. OK, thanks.
SHERAH BLOOR: That's so cool. So, Audra, I think you're going to play a video, too. Hoping it works.
AUDRA WOLOWIEC: Yeah, so I have a few slides and a video. I'm just going to share my screen. OK, great. So thank you so much for having me. It's so wonderful to be here and listen and see and experience all of your work. And I'm really honored to have work in the Peripheries journal. This is one of them. I'm a visual artist mainly, but I work with sound and language.
And I also work with some performers. So this is kind of a sound score or a visual poetry. It's extracted from Clarice Lispector's Agua Viva, which is "living water." And I'll just read this phrase in the center, here. But it's an invitation for a reading or sounding or singing but the phrase in the center. "And in the instant is the oh, the ah, the air, my song, a hallelujah."
And these extractions or how these o's or a's bring to the surface of the page was from a prompt from a different book, also Bachelard, from the chapter, "Water's Voice" from the book, Water and Dreams. He wrote, "After the a's of the tempest, after the howling of the North Wind, we are happy to hear the o's of water, eau, the whirlwinds and lovely roundness of their sounds." He continues, "Liquidity is a principle of language. Language must be filled with water."
So I was thinking of this set of scores as a series of utterances, conjurings, the way that our sounds could rise to the surface of the page. And they exist oftentimes as books, as sound scores. This particular score from this series that is also included in Peripheries was included in a group show at a space called Compound in Yucca Valley, California this past year and was printed very large-scale on silk fabric.
And so that idea of wave or water was also part of the visual experience of the work. And the score was performed by a composer, singer, and musician, Carolyn Pennypacker Riggs, with Mindy Ella Chu and Stephanie Aston. And this was also at compound in Yucca Valley, California. And this was the end of the performance. It's a short excerpt.
And I invited Carolyn to interpret these o's. And we talked about it a little bit, but this idea of a round or a circle or a call and response with these three singers just performing this one syllable. And you can see the fading desert, the night sky in the background. So this is about 2 and 1/2 minutes performance of this score.
[VIDEO PLAYBACK]
[SINGERS VOCALIZING "OOOH" SOUND]
[RAPID "OOHING"]
[SUSTAINED "OOHING]
[SHORT "OOHS"]
[SUSTAINED VOCALIZATION]
[SHORT "OOHS"]
[OOHS IN HARMONY]
[END PLAYBACK]
So thank you so much.
SHERAH BLOOR: It's really joyous, Audra, and thank you. We were meant to have Andrew Morgan read a poem to us now and Yevgeniya Baras show us some visual art. But they're both having technical trouble getting into Zoom. So I think let's-- Joe Kudirka, please, and then, yeah, we'll just see.
JOE KUDIRKA: I'm next on the list. I don't know if you had something else in mind.
SHERAH BLOOR: That's exactly what I was going to ask you three.
JOE KUDIRKA: OK. I think I'm just going to present and talk a bit about one of my pieces that's in the journal which is one I haven't really performed a lot. It's more of a private practice that sort of happens in public called, Bits of Metal In a Jar. I'll see if I can-- if we can see anything here. And can you still hear me?
Yeah, I started collecting. Just a lot of my work deals with detritus of things and bits from physical and cultural leftovers and trash and waste. And I like making sounds with little things. And I found myself picking things up off the street. Oh, I can show you a particularly good one, I think. I once found this very beautiful metal plate, which is a nearly Yves Klein blue, on a street on a street in the Czech Republic. And it makes a lovely sound.
[FAINT SOUND]
Things like that just keep me looking out for stuff. And as a result, I found I had lots of little things sitting around my house. And I would play around with them. And I would keep things in these various jars. And actually, the first one. I started is here. It's very full of lots of metal.
That got left in the UK when I moved out of there. And years later, I picked it up from storage in a friend's house. And at various times, I'll just start doing this. And I made the piece just by sitting around my house and doing what I'll do now.
And I was just doing this at home, trying to think of what to do. Oh, there's one there. And one other one fell on the floor. If I wasn't talking to you all, I would be looking for it now. And I realized I just like doing this Again. And when you do it again, you get a different arrangement of sounds from the way the resonances in the jar pick up things as they hit one another. And as you go through them, and different jars make different resonances.
And depending on what's in there and how springs bounce around and metal bounces around, you get a different constellation of sounds. But you also, depending on how precious or non-precious any of this is to you, you also get a different constellation of memory from where you found your bits of what would have been thrown away or recycled that you have decided to save for this otherwise completely meaningless practice. And I could go on for hours, but I think you get the drift.
SHERAH BLOOR: So I'm so happy to see this in action.
JOE KUDIRKA: [LAUGHING]
SHERAH BLOOR: [INAUDIBLE] performed once I have seen it on the page, obviously. But I remember yours ends with-- forgive me for getting this wrong. I have bits of metal that were actualy in a jar, and then says, "At the end, you could do the same."
JOE KUDIRKA: Yes.
SHERAH BLOOR: We're going to have to do the same because we couldn't quite hear. It was very faint.
JOE KUDIRKA: Yes, it is.
SHERAH BLOOR: And one has to up this practice now.
JOE KUDIRKA: And it's one of these pieces that often I'm writing for other performers. And I've conceived of a piece, and I make the notation. And it gets sent off to a performer. And this was one where it worked the other way around. I developed this practice out of habit or hobby or something and realized after doing it a while that this, in fact, was the piece I was working on-- that I didn't have to refine it in some way.
And I performed it. And then it was time to make a score. And instead of telling people what to do, I just explained what I have been doing and give them this invitation.
SHERAH BLOOR: Right, right.
JOE KUDIRKA: And I think, really, every score functions as an invitation to make work for others. But it's not explicit. I mean, often it seems-- oh, it's not forceful, but in some way commanding. There's a different power structure at play in lots of notation. And this one, I really wanted to be clear that I have made a practice. And it's just letting people know that they're not the only crazy one if they want to do something like that. I got their back.
SHERAH BLOOR: Yeah, lovely. That's beautiful.
JOE KUDIRKA: I don't know if there's more you want me to say, or.
SHERAH BLOOR: This is beautiful. If we end with a poem now, we'll have been together for an hour. So I think that's appropriate, so thank you, Joe.
JOE KUDIRKA: Yeah, thank you very much for having me. It's been a pleasure seeing and hearing everyone else's work.
SHERAH BLOOR: Great. And now, Jose-Luis Moctezuma, are you still there? Yes, beautiful. Would you close us out for the night and read us a poem? We'd be very grateful.
JOSE-LUIS MOCTEZUMA: Absolutely. I heard Joe mentioned Yves Klein blue. And coincidentally, my poem has Yves Klein blue in it, so there we go, perfect. Should I share my screen so that they could see the poem?
SHERAH BLOOR: [INAUDIBLE]
JOSE-LUIS MOCTEZUMA: And thank you, everyone. Thank you, Sherah. Thank you, my hosts. Sorry, I can't read your name. Kama, obviously, panelists, Stephanie. Also a props and shout-out to Timothy Leo as well for contacting me. So it's an honor to be in this issue. I have one poem. It's called NPC. And for those who are gamers, NPC is a very familiar term-- non-player character.
So in these kind of sophisticated video games that they make, you'll encounter-- in these open-world sandbox games, you'll encounter these-- these characters inhabit the world that you're gaming in. And they're automated. They're computer characters. And they just repeat specific lines, one or two lines. And they keep repeating it.
So I was fascinated by this concept-- particularly it became a meme, I believe-- for a type of, how would you say, someone whose agency is depoliticized and reduced to what people would call a very normie way of thinking. It's been co-opted by both conservative and liberal ideological thinkers. But I'm more interested in it in terms of its aesthetics, an aesthetic of the NPC, an aesthetic of failure, also an aesthetic of flat affect.
How does affect work when it comes to our notions of agency in the political landscape, when it comes to our notions of power, of action, and what I would call the gamification of the everyday, where agency and action has been reduced to a simulation? So the poem has a lot to do with that. Hopefully it works. So I'm interested in this sort of flat affect turning on its heartbeat to something like panic. All right, here's NPC. All of you hear me fine?
Here where I sit by the klein blue wall, inertia is an ethic. I am open to the automation. Neither sleep nor sleepy. Wave hello. Wave at the passers-by. Walk toward me so I can see you. Don't sit down. Walk back to the wall and don't ascend. Be at home by 6:12. This is life run amok in programmed density.
And I am the fiction that makes the UFOs believe in our world. The attention to detail is quite astonishing, really, how the flat Earth can be circular at the same time as I sit here and stare at the planets. And the squirrels sign-language akkadian when they're frolicking in the branches. And, wow, the way you talk is so lifelike.
I am content with the amount of content I produce. I am content with our object permanence beyond the visible entrenchment of obstacles at the crack of dawn's egg in an abject fossilization of the human will. The noise is too much in the window without our consent. And the sun is a mythos dried up in the seed's stark gaze in the dark, waiting to hatch its forfeiture of growth, the inverse of violence, a cagey acquiescence to narratives of stagnation, paint-dry, illuminating the tools of conjunction.
I am not scored in the bones. I do not exist as people do, careful to distinguish between digits, the gaps in our autonomy, and what infections permeate the creatures of warmth. How I wish I could be in love, too, but the idiolect instructs me to troll the anti-anti-matters, the sucked-dry-of-ram-blood, the underworld denizens who pivot from action to inaction so remarkably, like lambs in the field of slow awakening. And I am free to follow the rituals, the spectacle of dishwashing in 64-bit, or a slow rot to decision of the mothers of contraption.
The tiles are obviously fake. The hot take is obviously fake. The dachshund is obviously fake. The words aren't coming. The surface depth of my face is obviously fake. The 401(k) is obviously fake. The laws of the fathers are obviously fake. The founders are obviously fake. The borders to the border are obviously fake.
The heat of the day is obviously fake. The climate is coming apart. The room seams are coming apart. The figures in the carpet are coming apart. The birds are blowing up. The resolution in the mirror is leaking. The glaciers are melting. The island is sinking.
The water is rising to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being real, to the point of being. Thank you.
SHERAH BLOOR: I didn't realize how intense it was going to be to end there. I just think of this as such an intense way to end. I hope everyone carries that energy with them now. Thank you so much, everyone, for reading and performing and giving us a small taste of what the journal contains. And I hope everyone's going to just flick to Andrew Morgan's poem and read that, because he couldn't make it. Look at Yevgeniya's art.
And I should also say that tomorrow we have a very intimate in-person lunch at the Grolier Bookshop in Harvard Square with readings from contributors who live in the area-- Nick Flynn, Martha Collins, Nomi Epstein, Kythe Heller, Darius Atefat-Packman-- Peckham, and Kyra Mo. But the bookshop will also stream that event. So if you'd like to hear more, there is more tomorrow night.
You just go to the Grolier website, and you can also purchase a hard copy of the journal from the bookshop. But definitely download a copy and listen to everything. OK, thank you so, so much for coming and launching the journal. And I should also say one last thing, is that we're now open for submissions from tomorrow, 1st of December to the 1st of March. So submit for next year.
SPEAKER 1: Sponsor-- Center for the Study of World Religions.
SPEAKER 2: Copyright, 2022, the President and Fellows of Harvard College.